Children of the Siege

by Diney Costeloe

  Georges looked across at Rosalie in surprise. ‘I did write, Maman. Not to say where I was in case my letter fell into the wrong hands and endanger the Claviets, but I wrote saying I had been ill but was recovered now.’

  ‘The letter never came,’ signed Rosalie. ‘The Claviets must be very good people,’ she went on, suddenly taking Georges’s hand between hers in a burst of affection. ‘I will write and thank them for taking such care of you.’

  ‘For saving my life, Maman,’ said Georges simply.

  His mother nodded and then said, ‘Your father’s letters did not arrive here either, nothing was prepared for us.’ She paused, brooding for a moment, and then said, ‘Perhaps Marcel has written too, and his letter is mislaid.’

  ‘Perhaps he has, Maman. Don’t give up hope,’ said Georges earnestly, seeing how bravely his mother fought back her tears. ‘So many prisoners were taken, there is no record of them all. Lots escaped and even now they are being released and sent back. We need them now to hold Paris against this rabble of a Central Committee.’

  Rosalie looked fearful at the mention of the Committee. ‘How bad will the trouble be, Georges?’ she asked. ‘There’ve been riots in plenty already, and when they brought the soldiers into Montmartre last week, I made plans to take the girls back to St Etienne.’

  ‘And so you should, Maman,’ said Georges seriously. ‘Paris is a powder keg and already the sparks are flying. You should all leave at once before it explodes in your faces.’

  Emile had said nothing as Georges had been telling his story, simply listening in silence, pale-faced. Georges turned to him now, noticing for the first time how much his father had aged since he had last seen him.

  ‘You must take them back to St Etienne, Papa,’ he insisted. ‘No one in Paris will be safe. There’s tremendous unrest in the army, and a great many of the men are slipping away because they won’t fight against the people of Paris; many are lining up with the dissident National Guard. It’ll be civil war before the situation is resolved.’

  ‘Come now, Georges,’ expostulated his father. ‘I think you’re being a little alarmist.’

  Georges gave an inward sigh. How could his father, usually so astute, not see the dangers ahead? ‘Sir,’ he said patiently, ‘I have been with the army; I’ve seen the men, those of them that have stayed loyal. The war and the surrender to the Prussians have left them demoralised and angry. They’ve no faith in the government, a government that has run away and doesn’t even govern from Paris any more. It only takes a couple of fanatics, a couple of rabble-rousers, and all their pent-up hatred and resentment will boil over. It’s already happening. Why couldn’t the army take those guns from the Fédérés in Montmartre and Belleville? All negotiations with the National Guard failed and when we went in to take the guns by force, what happened? The men, our men, wouldn’t fight. They were all lined up ready to carry out a pretty simple operation, but when it came to it few had the stomach to fight against fellow Frenchmen. Some made the pretence of obeying orders, others just marched away again and yet others were simply disarmed by the National Guard and then quite happily joined them, leaving us officers to do as we chose.’ Georges looked wearily across at his amazed parents. ‘Surely you heard how Lecomte and Thomas were murdered by the mob that day.’

  His father nodded, but his mother looked confused. ‘Murdered!’ she cried. ‘What are you saying, Georges?’ And turning to her husband she demanded, ‘What is he saying?’

  Emile had taken care to conceal from his wife the extent of the violence that had stalked the streets that fateful day. Except for their family walk in the park the following afternoon, she had not left the house since, and though rumours had been brought into the kitchen by the new housemaid, Arlette, Rosalie had dismissed those as exaggerated backstairs gossip and told Arlette she wanted to hear no more of it.

  ‘There was a mob that ran riot,’ Emile conceded, ‘but you don’t have to worry, my dear, things have quietened down again now.’

  ‘I beg to disagree, Papa,’ Georges said. ‘You have no idea of the situation that is brewing. I’ve been outside the Hôtel de Ville, the seat of government which the rabble have taken over. Whatever happens, one way or another there’s going to be bloodshed.’ He looked earnestly across at his father. ‘But I mean it, sir, when I say that Paris in the next few weeks is no place for Maman and the girls.’

  ‘But surely,’ protested his father, ‘the government troops will be more than a match for the rowdies of the National Guard. Surely not all the National Guard are involved in these insurrections.’

  ‘At present the government troops are a match for no one,’ stated Georges flatly. ‘The whole army is in chaos. Battalions and regiments have all been reformed, and brought up to strength with undisciplined and unseasoned troops. Half the officers have never been in action and even in my own command there are so many new faces I don’t know all my NCOs by name.’

  ‘But that’s terrible,’ cried Rosalie. ‘I should take the girls to St Etienne at once.’

  Emile nodded, saying, ‘You must do as you think best, my dear. Make what arrangements you will.’

  ‘Yes, Maman,’ reiterated Georges, ‘you should make arrangements at once.’

  When Rosalie retired to bed, Emile poured Georges another cognac.

  ‘Your mother will have to take the girls to St Etienne alone.’

  ‘Alone!’ Georges sounded horrified.

  ‘Well, of course she’ll have Marie-Jeanne and Mademoiselle Corbine with her.’

  ‘At least you should send Pierre with them, sir.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ his father agreed with a sigh as he handed Georges the cognac and seated himself before the fire with another. ‘I cannot leave Paris. There’s no work coming in, and the war has completely disrupted business. The boom of the sixties is over. Many of the speculators have gone to the wall and I am left with accounts unpaid and little chance of seeing my money. I may manage to recoup some of my losses if I stay, but if I leave now all will be lost and we could well be ruined.’ He sighed and Georges realised why it was that his father had aged. He had never discussed his business with his son before and in broaching the subject now it was apparent that a milestone in their relationship had been reached. At twenty-one Georges was no longer a boy, until this evening still considered so by his father, but at last he was being recognised as a man.

  He looked across at his father and said, ‘What about the property in Montmartre? You must receive some income from that.’

  His father shrugged. ‘You know how things there are at present. It’s hardly the time to tour Montmartre collecting rent! I’d be lucky to get home alive.’ Not even to Georges was Emile going to admit having been caught up in the Montmartre riot. ‘No, we must wait out the troubles as everyone else must, and pray that we shall be able to salvage something at the end of it all. But when will it end, Georges? When will it end?’

  Georges sipped his cognac and said quietly, ‘I didn’t want to frighten Maman, sir, but there’ll be a full-scale civil war here in Paris before we’re through. If I said that back at headquarters, I’d be accused of being alarmist, but the divisions are too deep to settle without bloodshed. Maman and the girls should leave at once and you too, Papa, whatever the state of the business. There is such feeling amongst the men that Paris could end in flames unless decisive action is taken now.’

  But while he recognised that Georges was in a better position to know the situation within the army, Emile St Clair still hoped that his son was being over-pessimistic.

  ‘I agree that your mother and the girls should leave as soon as possible,’ he said, ‘but I really cannot go myself.’ No further argument from Georges was able to persuade him, and when they had finished their brandy they, too, retired upstairs.

  7

  As he prepared for bed Georges considered what his father had told him about the state of his business affairs. Emile had never confided in his son before and he was so obviously p
reoccupied with his problems that Georges decided not to mention his other piece of news until a more propitious moment. He thought his mother would be pleased with what he had to tell them, indeed he was tempted to confide in her first, but he knew his father must be told before or at least at the same time as she.

  Sylvie. Beautiful Sylvie. At the very thought of her Georges felt the blood drum in his head and knew a physical ache for the feel of her: the silky softness of her dark hair piled with demure correctness on her head yet from which a few tendrils escaped to curl so enchantingly at her ears: her smooth skin and her laughing eyes which teased and tempted him as he lay ill in her father’s house. In his matter-of-fact account of his illness and convalescence in the home of the Claviets, Georges had done no more than mention Sylvie in passing; he had not spoken of his love for her nor that it was returned.

  He had not told of her calm reassurance and understanding when, assailed by nightmares, he would wake crying aloud, covered in cold sweat and shaking. Gently soothing, she would be at his bedside to wipe his face and hands and soothe his fears. He had not told of the hours she spent reading to him while he still lacked the energy to read to himself; nor of the endless games of chess and backgammon they played when he was well enough to be propped up with pillows. Sylvie. Little Sylvie whom he loved with an intensity he would have considered impossible last summer. His previous loves, so many and varied, slipped from his memory and Sylvie filled his heart and mind. He had asked her father’s permission to address her and when he had proposed, he was enchanted when she cried out, ‘Oh, Georges, what a time you have been coming to the point! I was beginning to think you didn’t love me after all.’ She had held up her face to be kissed and he had pulled her into his arms with a passion which enflamed them both.

  What his father would think of his marrying the daughter of a country lawyer Georges did not know, but he was sure his mother would not mind provided she knew Georges was happy. Sylvie had saved his life, that was all Maman would need to know.

  Georges’s reveries were interrupted by a soft tap on the door. He opened it to find Hélène outside on the landing, dressed in her nightgown with a shawl thrown over her shoulders.

  ‘Can I come in, Georges? Can I come in for a while and talk?’

  Georges smiled down at her. ‘It’s very late, Hélène.’

  ‘Just a few minutes. Please? You’ll be off tomorrow and goodness knows when we’ll see you again.’

  Georges let her into the room and installed her on the bed, wrapping an eiderdown about her.

  ‘Just for a minute or two, then you must go back to bed. You look very tired.’

  ‘Tell me what’s going on in the city,’ begged Hélène once she was comfortable. ‘We’re not allowed out any more, especially since I went to the parade.’ And she recounted her adventure to Georges. Georges laughed when he heard about the fruit and vegetable throwing but he was serious by the end of her tale.

  ‘I can see why you wanted to go, Hélène, but it was a very dangerous thing to do. No wonder Papa and Maman were so angry.’ Safely at a distance now from their rage, Hélène was able to smile at it, but Georges went on seriously. ‘It would be even more foolish to try and repeat the exercise,’ he warned. ‘There are so many soldiers with no barracks just living in the parks, it would be very dangerous for you to go out now.’

  ‘I won’t,’ promised Hélène. ‘But,’ she confided, positive her adored brother would not tell her parents, ‘Jeannot still comes here sometimes. I saw him one day. He’d come to see Pierre in the stables. He told me about the Fédérés.’

  ‘Did he indeed,’ replied Georges.

  ‘Well, not since we went out,’ conceded Hélène. ‘Last time I only saw him for a few moments, but I’m going to ask him more when I see him again.’

  ‘I don’t think he should be coming here at all,’ said Georges. ‘Papa dismissed him for leading you into danger.’

  ‘But he’s nowhere else to go,’ pointed out Hélène. ‘He’s got no home and no family. Pierre just gives him a meal from time to time, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think you ought to go down and meet him. Maman would be most distressed if she found out.’ Georges’s tone was severe.

  ‘You won’t tell, will you?’ begged Hélène. ‘I wouldn’t have told you if I’d thought you’d tell.’

  ‘No, I won’t tell,’ agreed Georges, ‘this time. But you’re to promise not to meet this boy again.’

  Hélène hesitated, looking mulish.

  ‘If you don’t promise, I shall have to tell,’ said Georges, ‘and that will get Pierre into trouble too.’

  ‘All right,’ said Hélène grudgingly, and crossing her fingers under the eiderdown, added, ‘I promise.’

  ‘Good girl,’ approved Georges and made a mental note to speak to Pierre on the subject of Jeannot. Anxious to turn to a more cheerful topic he went on, ‘Anyway, you may not be staying in Paris much longer, you may be going back to St Etienne.’

  Hélène’s eyes lit up. ‘Do you think we might? I hate being shut in here with nothing to do.’

  ‘Well,’ said Georges, ‘I advised Papa that he should take you all, but—’

  ‘You advised Papa!’ Hélène gave a shout of laughter at the thought of anyone telling her papa what to do. ‘Will he take your advice?’

  ‘Hush,’ grinned Georges. ‘You’ll wake them all. I don’t know if he will, but as I shouldn’t have mentioned the subject to you in the first place, you’ll oblige me by being as surprised as the others if and when he makes the announcement. Now, tell me what else you’ve been doing apart from showing the German army your displeasure!’

  Hélène sat cocooned in the eiderdown for another half an hour chattering on about her days, but even as she did so she became increasingly aware of an ache behind her eyes and an insistent throbbing in her head. She shivered suddenly and Georges said, ‘Come on, back to bed, you’re getting cold.’ He picked her up in his arms and she nestled against him as he carried her along to the room she shared with Clarice. Clarice was sound asleep, a soft-breathing mound beneath the bedclothes as Georges crept into the room carrying Hélène. He put her into bed and tucked the bedclothes round her. Hélène reached up to hug him and he felt her cheek hot against his own.

  ‘It’s been lovely having you home, Georges,’ she whispered. ‘Be careful, won’t you?’

  Georges returned her hug. ‘Don’t worry about me, chérie, but you remember what I said – no more tricks like the Prussian parade, hein, and no more meeting Jeannot.’

  Hélène smiled. ‘I promise. And I’ll be as surprised as anything when Maman tells us about St Etienne.’

  Georges grinned. ‘You do that,’ he said, and stealing silently from the room he left her to sleep.

  *

  That night Rosalie lay in bed unable to sleep as she went over what Georges had been telling them. Two generals murdered by the mob! Surely the army would bring those men to justice, wouldn’t they? Surely the mob wasn’t completely out of control. Even as she lay there, alone in her bed, she thought she could hear distant shouting, then a shot rang out, and the sound of running feet. She felt a stab of fear. Had some of the rioters come into their quiet neighbourhood? She crept out of bed and peeped through the window. She could see no one, but the sounds in the night had heightened her fears. She went back to bed and pulling the covers up round her ears, tried once more to go to sleep, determined that whatever Emile said in the morning, she and the children would take the train and return to the country.

  8

  The next day was a flurry of preparations. Marie-Jeanne sorted and packed the children’s clothes, Pierre went to the station and bought tickets for St Etienne, while Berthe packed baskets of food for the journey.

  Emile had remained adamant that he could not accompany his wife and daughters to St Etienne, but agreed to allow them to travel by train the following day with Marie-Jeanne, Mademoiselle Corbine and Pierre in attendance.

  ‘W
hat will you do?’ Rosalie asked him anxiously.

  ‘I shall remain here,’ he replied. ‘Berthe and Arlette will look after me and Pierre can return as soon as he has delivered you safely to St Etienne.’

  ‘You make us sound like parcels,’ complained his wife. ‘Are you sure you can’t come with us, just for a few days?’

  ‘We’ve had this conversation, Rosalie,’ Emile said coolly. ‘I do not wish to have it again.’

  Georges had heard their plans that morning before he left to return to his regiment. ‘You’ve made the right decision,’ he assured his mother. ‘And I promise I’ll keep an eye on my father.’

  That night they all went to bed in a hum of excitement. Hélène had kept her promise to Georges and shown surprise and delight at the news of their return to the country.

  ‘Now don’t forget,’ he had whispered into her ear as he gave her a farewell hug before leaving, ‘no more consorting with urchins, here or in the village when you get back!’

  Hélène gave him an extra hug and said demurely, ‘No, Georges,’ her fingers crossed behind him, adding with a grin, ‘Anyway, I don’t know any urchins in St Etienne!’

  ‘Well, you make sure it stays that way,’ he said with mock severity.

  All Rosalie’s carefully laid plans were thrown into disarray next morning, however, when Marie-Jeanne went in early to waken the girls. Clarice was already wide awake, but Hélène was not.

  ‘Wake up, lazybones,’ Marie-Jeanne scolded, but when Hélène did not wake, simply muttered in her sleep, Marie-Jeanne reached down to shake her awake. It was then that she realised that the child was extremely hot. Quickly she turned away and said to Clarice, ‘Here, put a shawl round you and go and fetch your mother,’ adding when Clarice seemed about to protest, ‘Look sharp!’

  Moments later Rosalie was in the room, a robe thrown over her nightdress, her face full of concern. ‘Marie-Jeanne, what is it?’