‘It’s time you were in bed,’ she said as she spread a sheet and some blankets onto the old mattress. ‘Sleep is the best thing for you, and you can tell us all about it in the morning.’ She looked at Hélène’s blank expression and said gently, ‘You’ll be quite safe here. No one will come near you except for me, I promise you. Now be a good girl and get into bed.’
As if sleepwalking, Hélène did as she was told and the housekeeper covered her with a blanket. She was about to leave the room when Hélène cried out, ‘It’s dark!’
‘I’ll leave the lamp,’ Madame said. ‘You’ll be fine.’ She turned down the wick in the oil lamp and left it on the windowsill before quietly leaving the room.
Hélène heard her footsteps on the stairs as she lay curled up under the blanket. The pain from her bruises had subsided to a dull ache, but the ache in her mind was dark and insistent. Though the lamp had been left so she wasn’t alone in the dark as she had been in the cellar, she dare not close her eyes. For the moment she knew she was safe, but for how long? What would the priest say when he got home? If he threw her out like the other one, Father Thomas, wanted to, where would she go? She thought of Maman, safely at St Etienne with her sisters. They would be worried about her, wondering what had happened to her. And Papa? Would he be angry with her? Cross because she hadn’t run away when the men broke in? He would have to pay Gaston to get her back, but now Gaston hadn’t got her any more, he wouldn’t know how to find her.
These muddled thoughts swirled through her brain, but despite her best efforts to stay awake, no longer hungry and in the comforting warmth of the bed, she finally fell asleep.
16
Downstairs, Madame Sauze had been called into Father Lenoir’s study. Father Thomas had already reported what had happened in the church and had expressed his dismay at Madame Sauze’s actions.
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘it was our Christian duty to help the child, but I had not expected Madame Sauze to bring her into the house to stay. I’m sure a cup of milk and a piece of bread was all she needed to restore her.’
‘You’re probably right,’ agreed the priest, ‘but we’ll wait to hear what Madame Sauze thinks. Now, I have to say my office. I’ll see you again at dinner time.’
Father Thomas took his dismissal and went away to his own room. He was annoyed with Father Lenoir’s response. Of course he was pleased that Madame Sauze looked after them so well; his meals were put on the table, his clothes were washed, mended and ready to wear, and the house was spotless, all without him having to lift a finger, but he resented the fact that Father Lenoir often consulted her on parish matters, which were, Father Thomas considered, no business of hers. Newly ordained, Father Thomas took himself extremely seriously. It was a great responsibility being a priest, and when he finally got his own parish, any housekeeper he employed would know her place and remain in it.
He heard the housekeeper’s footsteps on the stairs and hastily set aside his breviary, but by the time he too reached the hall, she had been called into Father Lenoir’s study and the door was closed.
‘Now then, Agathe,’ said the priest as he waved her to a chair, ‘what’s all this about a girl fainting in the church?’ Agathe Sauze had been his housekeeper for over twenty years, but he only ever called her by her Christian name when there was no one else present. In front of Father Thomas, or any of his parishioners, he always gave her the respect of addressing her as Madame Sauze. ‘Thomas is very concerned that you’ve brought a vagrant child into the house.’
‘Father,’ said Agathe, who never dropped the formal terms of address, ‘the child is in a dreadful way. She was starving hungry, which we dealt with straight away, and filthy dirty which I would say is not her usual state. Her clothes are not those of a beggar child, but the important thing to me is that she has been badly beaten. Her body is covered in bruises and she is terrified of something or someone. It was when Father Thomas approached her in the church she screamed and fainted.’
Father Lenoir, who was well aware of his curate’s intensity, gave a wry smile at this, but all he said was, ‘Perhaps he appeared out of the shadows and frightened her.’
‘Perhaps,’ replied Agathe, ‘but I don’t think so. I think she has been hurt by a man, and now any man who comes near her frightens her to death.’ She looked seriously at the priest and added, ‘You would be as horrified as I was if you saw the bruises on that child.’
‘But a street child…’ began Father Lenoir thoughtfully.
‘I don’t believe that she is a street child,’ Agathe said firmly. ‘I don’t know who she is or how she comes to be in the state she’s in, but I’m sure there’s a lot more to what’s going on here than a simple case of a hungry beggar.’
‘And I respect your judgement, Agathe,’ the priest said. ‘Where is she now?’
‘Upstairs in Claudine’s old room, and I hope, asleep.’
‘Then that’s where she’ll stay until the morning when we can talk to her properly. Did she tell you her name?’
‘Hélène.’
‘Hélène? Hélène what?’
‘So far just Hélène,’ replied Agathe. ‘She didn’t give a surname and I didn’t ask her. One thing at a time. She’s a very frightened child.’
‘And how old?’ Father Lenoir knew that there were plenty of child prostitutes in the city and was already wondering if this Hélène was such a one.
‘About eleven, I’d say. Not developed,’ she added as if reading his thoughts and knowing she could never have made such a comment to young Father Thomas.
‘Fair enough,’ said the priest, still wondering if the girl had been sold into prostitution by her parents. ‘We’ll see what she says in the morning.’
*
Hélène woke early from a restless sleep. There were no curtains at the window and the pale light of dawn crept into the room well before the rest of the household was awake. She lay in bed listening to the stillness, the silence of the house. Gradually there were sounds of a new day from outside her window, life awakening in the square below, and Hélène slipped from her bed to go and look out. She found she was on the second storey of the house, from where she had an excellent view of both the square and the street leading into it. A cart was rattling by, laden with barrels on its way to market, an errand boy ran past with a satchel on his back and a tall woman crossed the square, a large basket balanced on her hip. The houses enclosing the square were the homes of the prosperous and the well-to-do. They had steps with railings up to their front doors, polished brass knockers and windows still curtained against the early light. Hélène felt a stab of recognition; she could be looking out of her window in the Avenue Ste Anne. The houses in both were well cared for, the people in the street could be those who passed her house every morning, neighbours going about their business. She felt her heart lift a little. Perhaps she was near home after all. Perhaps the kind woman who had looked after her yesterday could tell her the way to Avenue Ste Anne. To Maman and Papa. Her mind still refused to think of Marie-Jeanne.
She went back to bed and pulled the blankets round her shoulders as she waited for someone to come. Sounds came up from below in the house as the sun rose over the rooftops and the light outside grew stronger. Hélène wanted to be up, but she didn’t dare venture downstairs on her own, she was afraid she might meet the man from the church, so she sat on the bed and waited. All she wanted was to go home.
When the two priests had come back from early Mass and were eating their breakfasts in the dining room, Agathe Sauze went up to the child’s bedroom and quietly opened the door. She discovered Hélène, dressed in the clothes she had found for her last night, sitting patiently on the bed. She got to her feet as the housekeeper came in. In the borrowed clothes which fitted nowhere, she looked even more of a ragamuffin than she had the previous day.
‘Ah, I see you’re awake,’ said Madame Sauze. ‘That’s good, you can come down and have some breakfast now. Are you hungry?’
Hél�
�ne nodded, and Madame said, ‘Good. Let’s go downstairs.’ She paused at the head of the stairs and said, ‘Father Lenoir and Father Thomas will be having their breakfast too. You know you’re in the Clergy House, don’t you? So you must expect to see them and not be frightened.’ Hélène nodded again, but still said nothing. ‘Don’t worry,’ the housekeeper went on, ‘they’ll be in the dining room, you and I will be in the kitchen.’
Settled at the kitchen table, Hélène made short work of the hot chocolate and fresh croissants that Madame Sauze gave her. She felt much better than the day before and even remembered to say ‘Thank you,’ and give a shy smile when Madame refilled her cup. Her politeness reinforced Agathe Sauze’s view that this foundling was not a child of the streets.
‘When you’ve finished that,’ she said as she cleared away the plates to the scullery for the maid-of-all-work, Nina, to wash up, ‘we must go to say good morning to Father Lenoir.’ Ignoring the flash of fear she saw on the girl’s face she went on, ‘He is the priest of this church, and he is very kind. He wants to meet you and you will like him.’
Ten minutes later Agathe was knocking on the door of the priest’s study and when he called to her to come in, she led a very reluctant Hélène firmly by the hand into his room.
‘Good morning, Father,’ said Agathe, as if she had not seen him three times already this day. ‘This is Hélène who we found unwell in the church yesterday.’ She turned to Hélène and prompted, ‘Say good morning to the father, Hélène.’
The child murmured, ‘Good morning, Father.’
The priest smiled at her and replied, ‘Good morning, Hélène. Come and sit down.’
A chair had already been placed in front of his desk and Madame guided her to it before taking a seat in the corner behind her.
‘Now then, my child,’ began the priest, ‘tell me your name.’
‘Hélène,’ came the whispered reply.
‘But that’s not all of it, is it? What is your full name?’
Hélène shifted uncomfortably. ‘Hélène Rosalie St Clair.’
‘And have you any brothers and sisters?’ asked the priest, with the idea of setting her at ease.
It had quite the opposite effect. The colour drained from her face as the sound of Gaston’s questions echoed in her head. How should she answer this time? What answer was this man looking for? She stared at him for a long moment, unable to speak.
‘Hélène?’ came the quiet voice behind her. ‘Father Lenoir’s asking about your family. You can answer him, can’t you?’
As Hélène still didn’t speak the priest tried a different tack. ‘Where do you live, Hélène?’
Still Hélène did not reply and Agathe Sauze said, ‘Yesterday you told me you wanted your mother. How can we find her if we don’t know where you live?’
‘Maman is not there,’ Hélène said. ‘She has gone to the country with Clarice and Louise.’
‘Are they your sisters?’ asked Father Lenoir.
Hélène said nothing, but she nodded and the two adults felt that at last they were making some progress.
‘And your papa?’ Agathe took over the questioning as it was clear that she received answers and the priest did not.
‘He went out,’ Hélène replied.
‘Out? Out where?’
Hélène’s lip began to tremble. ‘I don’t know,’ she whimpered. ‘He didn’t come home.’
‘And where is home?’ asked Agathe, phrasing the question slightly differently.
‘I can’t go home,’ Hélène said. ‘He might come back!’
Now they were confused. ‘Who might come back? Your father?’
‘He shot Marie-Jeanne.’
‘Who did?’ demanded the priest, all subtlety gone. ‘Who is Marie-Jeanne and who shot her? Your father?’
In answer Hélène began to cry, tears sliding silently down her cheeks and the priest looked across at Madame Sauze in frustration. ‘This is hopeless,’ he said. ‘We’re getting nowhere. Is the child deranged? Why does she not answer a simple question when I ask her?’
Agathe thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps it’s because you’re a man.’
‘But I am a priest!’ he answered hotly.
‘Yes, Father, but you are also a man. And I think she is afraid of men.’ She nodded towards the girl who still sat on the chair facing the priest at the desk, with her back to the housekeeper. ‘You remember I told you of injuries.’
The priest looked puzzled for a minute and then nodded his understanding. ‘Well, Hélène,’ he said, ‘why don’t you go back into the kitchen with Madame Sauze and see if you can help her there. I’m sure there are some jobs you’re able to do for her.’
‘I want to go home,’ Hélène said, her voice breaking on a sob.
‘Of course you do,’ cut in Madame Sauze before the priest could speak again, ‘but your clothes have been washed and they aren’t dry yet. When they are and we’ve mended the tears, we’ll see what we can do about getting you back to Maman and…’ She had been about to say Papa, when she caught herself. It could be that Papa was the man who had abused her so badly. The man she thought had shot Marie-Jeanne, whoever Marie-Jeanne was. ‘Come along now, Father Lenoir has work to do and we must let him get on.’ She got to her feet and held out her hand. Hélène took it, like a small child might, and together they left the room. At the door Agathe Sauze glanced back at the priest who shrugged his shoulders as if to say, ‘it’s up to you’.
17
Rosalie almost snatched the envelope from Pierre’s hand and ripping it open, extracted the single sheet of paper. She cast a quick eye over it and Pierre watched as the colour drained from her face. Without looking at him she read the letter again, more slowly this time, and then gave a moan of anguish.
For a moment Pierre thought she was going to faint. He reached out a hand to steady her as she sank down onto a bench as if her legs could no longer support her. Then she raised her eyes to him.
‘Is this really true?’ she whispered. ‘Has Hélène disappeared? Is Marie-Jeanne really dead? Tell me. Tell me what happened.’
Quietly, Pierre told Rosalie all they knew, all they had been able to discover from Arlette, and what they could piece together from the evidence in the house.
‘We have searched everywhere we could think of in case Miss Hélène had run away too, and was in hiding, waiting for her father to come home.’
‘But you can’t find her,’ Rosalie said flatly. ‘And Marie-Jeanne? Where is poor Marie-Jeanne?’
‘She was taken to the church last night, madame, and was buried this morning. I have come from her funeral.’
Rosalie closed her eyes and crossed herself, murmuring, ‘May she rest in peace.’ Beloved Marie-Jeanne who had been her nurse and nurse to all her children, murdered to protect one of them. And, it seemed, died in vain.
After a moment’s silence she asked, ‘Where is my husband now?’
‘He has ridden to Versailles to find Lieutenant St Clair. He thinks he’ll be able to help in the search for Miss Hélène. He sent me here with this letter, to break the news of what has happened.’
‘He should have come himself,’ Rosalie said bitterly.
Though Pierre thought so too, he said, ‘He was anxious to find Lieutenant St Clair as soon as possible and he thought he should stay in Paris in case Miss Hélène came home.’
Rosalie drew a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. ‘Well, Pierre,’ she said as she got to her feet, ‘we shall take the next train back.’
‘Madame,’ Pierre said, ‘Monsieur was most insistent that you should stay here in St Etienne.’
‘Was he?’ snapped Rosalie. ‘That’s too bad. How can I stay here when my daughter is lost in Paris?’
‘Monsieur needs to know that you and the children are safe here.’
‘The children are safe here, whether I am with them or not. Mademoiselle Corbine is perfectly able to look after them…’ Her voice trailed off as a thought slid, unbidden
, into her mind; she had thought the same about Marie-Jeanne and Hélène, and she shook her head as if to dislodge the unwelcome thought. Tears welled in her eyes and she dashed them away. There was no time for tears. Now she had to be strong.
‘I have already left them with Mademoiselle,’ she said. ‘I was here at the station on my way back to Paris, to find out what was going on. The train is due any minute now.’
Pierre tried once more to dissuade her, but she said, ‘My mind is made up, Pierre.’
Night had fallen when they arrived in the Avenue Ste Anne. The house stood in darkness, along with so many of its neighbours.
‘I have a key to the coach gate, madame,’ Pierre said as he handed her down from the fiacre that had brought them from the station. Together they walked round to the stable yard, where they found, to Pierre’s surprise, that the gate was unlocked.
‘Emile must be back,’ Rosalie said as she pushed past him into the yard.
‘Wait, madame,’ Pierre whispered. ‘It may not be him. I will go in and see who is there. Please, madame, wait here.’ Leaving her hidden in the stables, he crossed the yard and quietly opened the back door. He felt for and lit the stub of candle that always stood ready just inside. As the flickering flame took hold, the shadows jumped around him and Pierre paused. He wasn’t armed but as he crept through the kitchen, he caught up a knife from the block and with knife in one hand and candle in the other, he stole quietly into the house.
Emile, sitting, silent, in the unlit drawing room, heard the back door open, the rasp of the match and the cautious footsteps. He picked up the pistol that lay by his hand and walked into the hall to confront the intruder.
The street lamp, shining in through the fanlight above the front door, gave the hall a pale, eerie light, by which he could make out the entrance to the kitchen passageway.
He saw the flickering light in the doorway and raising his pistol shouted, ‘Stop! Or I fire!’
Children of the Siege Page 17
