Children of the Siege

by Diney Costeloe

  ‘My dear, I don’t know,’ replied Agathe. And she didn’t. Why had they left the city while their daughter was missing?

  ‘So, can I go to St Etienne today?’ asked Hélène hopefully. ‘I know it takes a long time in a coach, ’cos we took days coming in through the snow, but now the trains are running again, it’ll be quicker.’

  ‘We’ll have to see how we can get you home,’ Agathe prevaricated. ‘In the meantime, I’m afraid you can’t stay here…’

  ‘The nasty priest won’t let me,’ Hélène stated.

  ‘I’m afraid it isn’t suitable for the priests to have you here,’ Agathe began.

  ‘But you don’t mind, do you? Just until I can go to find Maman and Papa?’

  There was such simplicity in the question that it made Agathe want to weep. ‘It isn’t a question of what I want,’ she said. ‘This isn’t my house, I only work here.’

  ‘But you live here too,’ Hélène pointed out. ‘Can’t I stay with you until I can go to St Etienne?’

  ‘No, my dearest child, I’m afraid you can’t. I’m going to take you to a safe place to live until we can find your parents and get in touch with them, so that they can come and fetch you.’

  ‘What safe place?’ demanded Hélène. ‘Why can’t you get my parents straight away? I’ve told you where they are, now.’

  And if only you’d told us when we first found you instead of refusing to answer any questions, you’d be back with them now, thought Agathe, but she didn’t put her thought into words. There was no point in upsetting the child any further.

  ‘The trouble is,’ she said carefully, ‘we need to get a message to your parents, to tell them where you are, and that may take time. Until we can do that and hear back from them, you need to be somewhere safe.’

  ‘But I’m safe here!’ Hélène’s voice became a childish wail.

  ‘I’m sorry, but it’s not appropriate for you to stay here,’ Agathe said.

  ‘So where am I going?’

  ‘I’m taking you to St Luke’s,’ replied Agathe.

  ‘What’s St Luke’s?’ asked Hélène suspiciously.

  ‘It’s a home that looks after children who have nowhere else to live,’ answered Agathe, getting to her feet and holding out her hand. ‘Now, come along, my dear, it’s time we left. I have to be back to get the fathers their luncheon.’

  Hélène didn’t move. ‘It’s an orphanage,’ she said flatly.

  ‘There are orphans who live there,’ conceded Agathe. ‘But there are other children as well, children who only stay there for a short while, until they can go home again. Children like you.’

  Ignoring Agathe’s outstretched hand, Hélène stood and walked out of the room. In the hall she met Father Thomas coming out of the dining room and she stopped dead. He paused, looking her up and down, a look of surprise on his face. In her clean clothes, with her hair washed and neatly plaited, she looked nothing like the child he had found in the church three days ago, but even so he wasn’t pleased that she was still in the house. As Agathe followed her into the hall, Father Thomas turned to her and said, ‘I thought Father Lenoir told you to take this… person… to the orphanage, Madame Sauze. Why haven’t you done so?’

  Agathe Sauze could hardly contain her anger. ‘Even you, Father, must allow her some breakfast first. It’s the Christian thing to do.’ And with this sally she took Hélène by the hand and led her up the stairs, leaving the young priest standing, scandalised, in the front hall.

  Father Lenoir emerged from the dining room behind him and speaking very softly, said, ‘In future, Father Thomas, I’ll thank you not to interfere with matters that don’t concern you.’

  The young man’s face reddened at the reprimand. ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ he stammered. ‘It was only my intention to—’

  ‘The way to hell is paved with good intentions, my son,’ said the older priest. ‘It is a saying worthy of your attention.’

  As Agathe led her through the streets, Hélène’s brain was working overtime, considering feverishly whether she could make a run for it, race off down a side street before they reached this St Luke’s place, wherever it was. If she did, Madame Sauze would never catch up with her, she would be free again, in the city, but with nowhere safe to go. She didn’t know her way back home, though she was sure she could get there in the end, but Madame had said it was closed up. There’d be no one there, and the Gaston-man might come for her again; after all, he knew where she lived. But if she didn’t go home where else could she go? She could try and find Jeannot, but she only had the vaguest idea of where he’d taken her when they met up with Paul and the Monkey, and she remembered the sounds of the fight, of Jeannot shouting at her, and didn’t even know for sure that he had escaped. She still hadn’t made up her mind what to do when they rounded a corner and Madame Sauze led her to a pair of heavy wooden double doors set in a high, grey stone wall. Hélène looked in dismay at the blank face of the forbidding building. Surely Madame wasn’t going to leave her here? Panic rose in her chest and she took a step backwards, but Madame took a firm hold of her arm before she could break away. One half of the door opened almost at once and a small nun looked out at them. Seeing Madame Sauze, the nun stepped aside to let them enter. Hélène looked over her shoulder for a last glimpse of the busy street outside before the door closed behind her with a heavy thud. She knew now her chance of escape had gone. She had left it too late.

  21

  Marcel St Clair had been accepted into the National Guard and had been assigned to a troop who were on duty in the Place Vendôme. He had not been there on the fateful day when the guards had opened fire on the Friends of Order who were demanding peace, and for that he was grateful. He had no wish to open fire on ordinary citizens, even ones who seemed to be challenging the National Guard. After what was being called ‘the massacre’ in the Rue de la Paix, the mood of the city had changed to one of edgy anxiety. Marcel’s corps of guards were now patrolling the city walls, checking who was passing, both in and out, through the gates, watching for anything or anyone suspicious, on the lookout for army spies.

  When the elected national government had left Paris for Versailles, organisation in the city had disintegrated. The Central Committee had called its own elections and as soon as they’d been held, proclaimed themselves a Commune. The newly elected members were installed in the vacated Hôtel de Ville. News of the Commune was greeted by the underclass of Paris with delight. Crowds gathered outside the Hôtel de Ville in the spring sunshine to hear the official proclamation, to cheer the battalions of the National Guard as they marched past, to hear the bands play, to sing ‘La Marseillaise’, to cry ‘Vive la Commune!’ It was a new era! Now the workers could take hold of power and everything would change. It had been a day of rejoicing, a day of hope, but the joy had been short-lived. The proclamation was virtually a declaration of war with the government, and the threat of civil strife loomed large.

  Despite the jubilation, it was not long before things began to go wrong for the Communards. They were disorganised, with many dissident groups each with its own agenda, and some out to settle private scores. Overall control rested with men who, though full of revolutionary fervour, were ill-equipped to lead such a disparate group and soon the Communards were falling out with each other over what should be done. One of its first actions was to repeal the rent act, the act that insisted back rent from the time of the siege must be paid to landlords, and this was greeted with delight. The abolition of conscription to the regular French army was popular, but its replacement, that all the able-bodied men must join the National Guard, was far less so, and quietly, more of the middle classes began to disappear from the city.

  Already now a National Guardsman, Marcel was promoted to corporal and then sergeant as his experience was clear, and he and his men were moved out to patrol the wall from the Porte d’Auteuil to the Porte Dauphine. It was a section of the wall near the Avenue Ste Anne, and though he was not prepared to go there and announ
ce his return to his family, he found, as the days passed, that he wanted just a sight of the house which had been his childhood home.

  When his men were relieved one afternoon and he had some time to himself, he set out for the Avenue Ste Anne. The street was quiet, just a few people going about their daily business. He was unrecognised, his uniform ensuring that no one queried what he was doing there; people hurried past him, eyes averted. It wasn’t safe these days to come to the attention of the National Guard and this suited Marcel extremely well. He passed by the front of the house and seeing the shuttered windows and the boarded up front door, he paused for a moment wondering what had happened. Then turning the corner and walking down the lane, he glanced up at the back of the house. Here too the windows were shuttered and when he tried the gates he was unsurprised to find them locked. Clearly the family had left the house and were, as he’d hoped, safely at St Etienne. Marcel cast a quick glance down the narrow lane that served as a carriage entrance to several of the houses on that side of the avenue, most of which were also shuttered and closed. The lane was empty and so, unobserved, he hoisted himself up and over the wall, dropping down into the stable yard beyond. A quick glance into the stables and coach house reassured him that his family had left and he heaved a sigh of relief. He tried the kitchen entrance to the house, but the door was locked and he had no key. He went back into the stables and climbed the ladder that led to the hayloft and the two small rooms that were Pierre’s domain. Though some of Pierre’s possessions were still there, it was clear that the place hadn’t been used for several days. There was a single bed, unmade, heaped with blankets and a pillow, a table and chair, a dirty plate, a knife and fork and a half-full glass of water. A bowl and jug stood on top of the chest set under the tiny dusty window, the drawers of which contained some underclothes. It seemed to Marcel that Pierre had left in something of a hurry, but that he did expect to be coming back. In the meantime, Marcel thought, he could make good use of the place. He looked about him with satisfaction. He had already decided that when things got too hot in the city he might need a refuge. The war between the Versailles government and the Commune was only a matter of time, he knew, and if he should need a bolthole, Pierre’s loft would serve very well.

  He went back down to the yard and walked through into the garden. It was clear that this had not been tended for some long time. Crossing to the garden gate that gave onto the lane, he unlocked it and pocketed the key. It would be far better to slip in and out through the small gate than to leave the main gates unlocked or hoist himself over the wall every time he wanted to come here. He would provide himself with some provisions and move his few possessions in here. Maybe, later, he’d break into the house and collect stuff from his old bedroom and a few creature comforts.

  *

  Since his parents had finally left, Georges St Clair had kept a watchful eye on the family home. The boarded front door was undisturbed, but whenever he was in Paris he would pass by, just in case there was any sign of Hélène having returned. What would she do if she got home and found nobody there? He had put the word out that his sister had been abducted and was still missing, but he’d heard nothing back and was beginning to accept that after so long there was little chance of finding her alive. His undercover work for General Vinoy prevented him from organising any real search for her, but at least much of the time now he was within the city walls and not stuck outside at Versailles with the rest of his corps.

  When Georges had heard how the last few government ministers had made their strategic withdrawal from the Hôtel de Ville to Versailles through an underground tunnel, it reminded him of something, something from his childhood that he thought would interest his commanding officer, General Vinoy.

  It was a school friend of his, Martin Dupont, who had once mentioned that there was an old tunnel from the cellar of his house in a street just inside the wall near the Porte d’Auteuil. It led, he said, to somewhere on the outside, but he didn’t know where. Maybe somewhere in the Bois?

  ‘It was used in the Revolution as a way to get aristos out of the city before they met Madame la Guillotine,’ he said. ‘D’you want to see it?’

  Georges certainly did and the two boys had crept down into the cellar to have a look.

  ‘We have to be quiet,’ whispered Martin. ‘If my father knew I was showing you, we’d both get a leathering.’

  The cellar was in two parts and Martin led the way to the back section. ‘Under here,’ he said, pointing down at the flagged floor. ‘That stone in the middle lifts up.’

  It wasn’t as heavy as it looked, being sliced thinner than those about it. Together they heaved on the ring set into its centre, managing to raise the stone and slide it sideways. Both boys peered down into the dark hole it revealed.

  ‘There’s rungs set into the wall,’ Martin said, ‘so’s you can climb down.’

  ‘Have you been down?’ asked Georges.

  ‘Yes, just to the bottom,’ Martin answered. ‘It’s like the bottom of a well and from there it runs sideways, under the wall.’

  ‘Shall we look?’

  Martin shook his head vehemently. ‘No,’ he said, ‘it isn’t safe. My father says it’s nearly a hundred years old and the roof could collapse at any time. Anyway,’ he added as a relieved afterthought, ‘we’d need a lamp, so we can’t.’

  ‘A good escape route though,’ Georges said as they slid the stone back across the opening.

  The secret of that tunnel was a secret worth knowing and Georges wondered if it could still be used. When the army was ordered out to Versailles, Georges had taken the secret to General Vinoy and was immediately sent to explore.

  When he reached the Dupont house there was no sign of occupation; like so many others it was closed up.

  The family must have left the city, thought Georges as he surveyed the shuttered house. But it should be easy enough to break in.

  So it proved, and armed with a lantern, Georges went down into the cellar to open the tunnel. He peered into the darkness, and then feeling for the rungs of the iron ladder with his feet, he climbed down. Martin’s father need not have feared collapse; the tunnel, though damp underfoot and smelling very musty, showed no signs of subsidence. Holding the lantern in front of him, he began to edge his way along. It was so narrow in places that Georges had to turn sideways to squeeze through, and in others the roof dipped so low he had to crouch, but the passage continued in front of him for what he judged to be well over two hundred metres until he found himself standing in a circular space similar to the one he had climbed down to at the other end. He raised his lantern and saw there were iron rungs set into the stonework, and hooking the lantern onto his belt he climbed up until his head came against the top. Feeling with his fingers he realised that it was not stone above him this end, but wood, a wooden trapdoor of some sort. Martin had said the tunnel came out somewhere in the Bois, but where? In the open? In another cellar? Would he be seen coming out? It was, he decided, a risk he would have to take, and bending forward, he put his shoulders against the wood above him and pushed. At first he couldn’t move it, but by stepping down and then pushing upward again several times, he felt it shift a little. He heaved at it again and again, until all of a sudden it lifted and he felt a draught of cold air on his face. He eased the wood away and climbed out to find he was still enclosed in a circle of stone. Above him, silhouetted against the moonlit sky, was a winding handle and a small wooden roof, and he realised he was standing at the bottom of a dry well. Clearly it had not held water since the tunnel had been dug from its floor. It was dark outside and Georges doused his lantern before emerging into the night. He could only hope its light hadn’t been seen as he’d raised the trapdoor.

  He hauled himself up over the well’s stone parapet and found himself in an overgrown garden. The shell of a house stood in the pale moonlight, stark against the night sky, but there seemed to be no other buildings close by. He left the lantern inside the well and once his eyes became accust
omed to the darkness, Georges made his way through the garden, pushing through brambles, weeds and shrubs that had run wild. The house was derelict, its windows without glass, its roof open to the sky. No one had lived here for years, and he presumed the secret of its well was long forgotten. Having established exactly where he had emerged, Georges returned to the well and closing the trapdoor over his head made his way back through the tunnel to the Dupont house.

  He returned to General Vinoy who was delighted with the information. The army now had a back door into Paris; too small for the movement of troops, but perfect for the introduction of spies. Georges, now promoted to captain, had been permanently seconded to the general from then on and had been coming and going through the tunnel ever since. The house at the far end had been put under army observation so that no one should discover the secret of the well by accident, but when entering or emerging from the Dupont house within the walls of Paris, Georges had to take his chances.

  Last night, Georges had been out to Versailles to report the placement of the guards on the city walls and had just returned. As always he walked slowly past the St Clairs’ house, casting a sideway glance at the boarded front door, but nothing seemed to have changed. He’d heard nothing from his parents since they had, he assumed, arrived at St Etienne more than two weeks ago. He wasn’t worried about that as all communication was fraught these days and many letters never reached their destination; he had no news for them either. He walked down the alley to the porte cochère, still chained with a padlock, and he was about to turn away when he noticed that the small gate set into the garden wall was not quite closed.

  Was someone in the garden, some intruder trying to break into the house? Georges drew the pistol that he carried tucked into his belt and gently pushed the gate a little wider. He expected to hear the familiar creak it always made, but it moved silently and Georges realised that its hinges must have been oiled. Who would break into the garden and then oil the hinges?