All the Devils Are Here(2)

And slowly, slowly, he’d returned to life.

Here. In Paris.

Then one morning his godfather had said, “Today, gar?on, we’re going to my very favorite place in all of Paris. And then we’ll have an ice cream at the H?tel Lutetia.”

They’d strolled up boulevard Raspail and turned left onto rue de Varenne. Past the shops and patisseries. Armand lingered at the windows, looking at the mille-feuilles and madeleines and pains aux raisins.

They stopped at one, and Stephen bought them each a tartelette au citron, giving Armand the small paper bag to carry.

And then they were there. At an opening in a wall.

After paying the admission, they went in.

Armand, his mind on the treat in the bag, barely registered his surroundings. This felt like duty, before the reward.

He opened the bag and looked in.

Stephen put his hand on the boy’s arm and said, “Patience. Patience. With patience comes choice, and with choice comes power.”

The words meant nothing to the hungry little boy, except to say that he couldn’t yet have the pastry.

Reluctantly, Armand closed the bag, then looked around.

“What do you think?” Stephen asked when he saw his godson’s eyes widening.

He could read the boy’s mind. It wasn’t, in all honesty, all that difficult.

Who’d have thought such a place existed anywhere, never mind tucked, essentially hidden, behind tall walls, in the middle of the city? It was a world unto itself. A magic garden.

Had he been alone, Armand would have walked right by, mind on the uneaten pastry, never discovering what lay inside. Never seeing the beautiful chateau with its tall windows and sweeping terrace.

While not at all jaded, the child was by now used to magnificent buildings in Paris. The city was thick with them. What astonished him were the grounds.

The manicured lawns, the trees shaped like cones. The fountains.

But unlike the huge jardin du Luxembourg, created to impress, this garden was almost intimate.

And then there were the statues. Come upon here and there among the greenery. As though they’d been waiting patiently. For them.

Now and then the wail of a siren could be heard, coming from the world outside. The blast of a horn. A shout.

But all that did was intensify, for Armand, the sense of extreme peace he’d found, he felt, in the garden. A peace he hadn’t known since that quiet knock on the door.

They walked slowly around, Stephen, for the first time, not leading but following, as Armand stopped in front of each of Rodin’s statues.

But the boy kept glancing over his shoulder. To the cluster of men at the entrance, and exit, to the garden.

Eventually, Armand led them back there, and stood transfixed in front of the statue.

“The Burghers of Calais,” Stephen had said, his voice hushed, soothing. “In the Hundred Years’ War, the English King, Edward, laid siege to the French port of Calais.”

He looked at Armand to see if he was listening, but there was no indication either way.

“It was a crisis for the citizens. No food, no provisions could get past the English blockade. The French King, Philip, could have parleyed. Could have negotiated, to relieve the city. But he did nothing. He left them to starve. And they did. Men, women, children began to die.”

Now Armand turned and looked up at Stephen. The boy might not really understand war. But death he understood.

“The King did that? He could’ve done something, but he let them die?”

“Both kings did. Yes. In order to win. Wars are like that.” He could see the confusion, the upset, in the boy’s deep brown eyes. “Do you want me to go on?” Stephen asked.

“Oui, s’il vous pla?t.” And Armand turned back to the statue and the men frozen in time.

“Just as complete catastrophe threatened, King Edward did something no one expected. He decided to have mercy on the people of Calais. But he asked one thing. He’d spare the town if the six most prominent citizens would surrender. He didn’t say it exactly, but everyone knew they’d be executed. As a warning to anyone else who might oppose him. They’d die so that the rest could live.”

Stephen saw Armand’s shoulders rise, then fall.

“The most prominent citizen, Eustache de Saint-Pierre, volunteered first. That’s him, there.” He pointed to one of the statues. A thin, grim man. “Then five others joined him. They were told to strip to their undergarments, put nooses around their necks, and carry the keys to the city and castle to the great gates. Which they did. The Burghers of Calais.”

Armand raised his head and stared up into the eyes of Eustache. Unlike all the other statues he’d seen around Paris, here he didn’t see glory. There were no angels ready to lift these men to Paradise. This was no fearless sacrifice. They were not marching, heads high, into splendid martyrdom.

What the boy saw was anguish. Despair. Resignation.

The burghers of this seaside town were afraid.

But they did it anyway.

Armand’s lower lip began to tremble and his chin pucker, and Stephen wondered if he’d gone far too far in telling this boy this story.

He touched his godson’s shoulder, and Armand swung around and buried his face in Stephen’s sweater, throwing his arms around him, not in an embrace but in a grip. As one might cling to a pillar, to stop from being swept away.