THE HIGH TABLE

12 JULY 1913

The day had been strangely cool for a month of July. I was making my way back to my hôtel particulier in the Plaine Monceau, which I had acquired under the Second Empire. Yet before returning home, I wished to linger for a while in the nearby park and reflect upon my affairs. They were not at their best. International relations were tense, the world uncertain, and the future seemed heavy with a dull, growing unease.

I sat down on a bench near the naumachia, that basin surrounded by Corinthian columns which evoked an ancient ruin and brought me, in spite of myself, back to my Italian origins. At that hour, the park was almost deserted. The bourgeois had shut themselves indoors, the nurses were putting the children to bed, and the officers or gentlemen in straw boaters were probably amusing themselves in some theatre, private club, or salon. Despite my light clothes, I shivered. I was about to rise and return to Rue de Courcelles, where my house stood, when a man of a certain age came and sat down beside me.

He wore a heavy velvet jacket, worn thin by time, thick wool trousers, and a coarse linen shirt. He smelled of cold tobacco and horse dung. Yet he greeted me with an almost ceremonial politeness. I nodded, determined to remain seated long enough not to appear rude, or worse, snobbish. The conversation soon took an unexpected turn. The man’s name was Georges Bonhomme. He was a horse dealer, and he kept, with his wife, an inn on Rue Piat, in Belleville. We spoke of horses, a subject that had always fascinated me, since I myself owned several racehorses. And the man knew what he was talking about. He had the eye, the memory of animals, and the sure judgement of men who had bought and sold them all their lives. Before long, he confessed that horses, together with boxing, were his only true passions. I liked the man more and more. He had the same tastes as I did. I then admitted to him that I too had a fondness for combat sports, and that in my life I had fought in the most unexpected places. He examined me from head to foot, as if surprised that a man of my quality could harbour such a passion.

Then he suddenly put his hand on my shoulder and made an invitation that would change my life.

“Monsieur, come and see me tomorrow evening. I organize a few matches in my back room. You will not regret it. The best of what the Apaches and the workers of the quarter can offer. I think you will find what you are looking for there… and who knows, perhaps even an opponent worthy of you.”

13 JULY  1913

I spent the following day hesitating. My old instincts were struggling against those of my aristocratic condition. I had fought a great deal in my life, but since the fall of the Empire, I had grown more cautious. It was better not to attract attention. You probably understand why. Thanks to an ancient elixir, I did not age. This meant that from time to time I had to disappear for long periods, allowing society to renew itself, so that I might later return as the son, nephew, or cousin of the count who had preceded me. My collection of portraits, painted by some of the greatest masters, bore witness to that long life, which had begun in Italy in 1489.

In order to clear my mind, calm my nerves, and drive away that animal excitement which seized me whenever I thought of clandestine fights, I spent the afternoon at Desbonnet’s physical culture hall on Rue de Ponthieu. There, among dumbbells, pulleys, mirrors, and gymnastic apparatus, I submitted my body to an almost brutal discipline. I lifted weights until my muscles burned. I repeated arm movements, bends, pulls, and breathing exercises until my shirt clung to my back.

But nothing helped. The more I tried to exhaust myself, the more clearly, I saw the old horse dealer’s face. His worn velvet jacket. His rough hands. His knowing smile. His promise of an opponent worthy of me. By the time evening came, I had made my decision. I would go to Belleville. That evening, dressed in a simple suit which I believed plain enough not to draw attention, I had my automobile drop me a few steps from Rue Piat.

The street climbed steeply before me, narrow and dark, and, of course, the inn stood near the upper part of that cramped little way. There was a crowd. Ragged children were fighting over some game of cops and thieves. Men, some of them quite clearly Apaches, talked among themselves or courted women leaning from their windows. Old men sat in front of their doors, smoking pipes filled with foul-smelling tobacco. As soon as I appeared, I had barely taken a few steps before every eye turned toward me. A heavy silence followed my progress. The women undressed me with their eyes. The men stared with hard, suspicious faces. But I knew those looks. I knew those men, forever eager to assert their masculinity over the smallest thing. So I continued with a steady step, followed by children who laughed, whispered, and nudged one another with their elbows. Soon, the street grew quieter. The crowd slowly disappeared, as if that part of the street had been cut off from ordinary life. I found myself standing before the inn, which was brightly lit. Au Vieux Maquignon. I smiled. The name was so predictable.

I pushed open the door and entered a smoky room. A few shadows were slumped over crooked, filthy tables. Behind the grimy bar, where badly washed glasses were piled in disorder, stood an enormous woman. “What’ll it be for you, beauty?” She was not shy. In spite of her bloated face and obese body, she blinked at me and cast languid glances in my direction. She smelled of sweat and beer. Her accent was dreadful, and to my ear it seemed Alsatian, perhaps even German. Without waiting for my answer, she placed a glass of absinthe in front of me.

I turned away, searching for the horse dealer, while my eyes began to sting and redden from the smoke. Then, suddenly, I saw him passing through a door. He smiled at me. “You came, Monsieur Armand. I see you have made the acquaintance of Marguerite, my wife.” He placed a hand on my shoulder and added: “Ready? You shall see… I have a surprise for you.”

He now pushed me toward a door, then into a narrow corridor, damp and reeking of urine. At last, he led me down a few steps into a low-ceilinged room. It was the hidden fight room beneath the inn. The air was thick. I nearly gagged, seized by the impression that I was swallowing a solid mass made of sweat, cheap wine, foul tobacco, dirty clothes, and unwashed bodies. Some thirty men, most of them young and athletic, stood gathered around an arena of beaten earth. In its centre, two men, bare-chested and wearing long, stained, torn undergarments, were fighting. One could not have been more than sixteen. The other was a mountain of flesh. Fat wrestled with muscle. A spilling belly, a cascade of rolls, biceps worthy of Hercules, thighs that could easily have crushed an enormous watermelon, and finally a chest that hesitated somewhere between breasts and pectorals. His face was that of a butcher, cruel and ruined by alcohol, gluttony, and fighting.

“You arrive just in time, Monsieur Armand,” Georges said. “La Massue is about to smash that poor little fellow.”“La Massue?” I asked. At that very moment, the colossus locked the fingers of both hands together to form one gigantic fist. He raised his joined arms above his head, then brought them down on the neck of the young boy, who, bent forward with his head pressed against his opponent’s sweating hip, had been trying to bring him down. A sharp sound rang out. A dry crack. The young fighter collapsed to the ground and did not move. La Massue, his face split by a hideous grin, roared insults at the crowd, which answered him with boos and curses. Georges entered the arena and lifted one of the victor’s arms in triumph. Two men in shirtsleeves, their clothes stained with blood, carried the boy’s body away and took it outside into a closed courtyard. I wondered whether he had merely been knocked senseless, or whether his neck had been broken. No one seemed to care. I had just understood that the fights held here had no limits.

I looked at the men around me. All of them bore the marks of their previous battles. There were gang leaders among them. Others had come from the fortifications, dressed in rags, their bodies lean, filthy, and marked by long, wiry muscles. Others still worked in the quarries or in the factories nearby. Georges congratulated La Massue and gave him his prize: an enormous smoked ham. The winner left the improvised ring and went back toward the main room of the inn. Georges asked for silence. Then, like a fairground barker, he announced: “You have all been waiting for him. He has come here tonight to challenge you. But will he find among you a man brave enough, or should I say mad enough, to face him? He has his admirers, yes, but others hate him. His fighting name is Marco, the New Hercules. Others call him the Macaroni, because he is Italian. Tonight, he has come from his own quarter, from Charonne, to prove to you that he is the best, and that his reputation for invincibility is deserved. Make way for Marco, the New Hercules!”

The door leading to the courtyard opened. A massive man entered the room. His muscles were almost outrageously developed. He was bearded, with black hair and hazel eyes, and he advanced beneath the boos of the spectators and the cheers of a few rare admirers. I felt a sudden hardening in my trousers. I had rarely seen a man so perfectly proportioned and muscular. He could not have been more than twenty-eight, and everything about him expressed strength, confidence, and courage. The shouting died down. The men looked at one another. Faces turned from one neighbour to the next. Each man waited for someone else to offer himself against the beast who had dared them all. Soon, every gaze settled on a tall, athletic man whose well-defined muscles pressed against his dark blue linen shirt. I understood at once that he must be the champion of Belleville. Lucien Chevalier.

He too was a handsome man, though less bestial than the Italian. I judged him quickly. He was probably fast, and no doubt a tactician. But I sensed that he lacked assurance, that inner confidence which makes a fighter dangerous even before the first blow is struck. He looked as frightened of Marco as the very men who were pushing him to fight. Yet he had no choice. He removed his shirt, then his trousers, and entered the arena beneath a roar of applause. The bets were called. All were for the Frenchman. I wagered one hundred francs on Hercules. At once, I saw the hostile looks turn toward me. One man spat at my feet to show his contempt. Then I saw Georges smile at me. So that was his surprise. 

Lucien Chevalier stepped into the ring.The men shouted his name. "Lucien! Lucien! Belleville! Belleville!"He raised one hand, but I saw at once that the gesture was not as firm as it should have been. His face remained proud, but his eyes betrayed him. He was afraid. Marco stood in front of him like a statue. His chest rose and fell slowly. He did not smile. He did not speak. He only looked at Lucien as if the fight was already finished. The two men were beautiful in very different ways. Lucien was quick, clean, nervous. His muscles were well drawn, dry, elegant. A fighter made for speed. Marco was pure mass, strength, and certainty. His shoulders were too wide, his arms too thick, his chest too full. I hated the arrogance in his face. I desired it too. Georges stood between them and raised both hands. "No biting. No knives. No eyes. The rest is between you and God."The crowd laughed. Then Georges stepped back.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then Lucien moved first. He circled Marco with light steps, his fists raised, his body low. Marco turned slowly following him with his eyes. Lucien struck a sharp punch hit Marco's cheek. The crowd roared. Another blow came. Then a third. Lucien's fists were quick, precise. Marco's head moved slightly with each impact, but the Italian did not step back. He only took them.

Lucien struck again, this time in the ribs. Marco grunted, but not from pain. From irritation. The Frenchman tried to move away, but Marco's hand shot forward and caught him by the wrist. The room became silent. Lucien pulled back but Marco did not let go. With a brutal twist, he dragged Lucien toward him. The champion of Belleville tried to strike with his free hand, but Marco lowered his head and drove his shoulder into Lucien's chest.

Lucien flew backward and fell hard on the earth. The crowd shouted, cursed, begged him to rise."Up, Lucien! Up!"He did rise. I admired him for that. But i saw that he had already understood what the others refused to see. This was not a normal fight. This was a man fighting a wall. 

Lucien changed his method. He no longer tried to hurt Marco. He tried to tire him. He moved around him, striking and fleeing, always just out of reach. For a few moments, it worked. Marco turned, missed, grew angry. A smile appeared on Lucien's face, and the crowd felt hope return. I knew better. Hope is often stupid. Marco suddenly stopped chasing him. He stood in the middle of the ring, lowered his arms, and let Lucien come and Lucien attacked. He threw himself forward with all his strength, his fist aimed at Marco's jaw. Marco caught him. His arms closed around Lucien's body like an iron door. 

Lucien gasped. Suddenly his feet left the ground. His muscles struggled, useless against the enormous pressure of Marco's embrace. The crowd screamed. Some laughed. Some shouted for Marco to break him. Others begged Lucien to free himself. Lucien struck Marco's shoulders, his neck, his head. He hit him again and again, but the Italian only tightened his hold. 

Then Marco lifted him more. Lucien's body rose in air, his legs kicking, his face white with pain and rage. Marco turned once, slowly, showing him to the crowd like a trophy. Then he threw him down. The champion hit the earth. Dust rose around him. For one second, I believed he would not move again. But he rolled to one side, coughing, trying to breathe. The room exploded.

Marco walked toward him. Lucien pushed himself onto one knee. His hair was stuck to his forehead. His face had lost its handsome pride. There was only courage left now. The kind that remains when everything else has been taken. Marco reached him. Lucien suddenly sprang up and drove his fist into Marco's stomach. A perfect blow. Deep, clean, violent. A huge cry rose from the crowd. Lucien hit him again. Then again. His fists hammered the Italian's belly and ribs. For the first time, Marco seemed human.

Perhaps I had judged him too quickly. Perhaps Belleville's champion still had something in him. Lucien jumped back, took his distance, and struck Marco's face with a savage right hand. A thin line of blood appeared at the corner of Marco's mouth. He touched it with his thumb and looked at it. Then he smiled. It was not a good smile. Lucien saw it too. The Italian came forward. Lucien struck first, but Marco went through the punches like a bull through branches. One enormous hand caught Lucien by the throat. The other seized him by the waistband of his fighting trousers.

Lucien was lifted again, but this time not to throw him. Marco held him there, helpless, in front of everyone. "Here is your champion," he shouted slamming his knee into Lucien's body. Once. Twice. The Frenchman's strength left him. His arms fell. His head dropped forward against Marco's shoulder. Then Marco released him. Lucien collapsed to the ground at his feet and did not move. In the crowd, some men shouted Marco's name. Others insulted him. A few remained silent, ashamed of having sent Lucien to him. Marco placed one foot on Lucien's chest.

Belleville had lost. Georges entered the ring with a smile too wide to be honest. "Marco, the New Hercules!" he shouted. "Still unbeaten!"The Italian raised both arms. The room answered with boos, cheers, curses. I looked at Lucien lying in the dirt. Then I looked at Marco. His body shone with sweat. His eyes searched the crowd, looking for the next fool. For a moment, I felt that those eyes stopped on me. And I understood Georges's smile. This was his surprise. He had not brought me here to watch Marco fight. He had brought me here so that I would want to fight him myself.

Without hesitation, I recovered my warrior instincts, the ones that led me into all the wars, all the adventures of this world. I took off my jacket and threw it to the ground. Then my shirt, and finally my trousers. The men around me nudged one another. Some laughed loudly, mocking me. I stepped right in front of Marco and, looking at him in challenge, I said: "I hate those who steal the names of ancient heroes. So, Belleville, I will fight for you and destroy Hercules, until only Marco remains." My words electrified the crowd. Cheers, applause, and some boos burst out at once. Georges was delighted. He shouted: " Guys, here is Armand! He is one of us, and he will avenge our champion!" I saw banknotes changing hands. Many of them, out of patriotism, bet on me. Others bet on the Italian brute. 

I stretched my muscles and make a few movements to loosen myself. I saw that Marco is slightly surprised. He must have taken me for an arrogant bourgeois. My body was clean and smells of violet. My drawers were spotless white. My nails were manicured. I was obviously not from his world. Perfect. He had just made his first mistake. He underestimated me. Georges raised his hands again, and the room became almost silent. I heard the breathing of the men around us. I heard someone laugh behind me. I heard another man whisper that I would not last two minutes. Marco leaned toward me. “You are pretty,” he said in a low voice. “I will try not to break you too quickly.” I answered nothing. Georges stepped back. The fight began. Marco came at once. A wall of meat and muscle rushing at me with terrible force. I moved aside, but not fast enough. His shoulder struck me in the chest and sent me backward. I hit the ground hard. 

The crowd exploded with laughter and cheers. I stood up quickly, too quickly, perhaps. Marco was already on me. His fist hit my ribs. The pain crossed my body like fire. A second blow caught my shoulder. A third crashed against my jaw. For a moment, the room turned black at the edges. He was stronger than I had expected. Much stronger. He caught me by the arm and threw me against the crowd. Men pushed me back into the ring, laughing, shouting, eager to see me destroyed. I felt hands on my back, elbows in my ribs, beer breath in my face. Marco seized me again. This time his hands closed around my waist. He lifted me. For one second I was no longer a count, no longer a warrior, no longer immortal. I was only a body in the hands of a giant.

Then he threw me down. The earth struck my back and drove the air from my lungs."Stay there, little lord."The room laughed again. I rolled away before his boot could crush my face. He came after me, slower now, confident, almost lazy. That was his second mistake. He thought I was afraid. I was not. I was learning him. His strength was enormous, but he gave everything with each movement. I rose to one knee. The Italian reached for me. I struck first. Precise. My fist drove into his sternum. He stopped. The sound he made was small, almost ridiculous. His breath caught in his chest. His eyes changed. Only for a second, but I saw it. Pain had entered the beast.

I moved before he could understand. My knee rose between his legs. The blow was short and cruel. He bent forward with a grunt. I hit his temple with my elbow several timess. His head turned as he swung at me blindly. I ducked under his arm and struck his nose with the heel of my hand. There was a crack. Blood ran over his mouth and beard. The giant roared in rage. He charged again, wild, stupid. I was ready. I stepped aside and let his own weight carry him forward. As he passed, I struck him behind the ear. He stumbled. I struck his ribs. Then his throat. Then his nose again. He was slower now. His breath had changed. The room had changed too. The laughter had died.

Marco turned toward me, his chest shining with sweat, his face broken by anger. He was still huge. Still dangerous. But he no longer looked invincible. I smiled. That was my mistake. He came suddenly, faster than I believed possible, and his fist struck my stomach. I folded. His hand grabbed the back of my neck. He pulled me into him and smashed his forehead into my face. Then wrapped his arms around me in the same embrace that had destroyed Lucien. His arms closed like a python around its prey. My ribs screamed. I could not breathe. The crowd came back to life asking for my death: “Marco! Marco! Finish him!” His beard rubbed against my cheek. His breath was hot and foul. His chest crushed mine. I felt my feet almost leave the ground. For the first time, I wondered if he could truly break me. Then my old instincts returned. Not the instincts of a sportsman. The instincts of war, of surviving. I let my body go soft for a heartbeat. Hercules tightened his hold, believing I was failing. I slipped one arm between us, my fingers finding his throat. With my other hand, I twisted his wrist downward. He tried to hold me, but my body slid under his grip. I turned behind him, taking his arm with me. I bent his wrist back and trapped his arm across my chest in a brutal standing wrist lock. His elbow rose at a terrible angle. His great body bent forward despite himself. Now the beast was on his knees before me.

The crowd screamed while he tried to stand. I drove my knee into the back of his leg and forced him lower. He was still too strong. Even trapped, even hurt, he fought like an animal caught in a snare. His free hand clawed at me. His shoulder rolled. His muscles swelled under my grip. I changed the hold. I released the wrist and slid my arm around his throat. I locked my forearm beneath his chin and pulled back. Marco rose with me on his back, half standing, half choking, his hands tearing at my arm. He carried me for two steps like a mad horse. But I held.

 I crossed my other arm behind his head and tightened. His breathing became a wet, broken sound. His hands struck my arms. my shoulders. His strength leaving him little by little. He fell to one knee. Then both knees. His hands opened and closed in the air. His face darkened. His eyes rolled once, trying to find me, trying to understand how this clean little bourgeois had become the thing behind him. “You are not Hercules.”I tightened one last time. His body became heavy. All his strength left him at once and he fell forward into the dirt, unconscious. I released him and stepped back.

For a moment, no one moved. I stood above him, breathing hard, blood on my lips, my ribs burning, my body trembling with pain and pleasure. Then the room exploded. A few men stared at me as if they had just seen something impossible. Georges looked at Marco lying in the earth. Then he looked at me with a strange smile. I looked down at the Italian giant, the New Hercules, the invincible Marco. Finally, he was only a man. And I had broken him. Georges raised my arm in victory. 

The men pressed around me, slapping my shoulder and touching my muscles. Their foul breath came straight into my face. I quickly gathered my clothes, eager to leave that corrupted air as soon as possible. I dressed again in the stinking corridor, then returned to the main room. There I found La Massue devouring his ham and swallowing whole jugs of beer. I ordered one too. I had defeated Hercules, but I smelled like the stables of Augeas.

Georges came to me with a broad smile. He placed a bundle of banknotes in front of me. I pushed them into my wallet. "The result of your bet against Lucien. Well played. You are an expert in horses, monsieur, but you also know how to spot champions."Then he added:"And here is your prize for your victory."He handed me a gold watch with its chain. A Breguet watch, worth a small fortune."You deserve this one. The other fellow would only have received a silver one. Do not worry. It was stolen from a rich American."

I was exhausted. My body was heavy, and my muscles ached. Yet I felt a satisfaction I had not known for a very long time. More than that, I felt alive. I emptied my jug in one draught and prepared to leave the inn, warmly shaking the horse dealer's hand."You shall see me again, Monsieur Georges. And I shall bring you a few rich fools, or elegant stags, to skin in your bets. I hope at least that the evening has been profitable for you." His delighted expression gave me the answer. He told me that Marco wished to congratulate me. I was wary, but I am trusting by nature. The room was now empty. Only the stench remained, almost suffocating. Georges led me into the courtyard. Marco was there, pouring buckets of cold water over his body. He held out his hand to me with a smile."Good fight. I want my revenge."Then he left the place heavily. 

A shaky door opened onto a dead end. Georges told me that it led back to the middle of Rue Piat. The night was deep. The streets were deserted. The women were asleep. The men were probably in the old gypsum quarries near the Buttes-Chaumont, sharing the day's loot or preparing some dirty business. I returned to my automobile. My driver was asleep. I knocked on the window. He started in fright, then I saw relief on his face."You frightened me, monsieur.""Home, Joseph."

14 JULY  1913

The next morning, my awakening was painful. Every muscle in my body reminded me of its existence, as did the blows I had received from Marco. My valet, as usual, had drawn the curtains, placed a cup of coffee on my bedside table, and wished me a good day. I tried to tear myself from my morning torpor, to chase away the mist that still lingered in my mind, when suddenly I noticed that my evening suit had disappeared. I had carelessly scattered it across my immene bedroom before collapsing into bed as quickly as possible. I recognized Henri's efficiency at once. No doubt my stinking suit was already being cleaned, its pockets emptied and checked."Henri, what have you done with the watch and the wallet?"Henri turned slowly. His usually impassive face allowed only the faintest sign of surprise to appear."What watch, monsieur le comte? What wallet?"Then everything came back to me.

I had taken both objects with me into the inner courtyard. When Marco had offered me his hand, I had placed them on a stone bench. Then I had left the place, and fatigue had made me forget them. I was certain that good Georges had put them safely aside and would return them to me. I was supposed to leave Paris for my château of Villombre, but before that, I would make a detour through Belleville. I arrived around noon. The weather was warmer. Rue Piat was almost deserted. Children were playing chase. Women were talking on their doorsteps. Another was airing her bed linen from a window. The conversations stopped, and eyes followed me. What was this elegant man doing here? I immediately felt suspicion spreading. I was certain that, before long, the whole quarter would know of my presence. I reached the inn. As on the previous evening, the place was deserted. But one strange thing surprised me.

The windows and the door were barricaded with planks. I decided to turn back and take the dead-end passage in order to enter from behind. But there too, the shaky wooden door had been replaced by a cemented brick wall. I retraced my steps. It was not possible. Had I mistaken the street? Had the blows damaged my mind? No. The inn was the same. Au Vieux Maquignon. And yet it no longer had the lively appearance of the night before. The walls were decrepit. The paint was peeling from the sign. Weeds had invaded the bottom of the walls and the doorstep. In a word, the place seemed abandoned. I struck the planks violently with my stick. Suddenly, a shrill voice cried out in bad temper:"Can't you see it's closed, idiot?". An old woman in a dressing gown and nightcap was leaning out of her window. "Ten years it's been closed. Ten years yesterday since that horrible night happened."Then, before I could explain myself, she slammed her window shut, leaving me confused and uncertain.

A boy came running up, his hair wild, a cigarette butt between his lips. He was not ten years old, but already he was swaggering and insolent. "It's closed, milord. Are you from the police?"And, without giving me time to speak, he ran off toward the bottom of the street. I began to call out: "Monsieur Georges! It is Armand! I forgot my watch here last night!" Soon, I heard footsteps, the scrape of hobnailed shoes on the stones. A group of four men came toward me, accompanied by the women and the child. Apaches, of course. And they probably saw in me a policeman, or a police inspector. I held my cane firmly in both hands. "So what's all this noise?" said the most muscular of them, laughing and showing teeth yellowed by tobacco. "You lost, rich boy?" I told him that I had spent the previous evening there. That I had watched several fights. That I had seen La Massue crush a young fellow, and then Lucien, the champion of Belleville, be defeated by Marco, the New Hercules. At that moment, the women crossed themselves. The men stepped back, all except their leader.

He stretched out his finger and pressed it hard against my chest, as if to test whether I was truly of this world. Then, his face twisted with anger, he pushed me against the wall of the inn."It is not funny to mock the dead. It is not funny to joke about a tragedy that put several Belleville families into mourning." I protested that I was speaking in good faith. I added that I myself had fought, that I had beaten Marco, that I had met Georges the horse dealer in Parc Monceau, and that he had invited me to come and see his clandestine fights. At that moment, the woman in the dressing gown had joined us and had heard my words. "Last night? A fight? Here? I would have heard it. The street was quiet, as always. Besides, no one stays here long. Not since the massacre ten years ago."I protested vehemently."I assure you, the house was full. There was Marguerite, Georges's wife. It all happened in the back room, underground, in a windowless chamber. Perhaps you did not hear it because of that."

I noticed that the details I gave began to calm their spirits. The group started discussing among themselves. The leader had let me go. I heard their questions. Some said I knew the place, the names. Others answered that I might have read them in the newspapers. I let them debate. So much the worse for the watch and the money. I did not need them. Suddenly, the neighbour came closer to me. "You entered through here last night?"I answered yes. "And you came out the same way?"I then told them how I had gone to salute Marco. How I had forgotten the prize of my victory on a stone bench while leaving through the dead-end passage. The silence became heavier. One of the women took out a rosary.

They now asked me to describe the place, the people. They set traps for me, trying to expose my lies."Too bad Georges limped. A bad kick from a bad horse." "She was beautiful, Marguerite. A perfect body for her age, but that horrible Italian accent."And so on. Soon, they decided to abandon my interrogation. Clearly, I was not from the police. Suddenly, the boy said with a mischievous look:"If you really went in, boss, and you forgot your prize, then they must still be there, no?" The boy's question, and the greed for gain as well, changed everything. They tore off the planks and, with a shove of the shoulder, smashed the door in. The place was dark, but I described the room: the bar on the right, dirty glasses everywhere, a door at the back, a long stinking corridor, a few steps, and the cellar with its beaten-earth floor for the fights.

Meanwhile, light poured in and flooded the room. The planks had been torn from the windows, revealing a sad sight. The tables and chairs were overturned, some of them broken. Dirty glasses lay on the floor, whole or in pieces. Empty bottles cluttered the ground everywhere. On one of the tables, a ham bone lay fossilized. The place had not been especially clean on the evening of my visit, but now everything was covered in dust, cobwebs, and fluff. 

Without hesitation, I made my way toward the door that led to the back room. The smell there was different, a mixture of mildew and rotting rubbish. At last I entered the courtyard. The paving stones had disappeared beneath the weeds. The stone bench was broken in two. A woman suddenly cried out from the corridor. She had seen a rat. Everything was in disorder. Nothing resembled my visit of the other day. But one thing had not changed.

On the part of the bench that still stood, there was the watch and my wallet.

EPILOGUE

I returned to the automobile deeply disturbed.I left the watch and the money to the Apaches. At Villombre, I ordered my servants to find me the newspapers from that fatal day.

I read several of them. The story was never exactly the same. Some wrote that the house was now haunted. Others spoke only of a drunken brawl, a massacre between men from Belleville and Charonne, a night of madness in which no one truly understood what had happened.

  It was unreal  because everything had been so real. I had touched them. Smelled them. Felt them. Their blows had hurt me. My blows had made their blood flow.Had I stepped into the past to meet them? Or had I spent the evening fighting lost ghosts? I did not know . But one thing was certain. I would find out...

---

LE PETIT PARISIEN

Tuesday, July 14, 1903

THE TRAGIC NIGHT OF JULY 13, 1903, IN BELLEVILLE

THE CARNAGE OF THE VIEUX MAQUIGNON A general brawl between Belleville and Charonne — All the fighters found dead

The police arrived too late

The cabaret known as Au Vieux Maquignon, situated at 5, Rue Piat, in Belleville, was not merely a common drinking house. Behind the counter, hidden from ordinary customers, there was a back room leading to an underground wrestling hall built in a vaulted cellar.For a long time, illegal fights had taken place there. Neighbours suspected it. Some men spoke of it in whispers. But everyone closed their eyes. On the night of July 13, that secret cost the lives of all those present.
According to several witnesses, a large crowd had gathered to watch a fight between Marco, known as the New Hercules, a wrestler from Charonne, and Lucien Chevalier, the champion of Belleville. After Marco’s defeat, cheers from one side and insults from the other quickly inflamed the room.Men from Belleville and men from Charonne began to quarrel. The argument became a fight. The fight became a massacre. The brawl first broke out in the underground wrestling room, then spread through  the main room of the cabaret, and finally into the courtyard. Tables were overturned, chairs broken, bottles used as weapons. Witnesses speak of fists, knives, canes, iron bars, and shattered glass.
When the police finally arrived, warned by frightened neighbours, it was already too late. The main room, the cellar, and the courtyard were filled with broken furniture, smashed bottles, dirty glasses, and bodies. No resistance was still possible. No arrest could be made. The fighters, the gamblers, and the keepers of the place were dead or had vanished.

Among the identified victims were 

Georges Bonhomme, 58 years old, innkeeper and former horse dealer. Marguerite Bonhomme, 46 years old, his wife. Marco, called the New Hercules, wrestler from Charonne. Lucien Chevalier, wrestler and champion of Belleville.La Massue, a well-known colossus of the clandestine rings.

Several other men from Belleville and Charonne remain unidentified.
All the victims bore serious injuries: broken bones, crushed faces, knife wounds, and blows from chairs, bottles, and iron objects.The emotion in the quarter is profound. Many inhabitants now claim that the old cabaret is haunted. Others say that cries can still be heard there at night.The police have opened an inquiry into these clandestine fights, which have too long been tolerated in the poorer quarters of Paris.

The Vieux Maquignon is now closed.

Published: 14 days ago, viewed 48 times.