Children of the Siege

by Diney Costeloe

  ‘Now then, missy,’ he said, ‘you’re going to come with me and we ain’t going to have no fuss, neither. All right?’

  Hélène looked up into his cruel face and was terrified. Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she sobbed for her mother. Gaston shook her violently and shouted, ‘Cut out that wailing or I’ll give you something to cry about!’

  Hélène knew enough to understand that she had to be quiet and go with this horrible man and she fought valiantly against her sobs as she was brought out onto the landing. Suddenly remembering how she had escaped the grasp of the man in the crowd in the Champs Elysées, she bent her head and sank her teeth into her captor’s hand. Gaston gave a cry of pain and for a moment released her as he snatched his hand away. It was all she needed and she raced along the landing before coming to an abrupt halt at the top of the stairs where Marie-Jeanne lay like a discarded rag doll, her eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling.

  Hélène gave a howl of anguish and flung herself down at her beloved nurse’s side. She could see that pool of blood spread about her and knew Marie-Jeanne was beyond help.

  Gaston was on her in an instant, grabbing her by her hair and yanking her to her feet.

  ‘You’ve killed her,’ shrieked Hélène, and unaware of the pain of her tugged hair, she beat him with her fists, pummelling his chest, his head, his face. ‘Murderer! Murderer!’

  Jules, Auguste and Jeannot, gathered below in the hall, stared open-mouthed as Gaston fought to hold on to the screaming girl, then with one blow he slapped Hélène so hard about the head that she was silenced and she collapsed against him. Immediately he hoisted her over his shoulder like a sack of coal and carried her down the stairs into the hall.

  ‘Time to go!’ he snapped.

  ‘But what about the stuff here in the house?’ demanded Jules, waving a hand vaguely about him. ‘Weren’t that what we come for?’

  ‘An’ what about her?’ Auguste nodded towards the body at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Leave her,’ snapped Gaston. ‘An’ as for the other stuff, we can come back later. We need to get this one away from here and locked up before someone comes looking for her.’ He grinned. ‘She’s our most valuable find!’

  He glowered at Jeannot who was staring past the limp figure across Gaston’s shoulder to the body at the top of the stairs. ‘It’s your fault she’s dead, boy,’ he said dismissively. ‘You told us the house was empty.’

  ‘It is now,’ Jules told him. ‘There was a cook in the kitchen, but she took off out of the back door like a scalded cat. She won’t be back in a hurry.’

  ‘Right, well, we’ll go out the back way too. Don’t want no busybodies asking about the child.’ He turned again to Jeannot. ‘Where does the back door lead to?’

  ‘Just the stable yard and then out into the lane at the back.’

  Was Pierre hiding in the stables? Jeannot wondered, hoping desperately that he wasn’t. Pierre had been kind to him and Jeannot didn’t want him to be murdered like poor Marie-Jeanne. How he wished he’d never mentioned the valuables in this house to Gaston and his crowd, but they were revolutionaries and he’d wanted to impress them with his knowledge and his daring. How could he have known the stupid St Clairs had stayed in the city? Pierre had told him they were leaving.

  ‘Right,’ Gaston was saying now, ‘you can lead the way, boy, and no making a run for it, ’cos if you do I’ll tell them it was you what shot the old biddy upstairs.’ He gave a malevolent grin. ‘After all, it was you what knew about this house and what was in it, so you was only getting your own back for being turned off!’

  They passed through the empty kitchen, Auguste snatching up a loaf of warm fresh bread as he went through, and emerged into the lane that ran along the back wall.

  Marie-Jeanne was left lying where she had fallen. The front door still sagged open, and the house was empty. Gaston and his cronies had been in and out in less than twenty minutes.

  11

  Unaware of what was occurring at his house, Emile took a cab to his office and spent five minutes checking that Forquet had fixed the shutters properly before going inside. The draughtsmen’s room was orderly, the drawing boards cleared of papers, instruments tidied away into locked drawers. He stood for a moment in the silence of the normally busy room and looked about. All was well in here, Forquet had made sure that nothing had been left out, so Emile went upstairs to his own office to have one final look round before leaving. He had considered taking some papers away with him, thinking perhaps he could continue to renew his business contacts from St Etienne, but now he decided against it. He would not be away for long, and there was the chance that something of importance might get lost.

  For a moment he crossed to the window and looked out into the street below. It looked as it always did, with people going about their business, passing the time of day with acquaintances, hurrying by with bags and satchels, a truly ordinary day. Yet again Emile wondered how urgent the removal to St Etienne was. Normally a man of decision, he never vacillated, but now he still wondered, should he go or should he stay? Georges said he must go, and he’d said he would, but still he felt a certain confusion at the events taking place around him. Left to himself, he thought he might have kept his office open and kept his draughtsmen working on the projects that had been unfinished at the outbreak of the war, but the strength of the fear he’d felt in the Rue de la Paix the previous day had frightened him. He looked out into the busyness of the street beyond his window and told himself he was no coward, running at the first sign of trouble, but that was exactly what he had done, now on two occasions, and he felt a wave of shame.

  ‘Pull yourself together,’ he said aloud. ‘You weren’t the only one to run!’ Somewhat reassured by the sound of his own voice, he continued, ‘I will take Hélène to her mother and then I will come back into Paris. I will reopen my office and I will not be afraid of the rabble who inhabit the rough districts of this city.’

  He closed his office door, locking it carefully behind him, and went down to the street. He locked that door too. His business would be safe until he came back to it. Paris was relying on citizens like him, moderate, professional men, to keep the wheels of business turning. He squared his shoulders and set out to find a cab.

  As he reached Avenue Ste Anne, he saw Pierre walking down the street leading a bony nag beside him. Emile paid off the cab and hailed him.

  ‘Is that really the best you could find?’ he demanded, looking askance at the tired wreck of a horse.

  ‘I could find nothing else, sir,’ Pierre replied, ‘and this one cost a pretty penny.’

  ‘Ah well,’ Emile shrugged, ‘he’ll have to do. Take him round to the yard and give him a feed before you hitch him up. I’ll go and find Marie-Jeanne.’

  Pierre disappeared into the side lane and Emile turned towards the front door. It was only then that he saw that it was already open, and not only open, but hanging off its hinges. He ran up the steps and paused for a moment on the threshold. The house was silent. Emile drew a deep breath and went into the hallway.

  ‘Hello?’ he called. ‘Marie-Jeanne? Where are you?’ The silence of emptiness settled back round him and he called again. ‘Marie-Jeanne? Hélène? Are you there?’ Receiving no reply he strode along the kitchen passage to find Arlette or Berthe, but the kitchen was empty, the scullery door standing wide to the stable yard beyond. Emile went outside. Pierre was giving the hungry horse a nosebag of oats. He looked up as his master came out, his face pale.

  ‘There’s no one here,’ Emile said. ‘Someone has broken down the front door, and the house is empty.’

  ‘No one?’ Pierre left the horse to his feed and turned to the house. ‘Where is Marie-Jeanne? And Berthe? They must have gone for help when the thieves broke in.’ He tried to sound reassuring. ‘That’ll be it, you can be sure.’

  ‘Well, they certainly aren’t here,’ Emile snapped. ‘And nor is Hélène.’

  With one accord the two men went back into the ho
use. ‘There’s nothing amiss in the kitchen,’ Emile said as he stood by the big wooden table and looked round. ‘See? There’s even some fresh bread!’

  ‘Could they be upstairs, monsieur?’ suggested Pierre, and walking past his master he went into the hall. When he saw the front door still hanging askew, he said, ‘They must have been robbers. Marie-Jeanne will have hidden Miss Hélène upstairs.’

  ‘Of course,’ Emile said, ready to clutch at any such straw, and he took the stairs two at a time, calling Hélène’s name, before coming to an abrupt halt at the top where Marie-Jeanne lay, her eyes still staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ he breathed. ‘Oh, my God!’ He stepped past her body and shouted, ‘Hélène! Hélène! Are you there, little one? It’s me! It’s Papa. You can come out now! You’re safe now!’

  Pierre had followed Emile upstairs and he, too, paused in shock at what he found at the top. Then stepping past Marie-Jeanne he walked slowly down the passage, looking into each room, terrified that he was going to discover a second body. Emile followed him and together they searched each room, calling to Hélène to come out of hiding, but as their voices died away and they listened for an answering cry, they heard nothing. When they had looked in every room but Rosalie’s bedroom, Pierre stood aside, unwilling to enter his mistress’s private boudoir. Emile strode past him into the room. At once he saw the screen lying on the floor and rushed over to the cabinet. Its door stood wide and it was empty.

  He stared into the tiny space as if he might still find Hélène crouching, hidden behind the commode, before turning back to Pierre with bleak eyes.

  ‘She’s gone,’ he said huskily. ‘They’ve taken her. Whoever killed Marie-Jeanne has taken Hélène.’

  Pierre, relieved that there had been no second body, said, ‘They will ask for a ransom, monsieur. They will keep her hidden and ask for gold.’

  ‘We must find her,’ Emile said, and suddenly leaping into action he hurried back towards the stairs. Once more he paused at the top and looked down at Marie-Jeanne’s body.

  ‘What shall we do…?’ Pierre gestured helplessly to her.

  ‘Nothing now!’ shouted Emile as he catapulted down the stairs. ‘We can do nothing for her. She’s dead. Hélène’s alive. Come along, man, we must look for her.’

  Pierre looked down at the lifeless form on the floor and, bending down, gently closed the staring eyes before making the sign of the cross and murmuring, ‘Rest in peace, Marie-Jeanne. You died trying to save her. Rest in peace.’

  ‘Come on, man!’ Emile shouted again and Pierre left Marie-Jeanne lying alone and followed him downstairs.

  ‘Sir, we shall need the horse when we find her,’ Pierre ventured. ‘We should hide him somewhere else in case they come back!’

  ‘The cowards wouldn’t dare…’ began Emile, but he saw the sense of what Pierre was saying and went on, ‘Take him round to Monsieur Thiery’s house,’ he said.

  ‘But they have already left Paris, sir,’ Pierre said.

  ‘I know that, but you may be able to hide him in their stable. Yes, take him there and then come back and we’ll search for Hélène.’

  Pierre did as he was bid and within fifteen minutes he had put the horse safely into the neighbours’ stable. While he was away, Emile looked into his own stables to see if the chaise had been touched by the thieves. It appeared that in their hurry to leave with their prize, they had not been into the coach house and the chaise stood as he’d left it that morning, with the valises strapped to the back.

  Perhaps Hélène had run away, Emile thought. Perhaps she had escaped while brave Marie-Jeanne kept the thieves at bay. Maybe Marie-Jeanne had paid with her life so that Hélène could make a break for it. And where were Berthe and Arlette? Had they run away or – a thought brought him up short – had they been in on the whole thing? They were new servants, only hired since the family had returned to Paris in February. They had little loyalty to the St Clairs. Their bodies were not here; were they part of the attack or had they simply run away?

  When Pierre reappeared Emile said, ‘Did you manage that all right?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Pierre. ‘The yard gates were closed, but there was no padlock and chain.’

  ‘We must go out and look round the streets, calling,’ Emile said. ‘Hélène may have run away when the thieves broke in. Marie-Jeanne at the top of the stairs may have given her the time to get away.’

  Pierre didn’t think so, remembering the upturned screen in Madame St Clair’s boudoir, but he could think of no other suggestion and so the two of them set out, hunting the surrounding streets, knocking on the doors of friends and neighbours in case Hélène had taken refuge with them, but several of the houses were already closed up, their owners having fled the violence of the city, and no one in those that were still occupied had seen or heard anything.

  ‘They must have heard the shot that killed Marie-Jeanne,’ Emile said in despair. ‘Surely somebody heard the shot and looked out of their window. Somebody must have seen something!’ But if they had, nobody admitted it.

  They continued from house to house, and the only glimmer of hope they had was when a maid in the last house on the street said she had seen Arlette.

  ‘I knowed her from when we was kids. Sometimes we spend our day off together,’ explained the girl. ‘She ran past here this morning, with her face buried in a handkerchief. I thought she was crying and I was going to call out to her, but she was gone that quick.’

  ‘Are you certain it was Arlette, our maid Arlette?’ demanded Emile.

  ‘Oh yes, sir, quite certain,’ replied the maid. ‘It was me what told her Madame St Clair was looking for a maid.’

  ‘Was there anyone with her?’ asked Emile, the faint light of hope in his eyes. ‘When you saw her?’

  ‘Oh no, sir. She was by herself. Probably going home to her ma’s. In a right state, she was.’

  ‘What is your name, girl?’ Emile asked.

  ‘Mireille,’ replied the girl.

  ‘Well, Mireille, can you tell us where Arlette lives?’

  The girl nodded. ‘Yes, monsieur, in the sixth arrondissement.’

  Emile thought of the narrow streets in that area. How would he ever find Arlette’s home in that myriad of streets, even if she gave him a street name and number?

  ‘Will you take us there?’ Emile demanded.

  ‘What, sir, now?’

  ‘Yes, girl, now!’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t leave the house. Madame Jourdain would turn me off without a character.’

  Emile could feel his frustration rising. ‘Is Madame Jourdain at home?’ he asked, his voice tightly controlled.

  ‘I can enquire, sir,’ came the reply. ‘Who shall I say is calling?’

  Stupid girl! he thought, but the niceties had to be observed, and even though Mireille knew perfectly well who he was, she waited for him to produce his card to send up to Madame, who was probably, even now, watching them from the window.

  ‘Please will you give my compliments to Madame Jourdain and say I am sorry to disturb her so early, but I need to see her on important business.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ agreed the maid, accepting his card. ‘Would you care to wait in the hall?’

  Exasperated, Emile stepped inside and said, ‘Please hurry, this could be a matter of life and death.’

  Mireille’s eyes widened with the drama of the situation and disappeared upstairs to the drawing room. While they were waiting to be shown up, Emile turned to Pierre.

  ‘Go back to the streets and keep asking. Who knows, someone could have seen her… or the men who broke into the house. Maybe someone saw them and knows which direction they took; knows if they had a child with them. I will visit Arlette and hope she can tell me more.’

  ‘Yes, monsieur,’ answered Pierre and let himself out of the front door.

  Moments later Mireille returned to usher Emile upstairs. ‘Where’s the other man?’ she asked, looking round anxio
usly.

  ‘Don’t worry about him,’ replied Emile, ‘he’s gone.’

  He followed the maid up into Madame Jourdain’s drawing room. Madame Jourdain rose to greet him, but did not extend her hand. She was a tall, rather scrawny woman with a beaky nose, thin lips and hard, calculating eyes. She looked at Emile with some disdain. She knew the name of St Clair, but she had never met Emile or his wife and calling in this fashion was not at all expected.

  ‘I am sorry to disturb you, madame,’ Emile said and gave her a brief and edited version of what had happened. He made no mention of the murder of Marie-Jeanne. ‘I don’t want to alarm you, madame, but I need to speak to my maid, Arlette, who ran away from the attack. My daughter is missing and I need to ask Arlette what happened. Your maid Mireille knows where she lives and I wondered if you could spare her for half an hour to take me there.’

  ‘You think this Arlette will know something?’ asked Madame Jourdain.

  ‘Until I speak to her I cannot tell, madame,’ replied Emile evenly, ‘but I must try and find her. If my daughter ran away, we need to find her again. I was taking her to the safety of the country this very morning.’

  ‘And she did not want to go. Perhaps that is why she ran away.’

  Emile held onto the rags of his temper. ‘She was looking forward to going. Madame, I think she may have been abducted, but until I speak to Arlette I shall know nothing for sure.’

  Eventually Madame Jourdain gave a small shrug. ‘You say Mireille knows where this girl lives. She may take you now, but I need her back before my husband comes home for his midday meal.’ She rang a small bell on the table beside her, and the alacrity with which it was answered suggested that Mireille had been standing outside the door. Madame gave her instructions and moments later the maid had her shawl around her shoulders and they were back in the street. She led Emile to the end of the road and then took a small alleyway to the left, leading away from the prosperous area where he and the Jourdains lived, into the more run-down parts of the neighbourhood. Following her through the countless twisting lanes and narrow streets, Emile wondered if he would even find his way back into a civilised part of the city. At last she turned in through an archway and led him across a small yard hemmed in by dilapidated buildings and up a flight of stone steps. At a turn in the stairs were two doors, and then the steps disappeared into the gloom of the floor above. Mireille paused outside these before knocking on one of them.