‘Miss Hélène has a fever, madame. She’s burning up and talking nonsense. We should keep the other two away from her and send for the doctor.’
Rosalie crossed swiftly to the bed and laying a hand on Hélène’s forehead, felt the hot, dry skin under her fingers. As she did so, Hélène began muttering again, a stream of incomprehensible words.
At once Rosalie took charge. ‘Clarice, get dressed and then go and tell Louise to do the same. Marie-Jeanne, fetch some cool water and a flannel and bathe her face. I must speak with Monsieur, but I’ll be back directly.’ Waiting only until Marie-Jeanne returned with the water and facecloth, Rosalie hurried down to find Emile. He was standing in the hall, putting on his overcoat, already preparing to leave the house.
He stared at her in amazement as she appeared in the front hall still dressed in her nightclothes.
‘Rosalie!’ he exclaimed. ‘What is this?’
‘I have to speak to you, Emile,’ she said, laying a hand on his arm.
‘What is it?’ he asked testily. ‘I’m late already.’
‘It’s Hélène,’ she answered. ‘She has a fever, we must send for the doctor.’
‘Indeed,’ returned her husband, ‘then please do so.’
‘You know we were leaving for St Etienne today,’ said his wife, ‘but I think she’s too ill to travel, and…’
‘And so she must stay here,’ he finished for her. ‘Surely you don’t need to leave today.’
‘After what Georges told us the other night, we really should go. Paris is no place for the children. We should never have come back.’
Emile’s lips tightened at this implied criticism, but all he said was, ‘It is your decision, Rosalie.’ He relaxed a little and said, ‘I agree from what Georges told us that you should go, but will it hurt to wait a couple more days until the child is fit to travel?’
‘I don’t know!’ cried Rosalie wretchedly. ‘But I can’t go without her.’
‘You could leave her here with Marie-Jeanne,’ suggested Emile. ‘Take Mademoiselle Corbine and the other two out of town. Leave Hélène in Marie-Jeanne’s care, it’s probably just some childish ailment. Then, as soon as she’s recovered, I will bring her out to St Etienne.’
Rosalie stared at him for a moment. ‘If I did that, would you really bring her as soon as she is well?’
‘I have just said so, madame,’ Emile replied stiffly. ‘Now, if you will excuse me?’ He touched her hand in farewell and then opening the door, walked out into the street.
For a moment Rosalie watched him walking away from her. He was never one to show his emotions, but even so she knew he loved her as she loved him; she would miss him while she was in St Etienne and he remained in Paris. Suddenly remembering she was clad only in her nightdress and a bedroom robe, she hurriedly shut the front door and went back upstairs.
Dressing quickly, she returned to Hélène’s bedside. Marie-Jeanne was gently sponging the child’s face, neck and hands with cool water, but Hélène seemed unaware of her or her surroundings.
‘I will send Pierre for Dr Simon, Marie-Jeanne,’ Rosalie said. ‘We’ll see what he says. In the meantime, you stay here with Hélène until I come back.’
Dr Simon arrived within the hour and Marie-Jeanne took him straight up to Hélène’s room where Rosalie sat sponging her daughter’s face.
‘Ah, madame,’ he said, executing a small bow. ‘And how is the little one?’ He set his bag to one side and approached the bed.
‘Very hot,’ replied Rosalie. ‘She doesn’t wake and murmurs and mutters all the time.’ She moved aside so that the doctor, a man she had known for years, the doctor who had brought all her children into the world, could move closer to see Hélène’s face, flushed against the white of her pillow.
Approaching the bed he laid a hand on Hélène’s forehead and then took out his pocket watch to take her pulse. ‘Her heartbeat is very fast and she is indeed very hot.’ He leaned forward and touched the collar of Hélène’s nightgown, and then turned back to Rosalie saying, ‘Please expose the child’s chest.’
Rosalie unbuttoned the nightdress and pulled it away from Hélène’s body. Dr Simon put on his spectacles and inspected the small frame.
‘It is good there is no rash, madame, which could indicate typhoid fever…’
‘Typhoid!’ cried Rosalie.
‘As I said, there is no rash, so I think it is unlikely, but one can never be sure. Has she complained of any ache or pain in the last days?’
‘She said her head ached,’ replied Rosalie, ‘but we were not concerned. There’s been a lot of excitement in the house the last few days.’
‘No er-hem, no trouble… er-hem,’ the doctor looked away as he murmured, ‘her bowels? No diarrhoea?’ There! He’d used the word… in front of a lady.
Rosalie had no such scruples. ‘No,’ she replied, ‘no diarrhoea.’
‘That is good,’ said the doctor, allowing himself to meet her eyes again. ‘I cannot say it definitely isn’t typhoid, madame, though as I said, I think it unlikely, but in any case you would be wise to keep your other children away, and nurse her separately. I will call again later in the day to see how she goes on. There is a fever in the city,’ he went on. ‘From what I’ve seen, the illness lasts for a day or two, and when the fever breaks the patient begins to recover quite soon.’
‘And is there a treatment?’ demanded Rosalie. ‘Can you give her a powder or something that will bring her temperature down?’
‘Give her plenty of water, boiled water, and I will mix a tincture to give her three times a day, but otherwise there is little I can do,’ the doctor admitted. ‘The fever must run its course. With a well-nourished and normally healthy child like your daughter, madame, her body is strong and will do the work. For a slum child weakened by starvation the outlook would be very different, very grave.’
‘But where can she have got it from?’ asked Rosalie.
‘Anywhere,’ replied the doctor. ‘Since the siege, there is sickness all over the city.’
‘But the infection, will it pass to my other daughters?’
Dr Simon shrugged. ‘Who can say? Perhaps they have it already. If not, they should be safe if you keep them away from this child. Of course, you yourself may also be infected… or the nurse.’ He indicated Marie-Jeanne standing quietly in the corner of the room.
‘We were leaving Paris today,’ said Rosalie wretchedly, ‘going into the country.’
‘Far healthier,’ agreed the doctor. ‘Away from the malodorous humours of the city.’
‘But surely she’s too ill to travel.’ Rosalie glanced down at the still-muttering figure in the bed.
‘Indeed it would be most unwise to attempt to move her when her temperature is this high. In a few days when the fever has left her, she will begin to recover. She will be weak and need much care, but then a gentle journey, comfortably in a carriage, will be safe, I think.’
‘But suppose the other children…’ began Rosalie, at a loss to know what to do for the best.
‘It would be better to take the other children from the house, madame. One never knows which direction such fevers will take.’
‘But you said she would recover!’ cried Rosalie.
‘And so she should, madame, but I cannot promise. All I can say is, keep the other children away. Take them to the country.’ He glanced again at Marie-Jeanne. ‘Surely the nurse can look after this child here.’
Dr Simon would say no more. He moved towards the door, picking up his unopened bag, pulling on his gloves. As he reached the door he turned and said, ‘I will send my boy round with the tincture and call again myself later on.’
Rosalie went with him down the stairs, and as they passed the open dining room door he glanced in and saw Clarice and Louise still seated at the table.
‘Take them to the country, madame,’ he advised again. ‘Paris is no place for such children. Soon it will run with blood.’
When he had gone, Rosalie went back
up to the sickroom. ‘You heard what the doctor advised, Marie-Jeanne,’ she said. ‘That I should take Clarice and Louise to St Etienne as planned.’ She looked across at the woman who had been her own nurse before her children’s. ‘But what of Hélène?’ she asked wretchedly. ‘How can I leave her, so ill? Oh, Marie-Jeanne, what should I do?’
‘I think you should do as the doctor suggests, madame,’ the old nurse answered. ‘It is a wise decision. I will stay here and nurse Hélène until she recovers. Then we can come to join you in St Etienne.’
‘Monsieur St Clair said he will bring you,’ Rosalie said.
‘Of course he will,’ agreed Marie-Jeanne, ‘just as soon as she is better.’ She smiled reassuringly. ‘I will look after the little one and all will be well.’
‘Oh, Marie-Jeanne,’ Rosalie had tears in her eyes, ‘what should I do without you?’
For a moment she was a child again, and allowed Marie-Jeanne to put her arms round her.
‘Now then, Miss Rosalie,’ Marie-Jeanne said comfortably, ‘don’t you take on so. The boxes are all packed. You get Pierre to call you a cab and you can all be off to the station.’ Nodding reassuringly she went on, ‘Mademoiselle Corbine seems a sensible woman, so you’ll have her to help with the girls, and Pierre will manage the luggage.’
‘But you? Will you be all right, while we’re away?’
‘Of course I will,’ Marie-Jeanne assured her. ‘I’m not alone in the house. Berthe and Arlette are downstairs, Pierre will soon be back and the master will be home at nights. We shall manage perfectly. When the doctor sends round the medicine for Hélène I’ll give it to her, regular, no worry.’
Soothed a little by Marie-Jeanne’s quiet common sense, Rosalie went down the stairs to find Pierre and Mademoiselle Corbine and to get the girls ready for the journey back to the country.
Marie-Jeanne sat with Hélène for the rest of the day. Berthe sent up her midday meal on a tray and a pitcher of cooled boiled water for Hélène, as instructed by Rosalie before she left. The doctor’s lad arrived soon after with a flask of brown liquid and a note to say it should be administered three times a day. Hélène had not properly awoken from her restless sleep, but Marie-Jeanne had managed to get her to take a little water poured down a twist of cotton into the corner of her mouth. Dr Simon’s tincture had been more difficult, but when Hélène had opened feverish eyes and looked unseeing at Marie-Jeanne, the nurse had managed to get her to take a teaspoon of the mixture, only half of which the child spluttered out again.
When the doctor returned as promised he simply took Hélène’s pulse again, noted that the fever seemed as high as before and repeated the instructions he’d given the first time.
Emile came home as it was getting dark. He knew that Rosalie and two of his daughters would have left the house, but even so he wasn’t quite prepared for the silence that had settled on the place after their departure. He let himself in with his own key and went upstairs to his bedchamber. He changed his clothes before making his way to the children’s bedroom and quietly opening the door. The room was very warm, the windows having been kept firmly closed despite the warmth of the day outside. Infection had to be kept at bay and none must be allowed to enter the sickroom from the streets below.
Marie-Jeanne was sitting beside the bed, mending a pair of stockings by the light of a single candle. She turned her head as the door opened and setting aside her sewing, gestured with her hands that he should stay outside the door. She joined him in the doorway and reported what Dr Simon had said.
‘So he doesn’t think it’s typhoid?’ Emile asked, relief in his voice.
‘No, monsieur,’ she replied. ‘He says there is a lot of sickness about in the city. He blames the siege; people being weakened by hunger.’
‘But Hélène wasn’t here during the siege!’ Emile scowled as he went on, ‘I expect it was brought to the house by that sewer rat, Jeannot.’
‘Perhaps.’ Marie-Jeanne had wondered about that herself. ‘But,’ she pointed out, ‘you sent him packing weeks ago. She would have been ill before now, if he was the cause.’
‘Well, whoever infected her, the important thing is to nurse her back to health as quickly as possible. Madame is very anxious to get her safely to St Etienne.’
‘Have no worries, monsieur,’ Marie-Jeanne said. ‘I shall be with her night and day until she is better.’
Emile nodded. He had expected nothing less. ‘I will come and see how she is in the morning,’ he said. ‘Pierre will be back tomorrow.’ And with that he went downstairs to his solitary dinner in the dining room.
Emile had had a relatively peaceful day. The office was now up and running again, and though there were no new commissions coming in, he had set his draughtsmen to work, continuing the projects they had been involved in before the outbreak of war. When he retired to bed that night he realised the fact that Rosalie and two of the girls were safely out of Paris had released him from one, subconscious, worry. Hélène, though ill, was safe enough in her own home and so he had only himself to worry about. He would not return to Montmartre until everything had settled down again. Safe in a world of his own, he shut his eyes to what was brewing in the city around him.
9
The doctor proved to be right. Within another twenty-four hours Hélène’s fever had broken and though she felt weak, she begged Marie-Jeanne to let her get up.
‘I’m better, Marie-Jeanne, really,’ she insisted. ‘I hate being in bed!’
‘Of course you do, pet,’ soothed Marie-Jeanne, ‘but you were quite ill for a while, you know, and we have to take things slowly. Now, how about a spoonful or two of this broth Berthe has made you? Then when you’ve had another little sleep perhaps you can go into the schoolroom and sit by the fire. How would that be?’
Hélène accepted the compromise and had to admit to herself, if not to Marie-Jeanne, that when she did get out of bed her legs felt decidedly wobbly. But there was a blazing fire in the schoolroom and lying on the old sofa in front of it was better than being shut away in her bedroom. Though it was late March and the weather was clement, Marie-Jeanne was taking no risks with her charge. She insisted that Hélène stay by the fire with a hot brick at her feet and a blanket round her shoulders for another day before she was allowed out into the garden for half an hour to enjoy the sun on her face.
Each evening since her mother had left, Emile had come in to see her, though he stood by the door, afraid of infection. However, on the third day of her recovery he simply said, ‘You’ll be pleased to hear that we’re going to St Etienne tomorrow, Hélène. Do you think you can manage the journey? Pierre is making the light chaise ready so that you can travel comfortably.’
Hélène was delighted. ‘Oh yes, Papa!’ she cried. ‘I’m quite better now.’ She was completely unaware of the reason for this hasty withdrawal from Paris, and even if she had known, she would not have understood the gravity of the situation. All she knew was that they were going to St Etienne where Maman and her sisters would be waiting.
Emile had finally realised that he had to get Hélène out of Paris, whether she was truly fit to travel or not. When he had told Marie-Jeanne of his decision she was concerned.
‘She is still weak from her illness, monsieur,’ she protested. ‘Surely another few days’ rest before the journey would be better.’
But Emile had been adamant. ‘No, Marie-Jeanne,’ he said. ‘Have her packed and ready to leave first thing in the morning. You will accompany us, of course.’
Marie-Jeanne was still anxious that the journey would be too much for Hélène, and wondered what had caused this sudden urgency. Still, she could do nothing but give a bob and say, ‘Yes, monsieur, we shall both be ready.’
Emile’s decision had been prompted by a terrifying event that very day. The city was in a continuous state of flux and yet again Emile had been caught up in violence, the violence Georges had predicted, and finally he had accepted it was too dangerous to stay; that he needed to get his small
daughter to safety before it was too late.
He had been doing some business in the city earlier that day and returning to his office, he turned into the Rue de la Paix, Peace Street, and found himself once again caught up in a crowd. A throng of people filled the street, heading as one body towards the Place Vendôme. He was surprised at their numbers, but he felt no alarm. They were nothing like the mob he’d encountered in Montmartre previously; they were clearly respectable, law-abiding citizens and they moved down the street with quiet purpose. Some were carrying placards asking for peace, and one banner announced that they were ‘The Friends of Order’. No one carried weapons, there were no brandished swords or waved pistols; the Friends were marching peaceably to the National Guard headquarters in an effort to show that they were not happy with the way things were going since the Central Committee had taken control.
Emile had joined at the back of the crowd, more because it was going in his direction than as a sign that he agreed with its protest. The demonstration was clearly peaceful and its leaders were seized with dismay when they found their way into the Place Vendôme blocked by ranks of Fédérés. They halted, and there was shouting from both sides, as the officer in charge of the Fédérés ordered the demonstrators to disperse. His words went unheard in the general commotion, and unaware of what was happening at the front of the march, those at the back continued to press forward, pushing its leaders closer and closer to the waiting line of National Guardsmen.
For a moment, neither side gave way, and then from nowhere came the rattle of rifle fire and the street was filled with smoke; there were screams of pain and panic as the gunfire continued to rake the crowd, and when the order to cease fire was given and the firing died away, the street was strewn with bodies. The National Guards withdrew to the Place Vendôme, leaving the dead and injured lying on the ground to be cared for by their comrades.
Emile had recoiled in horror as he saw what was happening. He was far enough back in the crowd to be unaffected by the gunfire, but not by the panic. At the sound of shots he lost his nerve and was immediately caught up in the mass of demonstrators who pushed and shoved their way back up the street. Emile was almost knocked to the ground in the rush to escape, but with the strength of terror, he forced his way through the crush and away from the street. Once clear of the place he clambered into a cab and directed the driver to take him to his office. His heart was still thumping in his chest as he climbed the stairs to the safety of his own room and collapsed into a chair.
Children of the Siege Page 10