Children of the Siege

by Diney Costeloe

  ‘Monsieur?’ His secretary, Albert Forquet, followed him into the room, a look of concern on his face. ‘What has happened?’

  ‘Water,’ Emile said feebly, and when Forquet returned carrying a glass, he snatched it and gulped it down. ‘Riot,’ he said. ‘Massacre, Forquet!’ And he proceeded to tell the younger man what had occurred in the Rue de la Paix.

  ‘Things are getting much worse,’ Forquet agreed. ‘Paris will soon be at war with herself.’

  ‘She already is!’ Emile said. ‘I think it is time to close the office for a few days. I shall take my daughter to her mother in the country, but I shall come back, and we will decide what is best then. In the meantime, Forquet, put up the shutters, lock the doors and tell the others that the office is closed until I return.’

  Having given these instructions, Emile had taken another cab home and began making plans for their journey the following day.

  He found Pierre in the stable, cleaning tack for non-existent horses since theirs had been seized at the gates, and told him they would need the light chaise next morning. He had considered trying to leave the city that night, but decided travelling in the dark through streets where National Guardsmen held sway was more dangerous than waiting until the following day.

  ‘The chaise hasn’t been used for months, monsieur,’ Pierre pointed out. ‘It will have to be cleaned—’

  ‘Then clean it,’ snapped Emile. ‘Then first thing in the morning find us a horse to pull it.’

  Pierre looked doubtful. ‘That won’t be an easy task,’ he said, spreading his hands.

  ‘Just do it, man. I don’t care where it comes from.’ Emile’s anxiety made him unusually terse. The deaths in the Rue de la Paix had scared him even more than the riot in Montmartre.

  ‘Yes, monsieur,’ replied Pierre and set to work to make the chaise usable.

  That evening Georges reappeared at the house. He was not wearing his uniform, just a simple coat over dark stuff trousers, workman’s boots and a hat pulled down over his eyes.

  ‘Georges!’ Emile’s face lit up when his son was shown into the dining room where he was eating his solitary supper. ‘What brings you here? Will you have dinner? I’m sure Berthe has more of this pie in the kitchen.’

  ‘No, thank you, Papa,’ said Georges. ‘I’ve already eaten.’

  Emile pushed his half-empty plate away. In truth he was pleased to have an excuse to do so. Since his narrow escape in the Rue de la Paix, he found he had no appetite. ‘So,’ he said, smiling at Georges, ‘what brings you here?’

  ‘I’ve come to warn you again, Papa. You must get out of Paris,’ Georges replied, his voice carrying a note of desperation. ‘I thought you’d already gone.’

  He was on an errand for his commanding officer, infiltrating the streets, drinking in the bars and cafés to report back the mood of ordinary people within the city, when he’d seen lights in the window of his family home and realised, to his dismay, that the house was still occupied.

  ‘We’re going first thing tomorrow,’ Emile replied. ‘Hélène had a fever and was too ill to travel when your mother left with the other two, but she’s better now and I’m taking her and Marie-Jeanne to St Etienne in the morning.’

  ‘Hélène’s still here? Is she all right now?’ Georges was horrified. ‘You should leave at once, Papa. No one’s safe in the city since the Central Committee took over.’

  ‘The government shouldn’t have run to Versailles,’ returned his father.

  ‘I agree,’ said Georges, ‘but they have, and things are going to get worse before they get better. The Paris National Guard are running out of control. There was some sort of confrontation in the Rue de la Paix today and they opened fire on an unarmed crowd. Several people were killed and many more injured.’

  Suddenly Georges broke off, realising that he’d said too much. This incident was already being called a massacre, and he was to carry news of what happened back to Versailles.

  ‘I know,’ replied Emile. ‘I heard.’

  But he didn’t say how he had heard. Again, he wasn’t prepared to admit to anyone that not only had he been caught up in the affair, but that he had run for his life.

  Neither of them asked how the other one knew.

  However, Georges was determined that his father should understand the gravity of the situation. ‘There is more violence every day, people being attacked, kidnapped, hostages taken,’ he told him. ‘People are using the general chaos to settle private scores. When you get to St Etienne, you should stay there, too.’ He knew he shouldn’t warn his father of the imminent attack on the city by the troops now stationed at Versailles, but he gestured to his unusual garb. ‘I’m disobeying orders even being here, Papa, despite the fact that I’m not in uniform. I’d be lucky to escape with my life if I was recognised.’

  ‘Then why have you come?’ asked Emile.

  ‘I can’t tell you, indeed it’s better that you don’t know. The most important thing now is that you should get out of the city as soon as you can… and Papa, don’t come back until all this is over.’

  ‘Don’t worry, my boy.’ Emile tried to sound reassuring. ‘We shall be gone as soon as Pierre has secured us a horse to pull the chaise.’

  ‘That’ll be no easy task,’ commented Georges.

  ‘I know,’ Emile agreed, ‘but he’s a resourceful man. No good finding it today, it would have been stolen by tomorrow. Better to put it straight between the shafts and set off at once.’

  Georges nodded. His father was probably right there.

  For half an hour father and son sat at the table and drank a glass of cognac together before Georges got to his feet. ‘I must be off,’ he said. ‘I understand there’s a curfew within the city walls now.’ He put on his cap, again pulling it down over his eyes to shade his face, and led the way into the hall. ‘I’ll leave through the kitchen and go out through the yard gate,’ he said as the two men awkwardly embraced. ‘Suits my disguise better.’

  ‘Take care, son,’ Emile said. ‘I don’t want to know what you’re doing, but don’t put yourself in unnecessary danger.’

  Georges gave a short bark of laughter. ‘Difficult not to, these days,’ he said, ‘but I’ll do my best!’ And with a wave of his hand he disappeared into the kitchen. Emile watched from an upstairs window, but in the gathering dusk he hardly recognised Georges as he shuffled off along the road, just another scruffy individual haunting the night-time streets, out for what he could find.

  Emile went into his bedroom where a small fire burned in the grate and got ready for bed. As he lay in the darkness he relived the terror of the Rue de la Paix, feeling again the chill of his fear as he’d run from the scene. Georges was right, they should all have left Paris sooner. Tomorrow he would make a quick visit to his office to ensure that Forquet had followed his instructions. There would be time for that while Pierre acquired a horse, and then they would set out for St Etienne, away from the madness that was Paris.

  10

  The next morning dawned dull, grey and cold; a complete difference to the previous day, as if spring had changed its mind and winter had regained the upper hand.

  Marie-Jeanne woke early and looked out of the window. Her heart sank to see the dank garden. If she’d had any say in the matter there would have been no question of exposing Hélène to such chilling weather, but she had known Emile St Clair long enough to know that once he’d made his mind up, he was not going to change it. She would have to ensure that the child was well wrapped up for the journey. She went into the kitchen where Berthe was preparing the breakfast to remind her to put up a basket of food and drink for the journey.

  ‘Not to worry,’ Berthe said. ‘It’s all ready. There’s bread and cheese and some apples; a bottle of cold coffee too, and another of water.’ She beamed up at Marie-Jeanne. ‘And I’ve made some soup specially for Miss Hélène. I’ve put that in a bottle too, so she can drink it easily. It will taste just as good cold.’

  Marie-Jeanne thanke
d her for her forethought and went to wake Hélène. The girl was already half awake when Marie-Jeanne came into her room. Clearly better now, she sat up rubbing her eyes as Marie-Jeanne threw back the curtains.

  ‘It’s today, isn’t it?’ she cried as she scrambled out of bed. ‘Today we’re going to St Etienne. I can’t wait to see Maman!’

  Marie-Jeanne smiled at her excitement. ‘Well, come here and get washed, Arlette is just bringing up some hot water.’ She supervised Hélène’s ablutions and then told her to get dressed in the clean clothes she’d laid out for her and come down for breakfast.

  Hélène needed no second bidding, and was soon sitting at the table drinking hot chocolate and eating freshly made croissants. Briefly, Emile joined her there, but only took a cup of coffee.

  ‘I have to go out for half an hour,’ he said. ‘By the time I get back, Pierre will be back with a horse and we shall be off.’ He turned to Marie-Jeanne. ‘Is everything packed?’

  ‘Yes, monsieur.’

  ‘Then we should load the chaise so that all is ready for our departure.’

  ‘I will ask Pierre to do so as soon as he gets back,’ said Marie-Jeanne.

  ‘No,’ replied Emile, ‘I want the luggage on board straight away. I will carry it out myself.’

  ‘You, monsieur?’ Marie-Jeanne couldn’t help the words escaping, she was so astonished.

  ‘Indeed me,’ said Emile. ‘Do you think it beyond me to carry a few valises out to the chaise?’

  ‘No, of course not, monsieur,’ said Marie-Jeanne hastily. ‘I will just close the clasps.’

  Within ten minutes the three cases were strapped to the back of the chaise and Berthe had been told to load the basket of food.

  ‘I will be back very shortly,’ Emile said as he put on his hat and coat, and without further ado, he went out into the street.

  ‘Where is Papa going?’ wondered Hélène as she drank the last of her chocolate.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Marie-Jeanne said, ‘and it’s his business not ours. Now, child, if you’ve finished your breakfast, let’s go upstairs and make sure we haven’t forgotten anything.’ Though Marie-Jeanne knew this to be unnecessary as she had done all the packing herself, she wanted to keep Hélène occupied until Pierre arrived with a horse and her father reappeared.

  As they reached the top of the stairs there came a loud crash and the front door shuddered from a blow from the outside, followed by another and then another. Marie-Jeanne looked over the banisters as Arlette hurried into the hall to open the door.

  ‘Don’t!’ cried Marie-Jeanne. ‘Arlette! Don’t open the door!’

  The maid hesitated, not knowing what to do, and before she could make up her mind there was a fourth crash and the door burst open, sagging inwards on damaged hinges. As it swung wide, three large and ferocious-looking men erupted into the house. Marie-Jeanne had never seen such men enter the house through the front door; men of the street, in filthy clothes and workmen’s boots, the first waving a pistol and the other two carrying the metal piping that had been used as a ram on the door. Arlette gave a scream of terror and received a backhanded slap across her face from the man with the gun.

  ‘Shut up, you little slut!’ he snarled as Arlette fell whimpering to the floor, blood gushing from her nose. ‘Get up and get out.’

  Arlette managed to scramble to her feet and with one terrified glance up the stairs at Marie-Jeanne, she bolted out into the street, her wails echoing behind her.

  ‘And don’t come back,’ yelled the second man, shaking his fist after her.

  Marie-Jeanne pushed Hélène along the landing, hissing, ‘Go into your room and wait for me!’

  Hélène didn’t move immediately, simply stared down at the intruders with wide and frightened eyes.

  ‘Go!’ Marie-Jeanne gave her a push towards her bedroom.

  At that moment Hélène caught sight of a face she recognised and her eyes widened. Jeannot was peering in through the front door.

  ‘Jeannot!’ she shrieked.

  Jeannot’s head jerked upwards and he saw her pale face looking down at him through the banisters.

  Hélène! She wasn’t meant to be here! His expression changed to one of dismay.

  ‘Go!’ Marie-Jeanne urged her with another push. She, too, had recognised Jeannot and knew at once that this was no random attack on a rich house. This was a planned invasion of a prominent man’s home by an envious rabble.

  One of the men grabbed the boy by the scruff of the neck and dragged him inside. ‘I thought you said that the house would be empty!’ he growled.

  ‘I… I thought they’d gone. They was going away!’ jabbered Jeannot. ‘I thought they’d gone.’ He tried to pull away from the man’s grip, but it was too strong for him.

  ‘So, boy, who else might be here, eh? Any more surprises?’

  ‘Dunno,’ stammered Jeannot, cringing away from him. ‘I dunno, honest!’

  ‘Better find out, hadn’t we?’ said the gunman. ‘Jules, you search down here. Auguste, keep hold of the boy.’ He looked up the stairs to where Marie-Jeanne stood, blocking the way up, arms akimbo. He gave a lascivious grin. ‘An’ I’ll take the upstairs.’

  The other two men disappeared, Jules heading to the kitchen. The other, Auguste, still holding Jeannot by the scruff of the neck, dragged him into the dining room. The third man, who was the obvious leader, put his foot on the bottom stair and looked up.

  ‘Anyone else up there?’ he asked.

  ‘You can’t come up here,’ Marie-Jeanne told him, her hands clenched into fists so that he wouldn’t see they were shaking.

  ‘Oh? And why’s that then?’ The man climbed two more stairs.

  ‘It’s only me and the child… and… and she’s ill.’ Remembering how this ruse had worked on that first day they had arrived in Paris, she went on, ‘She has a fever. She is infectious!’

  It gave the man pause, but then he laughed. ‘Good try, old woman,’ he crowed, ‘but she looks well enough to me. Pretty and young! Just as I like ’em.’ And he took two more slow steps up the stairs.

  ‘Hélène! Hide!’

  This time the urgency in Marie-Jeanne’s voice did get through to the girl and as if she’d been released from a spell, she scurried out of sight along the corridor and then a door banged.

  ‘You can’t come up here,’ Marie-Jeanne said again. ‘We’ll call the police!’

  ‘Doubt if they’ll hear you,’ sneered the man. ‘And they won’t come, even if they do.’

  Marie-Jeanne knew he was right, knew that she couldn’t stop this man, but even so she looked round for some sort of weapon. There was an ornamental chair standing at the top of the staircase and she grabbed it, holding it by the back and jabbing its spindly legs at the approaching man. He gave another laugh.

  ‘Out of the way, old woman. You can’t stop me and you’d be a fool to try!’ He had almost reached the top step, but he was still a little lower than Marie-Jeanne and with one last desperate effort, she swung the little chair into the air and brought it down as hard as she could on his head. It was an elegant piece, not built for such usage, and it disintegrated about his head and shoulders. He staggered, giving a roar of fury, but as he regained his balance he raised his pistol and pulled the trigger.

  Marie-Jeanne slumped to the floor, blood spreading across her breast, the momentary look of anguish in her eyes almost immediately extinguished. Her attacker kicked her, pushing her body aside and out of his way with his boot. A call came from downstairs, and Auguste, having heard the shot, reappeared in the hall, Jeannot still held in an iron fist.

  ‘Gaston?’ he called. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle, mate,’ Gaston answered. ‘You wait down there and watch the front door. Don’t let no one in!’

  He knew the shot could have been heard in the street and he wanted no inquisitive busybody coming into the house to see what was amiss. Jeannot had promised there was a haul of valuables just waiting in the empty hous
e.

  Well now, thought Gaston, as he thrust the pistol into the waistband of his trousers and went along the passage in search of the young girl, here’s a ‘valuable’ we hadn’t expected! What a hostage she’ll make! What a ransom her rich family will surely pay to get her back… maybe slightly damaged… but alive, if enough gold is offered.

  The landing was lined with doors, most of them open, and he glanced into each room as he passed. But he had heard the slamming of a door when the girl had run, and so he wasted no time searching those, he went directly to the two closed doors at the far end.

  He opened the door of the first, and went in. The room, a man’s bedroom, looked empty but it offered plenty of places to hide and he flung open cupboard doors, pulled out drawers and looked behind curtains and under the large bed. The remains of a fire lay in the grate, but they were cold and undisturbed. There was no sign of the child and so he moved on to the second closed door. When he opened that, he found himself in another bedroom, a much more feminine room, with a tidily made bed, a dressing table under the window, wardrobes and a tallboy. The fireplace was clean and obviously had not been in use for some days. Whoever slept in here had not done so last night. A quick search of the outer room produced no hidden child, but led him to a second door, tucked discreetly behind a screen. He pushed the screen aside and it fell with a crash to the floor, then he reached for the handle and flung the door open to disclose the ‘cabinet’, a tiny room housing a commode and a washstand. Crouching behind the commode, pale-faced and terrified, he found Hélène.

  She gave a scream as he reached in to drag her out of her hiding place. His grip tightened on her arms as he pulled her back into the bedroom.