Children of the Siege

by Diney Costeloe

  In answer to his summons the drab woman appeared at the door. ‘Get that boy in here,’ he said.

  Hélène heard her calling and moments later Jeannot crept into the room.

  ‘You, boy, take this letter to her father.’ He jerked his head at Hélène. ‘Tell him no messing if he wants his daughter back.’

  Jeannot took the note and as he did so Hélène caught his eye. She was about to speak but he gave her such a fierce scowl that the words died on her lips.

  ‘I’ll tell him, Gaston,’ Jeannot said, and beat a hasty retreat.

  When Jeannot had disappeared Francine came back, crossing the room to poke the fire into life.

  ‘You,’ Gaston growled at her, ‘get out. And don’t come back until I call you.’

  ‘But, Gaston…’ she began to whine.

  ‘Out!’ He raised his clenched fist and ducking the expected blow, Francine dropped the poker and ran from the room.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Gaston with a smile as he shut the door behind her. ‘Now we won’t be disturbed.’

  14

  Hélène felt bruised all over. She was back in the cellar now, cold and more frightened than ever. The man, Gaston, had asked her some questions and when she had answered them to the best of her ability, had suddenly sat down on the sagging sofa and pulled her towards him. He had put his hands around her neck, turning her head this way and that, pushing her chin up with his thumbs before running his hands down over her thin shoulders and across her chest. Hélène didn’t like it and tried to pull away, but he held her in a vice-like grip with one hand on her throat, while he explored her body with the other, pulling at her clothing, prodding, poking and pressing so that she gave a cry of pain. This earned her a hard slap across her face, making her lip bleed, and a muttered, ‘Shut up, bitch, or you’ll get worse!’

  Hélène tasted the blood in her mouth and reached up to touch her swollen lip and her stinging cheek, but he pulled her hand away and dragged her down onto the sofa beside him.

  ‘Now you just be quiet,’ he murmured, ‘and we’ll have a bit of fun. Won’t hurt if you don’t fight it.’ He grasped her hand firmly in one of his and placed it on his crotch, his other hand still at her throat, squeezing so that she could hardly breathe.

  ‘Rub me,’ he said, his voice hoarse with excitement. ‘Rub me hard.’ Hélène could feel an inexplicable bulge in his trousers and, frightened, snatched her hand away, but Gaston, keeping his grip on her throat, jostled her onto his knee. He thrust his hand between her legs, and grasping himself moved her up and down, up and down, up and down against him, his breath coming in heavy, rasping gasps until all of a sudden he gave a groan and shoved her away so that she fell to the floor.

  It had all been too quick and Gaston was disappointed. He’d expected more. Well, he thought as he looked down at her sobbing on the floor, she’d know what was coming next time. He’d seen the fear in her eyes this time, and the thought of her terror when he brought her up to this room again was already stirring him to harden again. Still, he’d wait. The anticipation, the building excitement was all part of the thrill. She, knowing what he was going to do to her, would try to please, to ease the pain. Next time, he’d feel her hand on his naked skin, next time his hands would be on her naked skin, exploring and probing before he took her, not a thing to be hurried, a little more each time until her childish body was his entirely. He looked down at the shaking heap on the floor and grinned. He could wait.

  Leaving her where she was, he flung open the door and bellowed, ‘Francine! Where are you, slut?’

  Francine appeared, her young-old face a mask of hatred. ‘Well, satisfied?’

  Gaston grinned at her. ‘For now! Take her back downstairs. I want to give her a chance to think about next time.’

  Francine had grabbed Hélène by the arm and pulled her to her feet. ‘Come on,’ she snapped, grasping her hair and giving it a painful jerk. ‘Down with you.’

  When the door had thudded closed behind her, Hélène had curled up in a ball in the corner and wept. She didn’t know what she’d been part of, she didn’t know what the terrifying man had wanted of her, all she knew was he’d hurt her and he was going to hurt her again.

  When her sobs finally died away, Hélène thought of the questions the Gaston-man had asked her. What was her name? She’d told him. Hélène Rosalie St Clair. Had she any sisters? Yes, two, Clarice and Louise. Had she any brothers? Yes, Georges and Marcel. She’d answered readily enough, though she had no clue as to why he wanted to know all this. She didn’t notice the gleam of satisfaction in his eye when she mentioned her brothers. Did they fight in the war, these brothers of hers? Yes, they did. Georges had come home already, but no one knew where Marcel was. Her mother was afraid that he’d been killed at Sedan, but they were all hoping he was a prisoner somewhere.

  It was only after answering all these questions that the Gaston-man had grabbed her and begun to hurt her. Had her answers been wrong? she wondered. She had told the truth and he’d almost killed her. If he asked the same questions next time, should she answer differently, or would the answers make no difference?

  As the gloomy afternoon light faded into dusk, Hélène fell into a restless sleep, but it was so haunted by nightmares, conjured from the happenings of the past two days, that she awoke with a scream, shaking with fear, and fought with her exhaustion to remain awake, lest they invade her sleep again.

  Upstairs, Jeannot had returned from the Avenue Ste Anne with the ransom note still in his possession. He hardly dared tell Gaston that he’d failed to deliver it.

  ‘There was no one there,’ he stammered. ‘The house was shut up. I went round the back gates, but they was locked too.’

  The least he expected now was a cuff round the ear, but surprisingly Gaston didn’t seem angry. He simply took the note back and said, ‘Come back again tomorrow, you can take it then.’ Gaston was glad to have the letter back; he’d been regretting sending it so quickly. Now the family still had no news of Hélène’s fate, he could keep her longer for himself.

  Delighted to escape, Jeannot hurried away, leaving Francine glowering after him. He went to the ruined house, the cellar of which he, Paul and the Monkey called home.

  ‘He’s got her locked up,’ he said to Paul, ‘and it’s my fault. I didn’t know they was still in the house. Pierre told me they was going to the country and I thought they was gone.’

  Paul shrugged. ‘Not your fault if they changes their minds, is it?’

  ‘And Marie-Jeanne,’ Jeannot went on miserably. ‘He shot her. She was kind to me, Marie-Jeanne was, when I lived there.’

  ‘So, go an’ tell them where she is,’ Paul said.

  Jeannot stared at him in horror. ‘I can’t do that, Gaston’d kill me!’

  ‘Well, there you are then, there ain’t nothing you can do. Just give them the letter and beat it.’ He headed for the door. ‘I’m going out to try my luck at Les Halles. Coming?’

  ‘Might as well,’ Jeannot sighed. He’d no money and a dip in someone’s pocket might provide something. Together they went out and crossed the city to the crowded, bustling market where, if there were no easy pockets, at least there might be discarded food.

  When they reached the market they worked as a pair. As always they kept to the street market rather than venturing inside, under the canopy of iron and glass which covered the main wholesale market. The pickings outside could be just as rich for a street urchin and escape from angry victims very much easier. In a well-rehearsed routine, the two boys eased their way through the throng that crowded the stalls. Stalls that offered everything from fruit and vegetables, baskets of apples, strings of onions, bundles of garlic, sacks of potatoes to wooden crates of live poultry, chickens on a pole, their necks wrung ready to be plucked, pails of fresh milk, baskets of eggs, crocks of butter, rounds of cheese and bunches of flowers. They wandered among the carts and waggons of the smaller traders whose wares were displayed on stands under striped awnings in the
square outside the great church of St Eustache. Here the buyers were more mixed, housewives picking over the produce, discarding damaged goods, maids sent out on errands by their mistresses, gentlemen passing through to the Rue de Rivoli, to the Rue St Honoré. Numerous folk, all intent on doing business at the most competitive rates, jostling each other, being jostled from behind.

  It wasn’t long before Jeannot spotted a likely mark. The man, a gentleman dressed, was standing a little apart, scanning the crowd as if he were looking for someone, and as they watched from behind a loaded cart, he consulted his pocket watch. The boys exchanged glances and grinned before strolling out into the throng and moving slowly towards him. As they approached he took a step forward, his face breaking into a smile of welcome. Jeannot followed his gaze and saw a woman walking towards him. She was dressed as became a lady, but there was something about the way she walked that said otherwise. Jeannot nudged Paul and he ran, bumping into the woman just as she reached their mark and held out a powdered cheek to him. As the woman staggered, the man reached out one hand to steady her, the other making a grab at the boy now vanishing into the crush. The man’s attention was completely diverted by the stumble of his lady friend and it was the work of a moment for Jeannot to remove the watch from its pocket and to slide away into the crowd, in the opposite direction from that taken by Paul. He moved swiftly without a backward glance, and completely disappeared before the mark had realised that his watch no longer nestled in his pocket.

  Paul and Jeannot met up at their usual rendezvous ten minutes later and inspected their prize.

  ‘That’ll fetch a bit,’ grinned Paul, as he held the watch up to the light. ‘That’s gold, that is. Even Renard should give us a decent price for this.’

  ‘We ain’t gonna give this to the Fox,’ Jeannot said, taking it back from him. ‘I got plans for this watch.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ Paul looked at him with narrowed eyes. ‘And what about my cut?’

  ‘We’ll get something else,’ Jeannot told him. ‘Plenty more doves for the plucking. Everything else we take this afternoon is yours, right?’

  ‘See how much we get,’ muttered Paul ominously.

  They returned to a different part of the market and continued their nefarious work. Jeannot had the watch safely in an inner pocket Tante Edith had sewn into the lining of his jacket. When he had seen the watch in the man’s hand, the germ of an idea had entered his head. Could he use it to buy Hélène’s freedom?

  Paul watched him carefully, determined not to let him take off with their valuable prize, but mingling in the crowd who lingered for the end of the day bargains, the boys ended their afternoon as the proud possessors of two wallets and a lady’s purse.

  It was a fair reward for an afternoon’s thieving and grudgingly Paul agreed to let Jeannot have the watch, if he, Paul, kept all the cash. Though the watch was clearly more valuable, Paul preferred the ready cash. Jeannot could try dealing with the Fox and good luck to him.

  But Jeannot had no intention of selling the watch to Renard who would only give him a fraction of its value. He wanted it gold, sparkling and valuable as a bargaining chip.

  ‘But you remember, mate,’ said Paul. ‘I get first dibs next time. Right?’ He spat on his hand and Jeannot did the same before they clasped hands together to seal the bargain.

  Jeannot was delighted with the deal. He planned to find Francine alone and offer her the watch in return for the key to Hélène’s prison. Surely it would tempt her? He didn’t think he could take the key by force. Francine, for all her slatternly look, was much bigger than Jeannot, her arms strengthened by hard work, her fingers long and strong. Tomorrow he would go and collect the note and then stay hidden outside in the street until he saw Gaston go out. That would be his chance; he would go inside and dangle the watch before Francine’s greedy eyes and snatch Hélène away before Gaston got back. It wasn’t a very good plan but it was all Jeannot could think of.

  Next morning he returned to Gaston’s place, and well before he reached the door, he could hear Gaston and Francine having one of their frequent and strident rows. He paused outside, listening.

  ‘What the hell do you want with a little girl like that?’ Francine was shrieking.

  ‘What the hell do you think?’

  ‘She’s worth far more if you sell her as a virgin!’

  ‘And who’s to know she ain’t?’

  ‘Anyone what buys her from you. Won’t take him long to find out, will it?’

  ‘But by then it’ll be too late, won’t it?’

  ‘She’s worth money!’ insisted Francine. ‘You gonna miss out simply ’cos you can’t keep it in your breeches? Sell her on or send her back. Either way someone will pay good money for her.’

  ‘I got a score to settle with the St Clair family,’ Gaston said, fingering the scar on his cheek, ‘and she’s part of it.’

  ‘You’re stupid, you are.’ This was followed by the sound of a slap and a yell, ‘Bastard, Gaston Durand!’

  ‘Stupid, am I?’

  ‘No. No, I didn’t mean it. But why this kid?’

  ‘Tender meat!’

  ‘But what about me?’ The question came out as more of a wail than a demand and Gaston gave a harsh laugh. ‘What about you?’ he said. ‘You ain’t tender meat!’

  ‘Bastard! You’re always doing this to me…’

  ‘An’ probably always will,’ came the snap reply.

  ‘No!’ Francine’s voice changed, harsh and strident. ‘No, you bugger, you won’t! I’ve had enough!’

  ‘Christ, Francine!’ Gaston gave a sudden shout of alarm before there came a bang and a crash, a scream cut off, and another curse from Gaston. ‘Stupid, stupid bitch!’

  Jeannot shrank away from the steps and took cover in a nearby doorway. Moments later Gaston emerged from the door and strode off down the street. From where he stood, Jeannot could see a stream of blood pouring down his face. Whatever had happened inside, Francine had inflicted some damage on her man. Jeannot shuddered. He wouldn’t give much for her chances when Gaston came home again.

  He waited several minutes, but Gaston didn’t come back and Francine didn’t come out of the house. Stealthily he crossed the street and crept up to the open door. There was no sound from inside. Silently he stepped in and peered into the room. Francine lay sprawled on the floor, her head bleeding freely from a gash above her eye, but as still as death. Jeannot stood still, holding his breath. He could see the faint rise and fall of Francine’s breast and knew that she was still alive. He tiptoed over to where she lay and looked down at her. Had Gaston done for her this time? A poker from the fireplace lay beside her and now that he was closer he could see a smudge of soot beside the wound. Gaston must have hit her with the poker… or maybe, Jeannot thought with a flash of insight as he remembered the blood on Gaston’s face, she had hit him first and he had turned her weapon on herself. Whatever happened, Jeannot suddenly realised he was presented with an opportunity he could never have achieved for himself. Attached to the rope belt about Francine’s waist was a large key. Surely it must be the one to the cellar where Jeannot knew Hélène was being held. He paused for a moment. Suppose Gaston came back and found him trying to rescue Hélène? Then the memory of Gaston saying how he was going to make money out of her one way or another spurred Jeannot into action. This was Hélène, his brave Hélène who’d gone to the Prussian parade and thrown apples at the German soldiers. She was a spunky kid; he couldn’t simply step aside and leave her to Gaston’s attentions.

  Looking round the room he saw a short-bladed knife beside the water bowl. Snatching it up, Jeannot approached Francine and with a swift slice of the blade, cut through her belt, releasing the key into his hand. Slipping the knife into his pocket, he ran out of the door and down the stone steps that led to the cellar. He thrust the key into the keyhole and heard it scrape in the lock before he pushed the heavy door open and went into the room.

  Hélène was crouching in the corner furthest from the
door, her hands covering her face as she cowered away from whoever had come in. She’d already learned that whether it was the Gaston-man or the sour-faced woman, her fate was always the same.

  Horrified at what he saw, Jeannot whispered, ‘Hélène! It’s me. Jeannot. I’ve come to get you out!’

  Hélène gave a scream of fear and he shushed her quickly. ‘Hélène,’ he cried, ‘come on! Gaston may come back at any moment. We gotta go… now!’

  The urgency in his voice somehow got through to her and she opened her eyes. ‘Jeannot?’ she said. ‘Is it really you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, his nerve beginning to fail. If they didn’t get out of here before Gaston decided to come back to see if he’d killed Francine, he’d find them and kill them, instead.

  ‘Come on, Hélène,’ he said, crossing the room and holding out his hand. ‘Get up! We gotta get away. Now!’

  Hélène took his extended hand and shakily got to her feet. Her legs were still wobbly from her last encounter with Gaston, but she managed to stagger across the room and follow Jeannot up the stone stairs.

  When they reached the room at the top she saw Francine, lying on the floor, the blood pooled about her head. At once the memory of Marie-Jeanne lying still and staring-eyed at the top of her stairs flooded her mind and she gave a cry.

  Jeannot gave her hand a tug. ‘She’s all right, Hélène,’ he said. ‘She ain’t dead, but we will be if we don’t get away from here.’ He pulled hard at her hand and after what seemed to him an age but was really only a few seconds, she turned back to him and they both scurried out of the door and into the street.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she cried as he dragged her along the muddy cobbles.

  ‘My place,’ he answered. ‘Gaston don’t know where it is. Then we’ll find somewhere till we tell your pa.’

  They reached the corner of the next street. It was as narrow as the last; gloomy, as the tall buildings crowding in on either side restricted the daylight. Its uneven cobbles were slippery with filth and a viscous stream of excrement slid down a gutter in the middle. As they rounded the corner Jeannot saw three men hurrying along the street towards them and as he realised who they were, he heard Gaston’s roar of rage. Afraid he’d killed Francine, Gaston had gone to fetch Auguste and Jules to help him dispose of her corpse. Now he was confronted with the urchin Jeannot, whom he’d used to run errands, leading the captive girl away. He gave another roar and charged along the street towards them, his feet slipping and sliding on the cobbles.