I stepped into the boat.
Jeremy was beside me.
I turned to say good-bye. “I shall bless you all my life,” I said.
“Let us hope that I continue to enjoy those blessings for a very long time,” he answered.
Smith was standing on the shingle.
Jeremy said: “Well, let us be off.”
I looked at him wondering: “You …”
He said: “Smith will take the horses back. Of course I’m coming with you.”
I felt a great singing in my heart, an excitement such as I had never known before.
I wanted to turn to him, to tell him what this meant to me.
I looked at his face, stern, taciturn, expressing nothing but his disapproval of my folly in wanting to attempt this desperate adventure.
I quickly realised that I could never have done it without him.
He spoke fluent French, and that forbidding manner of his, with the suggestion of good breeding which accompanied it, forbade questions.
Sometimes we spent the night at inns where he demanded comfortable accommodation for himself and his niece and servant, and invariably we got it. If there was only one room I had it, and he and the man he called Jacques would spend the night in the inn parlour. We had to make various stops because in spite of my determination and my renewed strength I could not travel too far—or at least he would not allow me to. If I wanted to go on he would remind me of my promise of obedience, and he was not the sort of man it was easy to disobey.
That journey did something for us both. He smiled now and then; as for myself I was amazed at what I could do. I did not tire half as easily as Jeremy insisted that I did. I did not need all the care he was giving me.
I could not understand myself. The listlessness had dropped from me. Every morning when I awoke I was aware of an excitement.
“How many miles to Paris?” I would ask.
And it was wonderful to know the distance was diminishing.
I began to wonder about myself. How ill had I been since I could make this recovery? Perhaps it had not really been that I was not well enough to go about meeting people and live a normal healthy life so much as that I did not want to.
And at last we saw the city of Paris in the distance.
I was overcome with exhilaration and impatience. The most exciting city in the world, I thought it. But that was because it contained Clarissa.
It was late afternoon when we arrived. I looked ahead to where the fading sunlight touched the turrets and spires. I saw the outline of the Palais de Justice and the belfreys, towers and gargoyles of Notre Dame.
We crossed a bridge and I felt the magical aura of the city embrace me.
I looked at Jeremy. A grim satisfaction showed on his face.
We had got so far. He had said many times that he was surprised how well we were going; and I told him that he was not really surprised at all. He knew as well as I did that if one was determined to succeed, one would; and we were going to bring Clarissa to England.
“We’ll find an inn for the night and we’ll go to the Marais district.”
Jacques said: “It should be Les Paons, Monsieur. It is the best for us.”
“Les Paons it shall be.”
I said: “First let us go to the house.”
“First to the inn,” said Jeremy. “We cannot go to the house … travel-stained as we are. Look at the mud on your skirts. The horses are tired out. They hate this Paris mud. It’s the worst mud in the world.”
I wanted to protest even though I realised he was right.
“We must go to the house,” I said.
Jacques shook his head.
“Better not to go out at night, Mademoiselle.”
I felt desperately frustrated, but I knew they were right.
The inn was decorated with the peacocks from which it took its name. It was comfortable and a room was found for me which looked down on the street. I stood at the window for a moment, watching the people pass by. It was almost impossible to conceal my impatience, but I knew I must wait.
We must present ourselves at the house as decorously as possible tomorrow morning.
This time tomorrow, I promised myself, I shall have Clarissa.
What an age that seemed! I wondered how I should get through the night. I was here … in Paris … I was on the threshold of success. And I had to get through these hours of darkness somehow before the morning.
We took supper in the inn parlour but I was too excited to eat. Jeremy was calm and tried to steady me, but I could concentrate on nothing. I was just looking for the time to pass.
I could not sleep that night. I sat at my window and looked down on the street. It was strange how its character changed as darkness fell. The well-dressed people were replaced by those of a different kind. I realised that Jeremy had been right when he had said that we should wait till morning.
I saw the beggars waiting there holding out their hands piteously to those who passed by. I saw a woman get out of a carriage with a young girl and take the girl into a house. The woman came out alone and drove away. Something about this reminded me of my own adventures as a simpleton in London. I knew that the girl had been taken to the house on an assignation and that the woman in the carriage had arranged it.
The incident brought back vividly to my mind that time when I had gone out to buy violets for my mother and had fallen in with Good Mrs. Brown.
Then I noticed a woman standing outside the house into which the girl had gone. A man came out; he was well dressed. The woman caught at his arm. He threw her off.
I saw a great deal that night, for there was no sleep for me. I did lie down for an hour or so but as sleep was impossible I rose and sat at the window.
It was evidently a house of ill fame opposite.
Then I saw a terrible thing. A child ran out of the house suddenly. She was half naked—without shoes and stockings; she just wore a short spangled shift. She ran as though terrified and as she reached the street a woman came out, seized her kicking and struggling and bore her back.
I saw the woman’s face briefly in the moonlight. It struck me as the most evil face I had ever seen.
I felt sick, for a terrible thought had come to me. Clarissa was in this city, this wicked city. I knew something of the wickedness of cities since I had come face to face with it in the cellar of Good Mrs. Brown.
I had been fortunate. Worse things could have happened to me.
I would take Clarissa home; I would care for her; I would love her.
I must get well and strong, for Clarissa needed me.
I would do it. I must. Clarissa needed me.
It was morning. I was dressed and ready. Excitement set the colour burning in my cheeks and none would guess I had had a sleepless night.
I was impatient for Jeremy to come. He was exactly on time but I could not keep still.
He smiled at me as we stepped into the street.
We came to the house where Carlotta had lived with Lord Hessenfield and Clarissa. It was a grand house—tall and imposing.
We walked up the steps to the front porch. The concierge appeared.
Jeremy said: “This is Lady Hessenfield’s sister.”
The concierge surveyed me. She said: “Lady Hessenfield is dead.”
“Her daughter …” I began.
The next words terrified me.
“She is not here any more.”
“Perhaps there is a servant … Jeanne.”
“Madame Deligne would see you perhaps,” said the concierge.
“Oh, yes, please,” I cried fervently.
We were taken into a salon where the lady of the house received us.
Jeremy stated our reasons for being here and she answered in French, which I was able to follow.
Both Lord and Lady Hessenfield had died of some mysterious illness. It was a sort of plague, for a lady who had visited them, a Madame de Partière, had also died of the same disease. There had been quite a scare at the time.
“Ah, yes,” said Madame Deligne. “There had been a young child.”
She wrinkled her brows. She had not heard what became of the child.
“What of Jeanne, the servant?”
“Monsieur, when we came here we brought our own servants.”
“And what happened to those who were already here?”
Madame Deligne lifted her shoulders. “They went to other houses, perhaps. We could not take them, we had our own.”
“Do you remember this Jeanne?”
Again she thought back. “A young woman … oh, yes … I remember her faintly. I think she went back to what she was doing before she came to the house.”
“And what of the child? Did you hear about the child?”
“No, I never heard about the child.”
Madame Deligne was friendly and apologetic, eager to help but it was clear that she had no more information to offer.
I shall never forget coming out of that house. Despair and misery enveloped me. We had come so far and not found her.
What should we do now?
Jeremy, who was a pessimist when we were getting on well, was now full of optimism.
“We have to find this Jeanne,” he said. “That’s all.”
“Where … where …?”
“What do we know of her?”
“That she comes of a poor family and used to sell flowers.”
“Then we must question every flower seller in Paris.”
I was fearful; and yet Jeremy inspired me with hope.
“We must begin without delay,” I said.
He took my hand and pressed it. It was the first sign of endearment I had ever had from him.
“We’ll find her,” he said.
The days that followed were like a nightmare. At the end of them I was completely exhausted and would sink on my bed and fall into a deep sleep until I was awakened by dreams of horror. In these I was always searching for Clarissa; I would be running through the streets and I would find myself in a cellar and people with dreadful leering faces would be closing in on me. Good Mrs. Brown was invariably there.
My dreams came from what I had seen during the days, for I did see terrible things. I suppose I could have found life like this in any big city; but I had had little experience of big cities. Only once had I fallen into the clutches of Good Mrs. Brown of London and I had never completely forgotten it. It was an incident which had remained in my mind to be brought out now and then, and because of what I saw in this city it had been brought right into the forefront of my mind. I imagined Clarissa with Good Mrs. Brown; I imagined her running out of a house in a spangled shift and caught and taken back … to what?
These were the dreams which followed the frustrating, exhausting days, and in those dreams Clarissa and I were one and the same person.
What could we do? Even Jeremy had nothing to suggest. He had discovered people who had known the Hessenfields. Yes, they had died; the household had been broken up. No, they had no idea what had become of the child. The servants? Oh, they had dispersed … as servants do.
We had one clue. Jeanne had been a flower seller. It was a business she would know. It seemed logical to presume that she would go back to it. Therefore we must question the flower sellers of Paris.
What a task! We walked about the streets. It was spring now.
“A good time,” said Jeremy in his new wave of optimism. “People buy flowers in the spring. They are so glad to see them, they remind them that the winter is over. There will be plenty of flower sellers about.”
It was a frustrating task. We bought flowers and engaged the sellers in conversation. Did they know of someone called Jeanne, who used to be a servant in one of the big houses in the Marais?
Often we encountered blank stares; sometimes the flower seller would chatter volubly leading us on so that we thought we were on the trail. We even followed up one Jeanne who knew nothing of a child and was certainly not the sort of person with whom Carlotta would have left the child.
It was not only the fact that we found no success that depressed and frightened me. It was what I saw and the realisation of what could happen to someone alone in such a city.
I saw the beggars, the drunkards, the pickpockets; I saw little children scantily clad with a lifetime’s misery written on their little faces. And in everyone I saw Clarissa.
We wandered through the markets; we saw barefooted children creeping between the stalls to snatch a bit of fruit; we saw them struggling with baskets as big as they were. We saw them beaten and abused; it broke my heart. Good Mrs. Brown seemed very close to me. It was as though she walked beside me chuckling at my naiveté. I was being rudely awakened now.
I wanted to run away from all this, to go back to my couch, to be petted and pampered and shut out the world.
Of course it is so easy, I thought, to shut out the world if you are surrounded by people who love you. You can forget all this; you pretend it does not exist. You can shut yourself into a little cocoon and never, never think of Good Mrs. Brown and two people writhing on a four-poster bed.
But you cannot forget. You must know of these things. Because the more you know the more readily you will understand the trials of others … and your own. Ignorance, shutting your eyes to evil, will not find Clarissa.
As the days passed my anxieties grew. I thought of what could be happening to my darling child in this wicked city.
Those days were like watching a show of pictures … as soon as one faded another took its place. There was the bustle, the laughter, the excitement of the streets—the patched and perfumed ladies, the exquisite gentlemen in their coaches … eyeing each other. I saw meetings arranged between languishing ladies and languid gentlemen; I saw the beggars, the market sellers and always those with the baskets of flowers.
It was the children who moved me most. I could not bear to look at them with their poor pinched faces already marked with shrewd cunning, already showing the signs of depravity. My impulse was to turn away to save myself the pain of looking. But how could I be sure that one of these was not Clarissa?
What really upset me were the women whom they called the Marcheuses. They were the poorest, saddest creatures I had ever seen. Jeremy told me that they had been prostitutes in their youth, and God knew they were not old now—in their twenties perhaps, though they looked fifty or sixty. They had become diseased and worn out in their profession and their only hope of earning a sou or two now was to run errands for their more wealthy kind. Hence their name, the Marcheuses. Worn out, weary, finished with life—keeping themselves alive until a merciful death came and took them.
I saw the milliners and sewing girls—young and innocent—coming out into the streets laughing and eyeing the apprentices … and looking out for a milord who would give them a good supper in return for services rendered.
I knew I would never be the same after this experience.
It had taught me a great deal about myself. It had shown me that I had been hiding beneath my illness because I was afraid of what I would meet in the world.
If I were going to live, I must come out and face life. I must recognise the fact that there was evil in the world and it would still be there if I shut my eyes and refused to look at it. That was what I had seen in my frustrating rambling through the streets of Paris. But there were other things too. There was Clarissa to be found; there was the love of my parents; there was the goodness of Jeremy, who had given up his sheltered life to help me in my need.
We were two of a kind, for had he not come down to Enderby to hide from the world?
We were out in it now. We were living at last.
We had come in after an exhausting day. We had gone to our rooms. Jeremy had said: “We’ll rest before supper.”
It was seven days since we had arrived in Paris and it seemed to me in a moment of despair that
we were no nearer the end of our quest than we had been when we began it.
I lay on the bed for a while but I could not sleep. Images of what I had seen during the day kept intruding on my mind. I saw the stalls in the great market … the women with their live chickens and their vegetables, the flower sellers who knew no Jeanne … the child stealing a purse from a fat woman who had come to market, being caught in the act and severely beaten. I could hear voices screeching out the merits of what they had to sell and the low but incessant chatter of two women who had sat on a low wall to set down their baskets and rest their feet awhile.
Sleep was impossible.
I got out of bed and went to the window.
It would be dark in half an hour. How tired I was. Jeremy had been right to say we should rest. He needed to rest, I know. His leg was painful at times.
I sat by the window watching the people. The street fascinated me. It had not yet changed its daytime face. That would come in half an hour. Now, respectable people walked by without fear. Dusk would fall and they would be no longer here … I looked at the house opposite. Now it was presenting its almost smug face to the world. I shuddered to think of what went on behind those windows. I had looked for the little girl in the shift but I had not seen her again.
Then as I watched a woman came hurrying along the street. She had black hair tied back and she was carrying a basket of violets.
Wild excitement filled me. It was almost like a command. A flower seller. Perhaps she would be the one. She was coming up towards the hôtel but on the other side of the street. She was walking hurriedly … going home, I guessed, with her unsold flowers.
There was no time to lose. I must run if I was going to catch her before she disappeared.
I snatched up my cloak and ran out of the inn.
I caught a glimpse of her as she was turning the corner. I ran as fast as I could. She was halfway up the next street.
“Mademoiselle,” I called. “Mademoiselle …”
She turned and looked at me.
“Violettes,” she cried, a smile illuminating her face. She held a bunch to me.
I shook my head. I said: “Jeanne … Jeanne … You are called Jeanne. Vous appelez Jeanne. …” I stumbled.
“Jeanne … moi,” she cried.
Song of the Siren Page 34
