Children of the Siege

by Diney Costeloe

  ‘You can go and sit with him until he wakes up,’ he said to Hélène. ‘The nurse will be close by and when he does wake, you must call for her and me immediately.’

  Hélène found Georges asleep in the bed, his face pale and his breathing ragged. At first she could not drag her eyes away from the blanket that covered him, the flatness where half his left leg should be. She drew a chair up to the bed and took his hand in her own. She would wait there until he awoke when he would have to learn that he now only had one leg.

  The next few days were quite dreadful. Georges awoke to find himself a cripple. His missing leg still ached and he sank into a slough of despond. Nothing Hélène or anyone else could say could raise his spirits. His physical recovery was proceeding as Dr Simon had hoped, the gangrene which had been creeping up his injured leg had been removed, and provided there was no further infection there was no reason, Dr Simon said, that he shouldn’t make a full recovery. Privately, though, he was worried about the young man’s mental state.

  ‘But how will he walk?’ Hélène had asked.

  ‘We will make him a new leg of wood,’ replied the doctor. ‘Other soldiers who have lost a leg have learned to walk with these.’

  ‘I’d rather have died than been left like this,’ Georges told her bitterly, ‘a cripple, beholden to everyone for everything.’

  Once peace of some sort was restored to the city, Hélène wrote a letter to her parents, telling them that she and Georges were, at present, living with Dr Simon.

  Georges has been injured and has had to have his leg cut off. He is very sad, but Dr Simon said if he had not had this operation he would have died. I am well now and will tell you everything when I see you. Please, dearest Maman and Papa, will you come and fetch us as soon as you can.

  Marcel was here, but we haven’t seen him since Paris fell and we don’t know where he is now.

  After the first few days Georges said, ‘Hélène, I want you to write a letter to Sylvie for me. Remember I was going to take you to her when…’

  His voice trailed off and Hélène said, ‘Of course I remember, she’s the girl you’re going to marry.’

  ‘Not any more,’ said Georges flatly. ‘I’m not going to let her tie herself to a cripple with only one leg.’

  ‘That’s stupid,’ Hélène said roundly. ‘If she loves you she’ll want to marry you even if you have lost a leg.’

  ‘Don’t argue with me, you’re only a child!’ snapped Georges. ‘You wouldn’t understand and in any case, it’s none of your business.’

  Hélène looked shocked. ‘Poor Georges,’ she whispered, trying to imagine what he was going through. She took his hands in hers and looking him in the eye, said, ‘I may be a child, Georges,’ she said softly, ‘but I still think you should tell her what has happened to you and let her make up her own mind. Do you think we won’t love you anymore because you’ve lost a leg?’

  Georges gave a sad laugh. ‘No, of course not, but you’re family. You have to put up with me, but I just couldn’t bear it if Sylvie married me out of pity!’

  Reluctantly Hélène wrote to his dictation, telling Sylvie Claviet that he no longer wished to marry her. He gave no explanation, fearing her pity, he simply told her he had changed his mind.

  ‘Won’t you tell her why?’ Hélène tried again.

  ‘No,’ replied Georges fiercely and the subject was closed.

  One of Georges’s brother officers came to see him and agreed to have the two letters sent as soon as it was feasible. There was still plenty of confusion in the city, but he promised to send someone as soon as he could. He took the letters and was just leaving the house when Hélène followed him outside and handed him another.

  ‘This is for Mademoiselle Sylvie as well,’ she said. The man took the second letter, addressed to Sylvie Claviet in the same childish hand as the one to St Etienne, and put it in his pouch with the others. ‘I just want her to know I’m here looking after Georges,’ she lied. And the man smiled and nodded.

  ‘Don’t worry, mademoiselle, I’ll make sure she gets it.’

  30

  Rosalie was in the garden picking roses for the house when the messenger arrived at St Etienne. Anne-Marie the housemaid came running out to find her.

  ‘Madame, please come at once,’ she cried, her face red with excitement. ‘A soldier has come from Paris with a letter.’

  Rosalie dropped her basket and almost ran back indoors, calling over her shoulder, ‘Where’s Monsieur St Clair, Anne-Marie? Find him at once and tell him I need him in the morning parlour.’

  The soldier was waiting in the hall and as Rosalie reached him, she said, ‘A letter? You’ve brought us a letter. Is it from my son, Captain St Clair? Give it to me, quickly please.’

  The man handed over the letter, saying, ‘I believe it’s from your daughter, madame.’

  ‘My daughter,’ breathed Rosalie, and looking at the envelope saw that it was indeed addressed in Hélène’s handwriting. At that moment Emile came in.

  ‘What is the matter, my dear?’ he said briskly. ‘I’m talking to Patrice about the orchard and—’

  ‘Never mind about Patrice and the orchard,’ Rosalie cried. ‘This man has brought us a letter… from Hélène. She’s alive!’ She passed him the envelope and he ripped it open. He sank into a chair as he read it and then passed it over to his wife.

  Rosalie read it through twice before saying, ‘We must go at once!’

  ‘And they were both well when you left them?’ Emile said, turning to the soldier.

  ‘As far as I know, sir,’ replied the man. ‘I didn’t actually see the captain, I was simply ordered to bring you this letter.’

  Emile summoned Anne-Marie and told her to take the messenger into the kitchen and make sure he had a proper meal before he went on his way.

  ‘Well, my dear,’ he said when they were alone again, ‘what amazing news is this!’

  Rosalie could hardly believe that two of her children had survived the dreadful fighting in Paris; that they were safe and living with the doctor. She wept tears of joy and Emile found himself fighting back tears of his own. He had long ago accepted the fact that Hélène was lost to them, and now here she was, writing to tell them about Georges being wounded and asking them to come and fetch them both. What on earth had happened to her? Where had she been all this time?

  ‘You must tell Pierre to prepare the chaise at once,’ Rosalie said. ‘If Georges is injured we must bring him back here to be nursed and he cannot travel on the train. And Hélène! My darling girl, my darling, darling girl. She’s alive!’ The tears streamed down her cheeks and she clasped Emile’s hands. ‘Oh, Emile!’

  They set out for Paris that very afternoon, Pierre driving them in the chaise, a basket of provisions tucked under the seat for when they arrived. They left the two girls in St Etienne with Mademoiselle Corbine and travelled alone. Clarice and Louise had jumped for joy at the news and begged to be allowed to accompany their parents, but Rosalie had learned her lesson. No other daughter of hers was going to be brought into a city still on the edge of civil war.

  ‘We’ll bring them back here to St Etienne as soon as we can,’ she promised. ‘We shan’t be away long.’

  ‘You will come home again, Maman, won’t you?’ Louise asked anxiously.

  ‘Of course I will,’ replied her mother. ‘The fighting in Paris has stopped now and we’ll be back in a few days.’

  They stopped overnight at an inn on the way, but were up at cock crow the next morning to carry on their journey back into Paris. This time there was no National Guard on the gates to question their reasons for travelling or to confiscate their horse.

  Once they reached the Avenue Ste Anne they went straight to the doctor’s house where they found Hélène, sitting with Georges, reading to him. Madame Yvette led them into the room and Hélène gave a shriek and, dropping the book, rushed into her mother’s arms. Rosalie held her tightly, as if she would never let her go.

  Emile c
rossed to the bed where Georges lay, his face pale and pinched. ‘My dear boy,’ he said, reaching for his hands. ‘Thank God you’re alive.’

  ‘Only just, Papa,’ Georges replied, as he watched his mother and Hélène weeping as they clung together. ‘Crippled for life. What use is a one-legged man? I might as well be dead.’

  Emile looked down at him, his eyes full of compassion. ‘Never say that, Georges,’ he said. ‘Never, ever, say that.’

  When Dr Simon came home he drew Rosalie aside and said, ‘Your daughter has had some dreadful experiences since she was taken. She’s an extremely brave and resourceful child, but she may find it difficult to speak of them. Try not to overwhelm her with questions. Let her tell you what happened to her in her own good time. It may take days or weeks for it all to come out.’ He gave a sigh. ‘I haven’t asked her, but I know she has nightmares. I’ve heard her crying out in the night. So, I know it’ll be difficult, but let her take her time telling you.’

  Rosalie took his advice and asked no questions, but talking to Georges when she was alone with him, she learned much of what had happened to Hélène and was horrified. She also asked about Marcel. ‘Have you seen him? Where is he now?’ she asked eagerly. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘I don’t know, Maman,’ answered Georges. He was unwilling to tell her that Marcel had deserted the army and fought for the Commune, so he simply said, ‘But I do know that he did all he could for Hélène and if he hadn’t found me and brought me here, I’d be dead now.’

  It was going to take far longer than a few days, but they were able to send another message to the family waiting in St Etienne to say that they were with Georges and Hélène and that all was well.

  Hélène stayed at the doctor’s house with Georges, but her parents went to their own home in the Avenue Ste Anne. Rosalie was extremely reluctant to enter the house where Marie-Jeanne had been killed and Hélène had been abducted, but they had nowhere else to go. The front door was still barred and they had to enter the house through the stable yard and back door. It was cold and still and she felt it was filled with the miasma of death.

  In the hall, they found Marcel’s letter and learned what Georges had not told them.

  ‘That’s a disgrace!’ Emile had retorted. ‘How could a son of mine have deserted? We shall never be able to hold up our heads again!’

  ‘And I’m proud that a son of mine was prepared to fight for what he thought was right!’ declared Rosalie.

  ‘But we can’t receive him back into the family,’ Emile said. ‘A Communard!’

  ‘If he’s still alive, I will always welcome my son home,’ Rosalie said defiantly. ‘Communard or not.’ She held Emile’s gaze, her eyes challenging. ‘Have you forgotten that he’s been taking care of Hélène? That he rescued Georges and got him to Dr Simon? I will never forget those things, even if you do.’

  ‘Even if he wasn’t killed on the barricades, he’s almost certainly dead,’ Emile said flatly. ‘They’ve been shooting the Communard prisoners.’

  ‘I know that,’ Rosalie said quietly, ‘and if he’s dead, he died for what he believed in. No one will know he turned his coat, unless you tell them, Emile. Georges must have known and he’s saying nothing. We should say nothing, too.’

  Dr Simon told them it would be some weeks before Georges would be fit to be moved. Arrangements needed to be made, a suitable, competent nurse had to be found and hired, and a downstairs room prepared for Georges’s habitation.

  31

  Hélène spoke little about what had happened to her, and following Dr Simon’s advice, Rosalie did not push her. Emile was less sensitive and it wasn’t until his wife took him severely to task that he drew back.

  ‘Emile, the child has been through a terrible ordeal. She still has nightmares, she still wakes up screaming; you’ve heard her! Just leave her for now and let her memories fade.’

  ‘But we must find those men, the ones who invaded our home…’ blustered Emile, his anger reddening his cheeks. ‘They murdered Marie-Jeanne, for God’s sake, as well as abducting Hélène.’

  ‘I know, but they will have to wait. We can do nothing for Marie-Jeanne and our priority now must be Hélène.’

  ‘But they must be brought to justice,’ persisted Emile.

  ‘That justice is as nothing,’ returned Rosalie. ‘Nothing compared with the harm they did to our daughter. If Jeannot hadn’t found—’

  ‘That tyke!’ interrupted Emile. ‘He knows more than he’s saying. We should…’

  ‘So please, Emile,’ went on Rosalie, entirely ignoring his interruption, ‘don’t question Hélène any more. We can do nothing about those who harmed her, all we can do is give her the space to heal.’

  Even so, more snippets of Hélène’s ordeal came out over the next few days, Dr Simon filling in the parts that he knew, and it was when she heard of the kindness Madame Sauze had shown Hélène that Rosalie felt she must act.

  ‘I think we ought to let Madame Sauze know that you’re safely back with your family,’ she said to Hélène one morning over breakfast. ‘I thought we might go to the Clergy House and thank her for her care.’

  ‘She put me in the orphanage,’ said Hélène flatly. ‘She didn’t let me stay.’

  ‘I doubt if that was her decision to make,’ Rosalie replied gently. ‘It wasn’t appropriate for you to stay in the Clergy House and you needed somewhere safe to live, off the streets.’

  ‘I hated it there!’ said Hélène mutinously.

  ‘I know, darling,’ said her mother, reaching for her hand, ‘but it was the best place for you in the circumstances.’ She got to her feet. ‘We’ll pay her a visit this morning and tell her that you’re well and thank her for looking after you as she did.’

  Even as they approached the door of the Clergy House, it opened and Father Thomas came out into the street. For a moment he stared at the mother and daughter on the pavement outside without recognition, but at the sight of him, Hélène stepped back behind her mother.

  ‘Good morning, Father,’ Rosalie said with a smile.

  ‘Good morning, madame,’ he responded uncertainly. He was impressed by this elegant woman, clearly a lady of class, and wondered why she was calling.

  ‘Is Madame Sauze at home?’ Rosalie asked as if asking for the mistress of the house.

  ‘Madame Sauze?’ The young priest sounded surprised and added, ‘Father Lenoir is in his study, but I cannot say for sure if the housekeeper,’ he emphasised her standing, ‘is in the house or has gone to the market.’ He straightened his back, determined not to be daunted by this woman. ‘But perhaps I may be of assistance?’

  ‘I’d rather not discuss things on your doorstep, Father,’ Rosalie said firmly, ‘and it is Madame Sauze we’ve come to see.’ She stepped forward and Father Thomas gave way, opening the front door again and standing aside for her, and the child behind her, to enter the house. As he did so he had his first real look at the girl who followed her in. She was prettily dressed, her dark hair parted neatly down the middle and caught back in a clasp at the nape of her neck before waterfalling in shining curls down her back, and her skin glowed with good health. The expression on her face, however, was one of pure loathing, and it was that look in her eyes that brought recognition to his. He looked away, entirely disconcerted. Surely this well-dressed girl with the glossy hair couldn’t be the street urchin they’d put into St Luke’s? She’d been filthy, dressed in rags, spouting lies in the hope of being kept at the Clergy House. Madame Sauze had been taken in, and so too had Father Lenoir to a certain extent, but he, Father Thomas, had not been so gullible. And now? And now he was faced with an upper-class lady, with that same child in tow, coming to visit them. Had she come to thank them for befriending her daughter – for the girl clearly was her daughter, with the same brown eyes under lids with impossibly long lashes, the same high cheekbones, the same sculpted lips – or had she come to complain of their treatment of her, to berate them for putting the girl into St Luke’s
and thus seeming to abandon her, their charitable work done, another vulnerable girl off the streets?

  Well, he decided with a mental shrug, whichever it is, Father Lenoir will have to deal with it. He, after all, is the parish priest. I’m only his curate, bound by his decisions.

  ‘I will tell Father Lenoir you’re here, madame,’ he said. ‘Whom shall I say is calling?’

  ‘Madame Rosalie St Clair and her daughter Hélène.’

  They were shown into the priest’s study where Father Lenoir greeted them with a hand raised in blessing, before they were both offered seats before his desk.

  ‘I’ve come to thank you and Madame Sauze for taking my daughter in when she found herself distressed and living on the streets,’ Rosalie said.

  ‘It was nothing, madame,’ he remarked calmly. ‘Just our simple Christian duty. No child of her age should be left to fend for herself. It was most unfortunate that we couldn’t make contact with you at the time. I can assure you it wasn’t for lack of trying,’ he spread his hands, ‘but the tempestuous state of Paris made it impossible.’

  ‘We quite understand, Father,’ Rosalie interposed. ‘My husband and I would like to make an endowment to your church as a sign of our gratitude.’

  ‘That is most generous, madame,’ declared the priest, ‘and something I feel able to accept on behalf of Our Lord.’

  Rosalie smiled. ‘Then it will be arranged,’ she said. ‘Now, before we go I would like to see Madame Sauze, if I may.’

  She got to her feet and Father Lenoir, opening the door, called out, ‘Annette! Annette! Where are you, girl?’

  To Hélène’s amazement, Annette, the bread thief, appeared from the kitchen. The two girls stared at each other for a moment before the priest said testily, ‘Annette, please show Madame St Clair and her daughter into the parlour and then ask Madame Sauze to join them there.’ He turned back to Rosalie and said, ‘If you will excuse me, madame, I have parish business to attend to, but do stay with Madame Sauze for as long as you please.’ Once again he raised his hand but didn’t offer it, before turning back into his study and closing the door.