The Shattered Tree

by Charles Todd

  “You came to Paris to be closer to him?”

  “Bien sûr. Of course. Lille is too far, he would never have enough leave to come to me. And so I came here instead.”

  She took my tray and walked toward the door. “Do you have brothers in the war?”

  I told her that I was an only child, like her son.

  “Then your mother must worry for you, as I do for him. Write to her. Letters are a mother’s comfort.”

  With that she was gone.

  I’d hardly finished my breakfast when Captain Barkley was downstairs asking to see me.

  “Good morning,” I said brightly when I joined him in the small parlor.

  “You look better today,” he said. “I was anxious last night.”

  “The journey . . .” I let it go at that. “But what of your work?”

  He grinned sheepishly. “I must say, it’s hardly been arduous. My men and I have been combing the usual places we might find a deserter. Because I’m an officer, I can find my way into the more elite salons. These people keep the most outrageous hours. Artists, writers, musicians—they often see the sun up.”

  Surprised, I said, “Do you generally find deserters in such places?”

  “Not often, but often enough. After the war, we’re going to see a rash of writers and artists who learned their trade in Paris. I can understand why, it must be exhilarating for them. The small towns of America haven’t prepared them for what they find here.”

  I couldn’t imagine deserters from the trenches attending the famous salons of Paris. So what was the Captain really doing attending them? Was this just a cover for something else? “You sound as if you admire them.”

  “My future is taking over my father’s business. And the nearest I’ve come to painting was on one of our locomotives when I was working my way through the company, learning the various trades. As for writing, I couldn’t create a poem if I tried a lifetime.”

  “Don’t you miss the fighting?” I asked, curious.

  The Captain grimaced. “I was due for leave, I didn’t want it, and so they assigned me to Paris. I’ve just replaced the officer you saw leaving as you arrived. I’ve been here three days.”

  “Then I mustn’t keep you from your work.” I had my own to do, and I had already learned that Captain Barkley wasn’t going to be helpful. And then his next words stunned me.

  “Bess. I sent a message to your father, telling him I’d been at the Gare when you arrived and offering to keep an eye on you.”

  I had to bite my tongue.

  My father had once assigned Captain Barkley to be my bodyguard. It had not been the happiest of times. Not that I didn’t like and admire my protector, but he had a rather old-fashioned notion that women would melt in the rain if there was no man about to hand them an umbrella. And to tell the truth, I must have tried his patience more than I should have done, because my duty took me into danger, and that was something I’d accepted along with my commission in the Queen Alexandra’s. I wasn’t foolish—there was no excuse for that, it put others at risk—but I did my duty where I was needed, just as my fellow Sisters did.

  “Has he replied?” I asked, with some trepidation.

  “Not yet,” Captain Barkley admitted. “But while artistic Paris sleeps through the morning, I’m at your service,” he added, in an attempt to seem lighthearted about it. Even though I had done my very best to hide it, he must have sensed my disapproval.

  “I’m afraid I’m not up to much in the way of sightseeing.”

  “If you’re quite serious about this Frenchman, I am willing to do what I can. If only to relieve your mind of that worry.”

  Indeed?

  “I really don’t know where to begin,” I said, hoping to put him off. “I’ve only just settled in. And for all I know, he’s been sent to Chartres or somewhere equally distant, and is recovering there.”

  “If his feet are still in bad shape, your Frenchman will most likely be staying indoors. That’s going to make it more difficult for us,” he replied, taking me literally. “But I went around to French HQ before I came for you this morning, and I have a list of such hotels and rooms catering to the needs of wounded officers.”

  Oh, dear.

  “Did they know Lieutenant Moreau? The French Army?” I asked, unable to stop myself.

  “Yes, of course. In fact, there are a number of officers by the name of Moreau. At least one of them is missing. That very likely means he was separated from his men in a retreat or fell in a charge. He hasn’t been posted as captured.”

  “Oh. Well, I shouldn’t think this Lieutenant Moreau has reported to his regiment yet. Or word hasn’t come down to the proper authorities that he’s still recovering. And he’ll need to find a tailor, if he doesn’t have a spare uniform.”

  “That’s possible, if walking is as difficult as you say.”

  “Perhaps he lives in Paris—has a flat here. Perhaps he hasn’t needed to go to one of these convalescent homes.”

  “That’s possible too.” And then he added reluctantly, as if he hadn’t meant to tell me, “But so far the Army hasn’t—the thing is, Bess, Philippe Moreau hasn’t reported. So they don’t know precisely where he’s staying. In fact, they don’t have a Philippe on the rolls. Not as a first name.”

  “His family might not call him by his first name. Especially if he was named after his father. Too confusing.”

  “All right, I grant you that,” he said grudgingly.

  And yet the Lieutenant had come to Paris well before me. Surely he’d want the Army to know as soon as possible—for his family to stop worrying about him? What’s more, I’d seen him just last evening in a taxi, so he was out and about.

  Captain Barkley was assigned to hunting for deserters. The last thing I wanted him to guess was the chance that Lieutenant Moreau might just be one of them.

  Nor was I best pleased that the Captain had been so busy about my affairs. But to be practical about it, he had saved me some time, and perhaps even found out information that I had no access to. Not as a nurse or even as a woman. I certainly couldn’t ask the Colonel Sahib to approach the French on my behalf. I’d been considering how best to find out where Lieutenant Moreau might be staying, and Captain Barkley had done just that without giving my search away. Perhaps Captain Barkley had done me a service after all. Swallowing my annoyance, I said, “Very well. What do you suggest?”

  “Breakfast,” he said, clearly relieved.

  And so we had breakfast in a little café down a side street from the Place Vendôme, the beautiful square where Napoleon had put up his great column to match those of the Caesars of ancient Rome. The omelet was surprisingly good. I expect the fresh eggs and onion had come from the black market. The sausages were another matter, limp and tasteless, but I said nothing to the Captain about that. The coffee was even worse—the French had been going without anything that might have passed for real coffee for some time now. I was almost on the point of ordering wine, it was so bad, but I thought it might embarrass Captain Barkley.

  He grimaced as he took his first sip, then said, “I know an officer in the Hussars. He was wounded at Verdun and now works in an annex of Army Headquarters. I think you’ll find him helpful.”

  “How do you know him?”

  Captain Barkley hesitated. “He deals with the dead. His department keeps the records of wounded and dead, and where the fallen have been buried.”

  “Difficult but necessary,” I agreed. “Then we’re going to where he works?”

  “He’s meeting us here in an hour. I didn’t think you’d care to have this search of yours become official just yet.”

  “That’s very thoughtful,” I said, beginning to wonder if it was thoughtfulness or if the Captain considered my search for Lieutenant Moreau to be frivolous and not worthy of official time.

  We were just finishing our meal when the door of the café opened and a tall, prematurely graying man of perhaps thirty-five stepped in, looked around for a moment, and then
spotted the Captain. He wore the uniform of a Captain too, but one sleeve was pinned up where he’d lost his left arm.

  Captain Barkley rose as he approached, and introduced us. I was amused at the surprise in the Frenchman’s eyes as he bowed slightly in a well-bred way.

  “You didn’t tell me your nursing Sister was young and quite pretty,” Captain Broussard said to Captain Barkley in French. And then to me in quite good English, he added, “Have you been to Paris before, Mademoiselle?”

  “Several times, with my family,” I told him. “It’s a lovely city, I’m happy that it hasn’t suffered too much at the hands of the Germans.”

  “The Paris Gun?” he asked. “It was rather terrifying for everyone, I can tell you. I was here last spring when it began to rain shells down on us without any warning. That was bad enough. The worry was, it was a prelude to invasion. Paris had been in danger at the start of the war, and we were prepared to believe the Germans intended to take it in a final effort.”

  The last three and a half months had seen some of the fiercest fighting of the war as the Americans joined in the fray. I knew that all too well from the casualties we were coping with. It wouldn’t have been surprising if the Germans had decided to shell the city into submission. An ultimate coup to turn defeat into victory.

  “But it stopped, the Paris Gun. I can’t tell you how glad HQ was. They were debating whether to bring troops down from the Front to defend the city. It could have been quite a disaster. But Barkley here tells me you’re looking for someone, a Lieutenant who was recently wounded and in your care?”

  I gave him the same information I’d given my companion, and Captain Broussard nodded.

  “Yes, I can see that you’d be worried for him. Lacerated feet, you say? And other serious wounds, loss of blood. I looked through my records this morning. He hasn’t come in to notify us he’s here. But it hasn’t been long, has it? You’ve only been here a day, I believe?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” I didn’t tell him the Lieutenant had been released almost a week earlier. Or that I had seen him recently.

  “But if he’s not able to walk—well, that would explain the delay. He may have a flat in Paris, with no family in residence to support him. Most of us sent them away in the early days of the war, as the Germans came down the Marne. And then again last spring when the Paris Gun began firing.” He reached into his pocket. “Moreau is not an uncommon name. There are five Lieutenants on the rolls by that name. Seven more are dead. Philippe, you say?”

  “Do you know if any of them came from the Alsace-Lorraine region?” I asked.

  “Moreau isn’t an Alsatian name. But there is his mother. We don’t know her maiden name, do we?”

  “No, sadly,” I admitted. “It was just a wild guess.”

  “I see.”

  He took out a square of paper and unfolded it. I could see notations on the sheet. “Here is Paul Moreau, Lieutenant, reported missing in action in the summer—eleven August, in fact. That could be your man. And another—Pierre Moreau. Suspected to have been captured in January of this year, although we don’t have verification that he’s a prisoner.” He shrugged. “It happens. If he was captured by the Germans, and notification hasn’t reached us, he might have died en route to Germany. Or he might have been too seriously wounded when he was taken, unable to give them answers to their questions.”

  “Do either of these men live in Paris?”

  Even though Captain Barkley had told me there was no Philippe Moreau on the Army rolls, I wasn’t prepared to rule out the idea that Philippe wasn’t one of the man’s given names. It was in the records at the base hospital, but he might have used his family’s name for him, just as I might have told someone that I was called Bess, rather than Elizabeth. I could think of no good reason for him to lie.

  Unless—unless he hadn’t wanted anyone to know his real identity. That niggling thought kept running through my head, refusing to be silenced.

  “Paul is from a village just north of Paris. It’s called Petite-Beauvais—after the cathedral town. Pierre is from a hamlet near Fontainebleau.” Captain Broussard looked at his watch. “I’m so sorry, I have a meeting at ten. I wish I could have been more helpful. If you learn anything more—or if you locate this wounded man—please let us know.”

  “You’ve been very kind,” I told him. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, Mademoiselle. I hope we meet again in happier circumstances.”

  And then he was gone.

  Captain Barkley watched him walk out into the street and hail a taxi.

  “I hope he was helpful,” he said to me.

  “I was certain the name was Philippe.” I folded my napkin. “Do you think it would be possible to find a taxi that would take us to this village? On the off chance we might find the man there? Or to Fontainebleau?”

  “Bess, you’re convalescent. You shouldn’t be taking a taxi anywhere.”

  “I’m convalescent—but not precisely an invalid. I’m not strong enough to return to my duties. Nor am I bedridden.”

  “Yes, I understand that. But you should be resting. Reading. Sitting in the sun for an hour or so each day. There must be a small back garden at the hotel. You’re still quite pale.”

  “I can’t believe that a short journey by taxi will harm me.”

  I think he was afraid I might try the journey on my own as soon as his back was turned, for after a moment he said, trying to keep the worry and irritation out of his voice, “If I organize one of these journeys for you, will you promise me you’ll take the advice your doctors must have given you and be quiet?”

  “Captain—” I began.

  “Bess, you must stop and consider your family. How they’d worry if your wound became infected or, God forbid, opened up again.”

  He was right, there had been surgery. But it was not likely to open again, if I was careful. And a taxi to either village was not beyond my own reach, even if the Captain refused to accompany me. In a day or two, I would surely be stronger.

  Chapter Five

  As it turned out, at three o’clock that afternoon, Captain Barkley arrived not in a taxi but in a private motorcar he’d commandeered from somewhere. I thanked him but didn’t ask how he’d managed such a coup. I did wonder if perhaps the motorcar had belonged to Captain Broussard.

  I also wondered if Captain Barkley had told him why it was wanted.

  All but embraced by pillows to protect my side from the buffeting, we drove sedately through Paris, and I had a moment to admire the Arc du Carrousel as we swung around it. In the distance, with heavy clouds as a backdrop, was the great Eiffel Tower, now closed off for military use. It had been such a sunny morning that I hadn’t anticipated rain later in the day.

  We turned south, threading our way over roads almost as bad as those going in and out of Rouen, toward the great forest where French Kings once hunted.

  But our destination was a hamlet nearly surrounded by the famous Forest of Fontainebleau. It took us a quarter of an hour to find it.

  There were no more than a dozen or so houses in a clearing, a single muddy lane connecting them, and a church that was hardly larger than a pilgrim’s chapel.

  The owner of the tiny greengrocer’s shop, an elderly dyspeptic man, stared at us suspiciously as I asked if he could direct me to the house of Madame Moreau.

  Instead he gestured for us to follow him, and then he led us to the bakery. As we stepped through the door I could hear the thump! thump! of dough being kneaded for the next day’s bread. The pleasant smell of this morning’s bread still lingered in the air. The baker, a heavyset man of middle age, looked up, unhappy with the interruption. But he nodded to the greengrocer, who explained, in the local dialect that I found difficult to follow, that we were looking for Madame Moreau. I did catch that the greengrocer had mentioned that as the baker was le maire of the village, he was the proper person to answer us.

  The baker stared at us in his turn.

  “Is it bad news that
you bring?” he asked the Captain in French.

  I replied for him.

  “Mais non, Monsieur. We are searching for a cousin of the family. We hoped that she might help us find him. He—” I hesitated, uncertain just how much I should tell him. Instead I fell back on a more general reason. “He was wounded last month and sent home to his family. I nursed him, and while I am visiting Fontainebleau, I wish to inquire how he fared.”

  There were British and American and even Belgian nurses in French hospitals. It wouldn’t seem strange for me to be attending a wounded Frenchman.

  “Ah.” He considered the matter for a moment and then spoke to the greengrocer before saying, “Alas, I cannot stop what I am doing. But Armand will show you.”

  I thanked him, and we followed the greengrocer out of the bakery. The Captain, at my heels, said, “Where to now, the priest?”

  The greengrocer must have understood the word. He turned to me and replied, “Je regrette, but the priest comes only every other Sunday. We share him with another village. There is no money to support him full-time.” He pointed to a house close by the chapel, where a woman was sitting in the doorway, taking advantage of the last light of the setting sun to do her knitting. “Madame Moreau,” he said, and left us to it.

  “Are there no young people here?” Captain Barkley asked as we passed a stooped, white-haired woman with a long willow stick herding six or seven geese toward a pen.

  But the men were at war, I thought, and the women, those without young children to care for, had gone to Paris or to work in the factories.

  We came to the small cottage where Pierre Moreau must have grown up. His mother, her hair streaked with gray, her face lined with worry, looked up as we stopped before her. A basket at her feet held several pairs of stockings and at least five or six carefully folded scarves. The yarn of the one she was currently knitting, like the others, had been dyed a dull gray-blue. An old dog lay in the cottage doorway at her feet. He roused up to stare at us, decided we posed no threat, and lowered his head to his paws once more.