by Charles Todd
As I thanked her, she handed me a cane as well. “You’ll find this will come in handy. I’m not sure there will be anyone to meet you in Paris. Is it the right height?”
It was, I discovered, and I told her how grateful I was. Ten minutes later I was being taken through the streets of Rouen to the railway station, and the orderly found a seat for me on the train, settling my kit at my feet. Then he was gone, and I was alone.
Except, of course, for several carriages filled with British and American soldiers and officers on their way to Paris to recover, like me, or on leave for a precious few days. As I pretended to doze I could hear them making their plans. The museums, I’d been told, were closed for the duration, but there was the theater, the burlesque, or the private gambling clubs another officer had given them cards for. A few were looking for Mademoiselles, and others for that strange arrangement of les marraines de guerre, or wartime godmothers. I wasn’t precisely certain how this translated, but a godmother in Paris could care for and oversee the needs of men at the Front or even convalescing in the capital. Men whose only leave might be five or ten days a year. If that. No one seemed to think this arrangement an oddity, and the men in the carriage and the corridor outside where I was sitting spoke of these women with fondness and pride.
When I finally felt rested enough to open my eyes, the conversation moved on with speed. I pretended I hadn’t heard a word.
A corporal from Somerset helped me take my kit down and he carried it off the train as well. Cane in hand, I thanked him for his help, and then I turned to walk out of the Gare Saint-Lazare to find a taxi to take me to the small British clinic. By the entrance were clusters of women in black with patriotic sashes selling little flags and other mementos, each of them representing some charity—for the refugees, the wounded, the men at the Front, Belgian women and children—but I had no francs as yet to give to them.
The first person I saw as I stepped into the watery sunlight on the busy street was Captain Barkley, the American who had gone to fight with the Canadians long before the United States had come into the war. He was just saying good-bye to another officer who appeared to be taking a train back to Normandy.
The Captain had once had rather a rough time helping me avoid getting killed, and I wasn’t quite sure whether to speak to him or pass him by.
He looked up just at that moment, surprise and recognition on his face, followed by a smile. “Bess? Good Lord, what brings you to Paris? And a cane—Bess, are you hurt?”
He came over and took my hand. “You’re pale. Are you all right?”
“I got in the way of a sniper’s bullet,” I said cheerily, although I was quite tired from the journey to Paris, short as it was. “I think he realized his mistake at the last possible moment, and so I got off very lightly. Hardly more than a graze. It’s healing. And that’s what has brought me to Paris.”
He had a taxi waiting at the curb. He lifted my kit bag and started toward it. “First tell me where you’re staying. And then I’m taking you to dinner. Such as it is. There’s a food shortage here as severe as any in England. But I’ve managed well enough.”
He put the bag in the front with the driver, and then gave me his arm to the rear door. Settling me inside, he walked round the taxi and took the seat on the far side of me. I wasn’t really in the mood for company, but I was grateful not to have to make my own way to the Hôtel de Belle-Île.
“How are your parents?” the Captain inquired as we drove away from the station.
“Well, by all accounts,” I said. “My mother visited me only recently, and I’m to write as soon as I am settled.” It wasn’t completely the truth, but I was trying to forestall any gallant decision on the Captain’s part to let my parents know he’d seen me and that I was well. I hadn’t even had an opportunity to tell them I was in Rouen, much less Paris. “And how is your knee?”
“Quite itself again,” he said, a note of relief in his voice. “I hardly notice it these days. Even in wet weather.”
“What brings you to Paris?”
“I’ve had a few days of leave. Not enough to travel to England—we’re in rotation. But I was glad of the change.”
Paris was still a haven for the war-weary, French and British alike. But knowing Captain Barkley as well as I did, I had to wonder if he was telling me the truth. He had fought tooth and nail to return to the Front as soon as possible after he was wounded, and he had even tried to trick the clinic staff into believing his recovery had gone faster than medically possible. And here, at the very end, he wasn’t likely to choose a pleasant week in Paris over standing with his men in these final days, seeing them through safely.
But the last thing I wanted to do was to ask questions—and be asked them in return.
We soon found my hotel, which as it turned out wasn’t far from where he was staying.
Despite the name, the clinic had taken over not a public hotel but a once-grand private mansion from the fin de siècle, boasting a large, walled forecourt with tall gates, elaborate stonework more suited to a public building, a pedimented doorway with a pair of what appeared to be polished oak doors sporting enormous brass knobs and knocker, and multiple chimneys. If anyone less than a duke or an ambassador had lived here, I missed my guess. But in size alone, it would be well suited to a convalescent clinic. What’s more, I’d expected to find it well out of the city, but it turned out to be quite centrally located.
It was one of many houses, I later discovered, that had been turned into accommodations for the hundreds of wounded and convalescents coming and going in the city every day. Many of the former owners, having fled to the south, were grateful to the Allied armies for seeing to their upkeep, such as it was. I didn’t think the owners would be pleasantly surprised at the state of their homes when they returned to Paris after the war. Wounded men—the Australians in particular—were often inclined to whatever indoor sports their imaginations might create.
Captain Barkley carried my kit into Reception, made certain that I was properly settled, and then promised to call for me after I’d rested.
The orderly behind the desk had not known what to do with me. I’d seen his expression of alarm as he scurried off to consult with Matron.
She, on the other hand, was not at all fazed by the arrival of a wounded nursing Sister.
“We are a house of men,” she told me. “Wounded officers for the most part, who share rooms on the first and second floors. Ranks, the few who are sent to us, are on this floor. Staff in the attics. There is a lounge and a dining room on this floor as well. I don’t know what Rouen was thinking, sending you to us, but there’s the Nursery, of course. It hasn’t been converted for use because it’s rather distant from the wards. It will do. This way, Sister Crawford.”
And so I followed her up the stairs to the second floor and to a pair of rooms at the far end of the passage, with windows on the front and the side of the house.
She frowned as she walked into the first room. It would have been where Nanny or a governess slept, with an adjoining door to the nursery itself.
The suite didn’t appear to have been cleaned since war was declared. Dust and cobwebs gave it a distinctly abandoned look, but the mattresses had been rolled up and covered with a sheet. Matron opened a cupboard in the nursery, and we saw an array of toys stored there. Mostly for a little boy, I thought, for there was a ship for sailing on a pond, a sailor’s cap beside it; a miniature train that could be pulled along the floor by a string; a few little stuffed animals, ears and tails and toes frayed from much loving attention; a chessboard; and a variety of balls. She shut the door. “I shall ask Madame Ezay to see to this. Meanwhile, you may rest in my quarters. Shall I send up a cup of tea? I’m afraid there are no biscuits.”
“That would be lovely,” I told her gratefully. By this time I was longing for a chance to sit down. My side was throbbing from climbing all the stairs, but I said nothing about that.
Matron’s room, as it happened, was a small sitting ro
om on the first floor, where once a maid must have waited for a summons from her mistress, because the furnishings were spare and the wallpaper was plain. The bed was a cot, and there were a washstand and a desk and chiffonier as well. Mercifully there was a more comfortable chair by the hearth than the one at the small desk. I took it and tried not to wince as I eased myself into it.
“I must leave you now,” Matron said briskly. “But someone will come for you when your own quarters are ready.”
“Thank you, Matron. Sorry to be such trouble for your staff.”
“The blame lies with Rouen, not you, Sister.” And she was gone.
I leaned back in the chair, absorbed the warmth from the small fire on the hearth, and thought of Mrs. Hennessey’s house in London and the flat I shared with other Sisters whenever I was in town. But I had chosen Paris, and there would be no complaints. All the same, I wondered how I had thought I’d have the energy to pursue the matter of Lieutenant Moreau.
By the time my room was ready, I was quite drowsy and comfortable.
When Captain Barkley called for me at six, the sun had already set, and Paris, the City of Light, was dark and quite dreary on this wet autumn evening. I had been tempted to beg off and doze by the fireside instead. Of course, he was in the best of spirits, and I knew that he would have swept me off to dinner over my objections. I really did like him, but he was quite managing, and that could be tiresome.
We were just driving down one of the long, elegant boulevards—not far from the Ritz Hôtel—when I saw a face in the taxi coming toward us. I glimpsed it only for the briefest of moments, and then we had passed in the crowded street. But I would have sworn it was Lieutenant Moreau in that other Renault.
So much for putting aside my search.
The food shortage was no laughing matter. What passed for coffee would have made Paris ashamed in any other situation, there was no tea at all, and the wine had been watered. Even the bread, always such a wonder compared to anything England could offer, no long had that crisp crust surrounding such lightness. Instead it was heavy and the crust darker than the usual golden color.
I’d been here a number of times with my parents, for we sometimes sailed to Toulouse and took the trains north rather than travel around Spain and the stormy Bay of Biscay. My father liked trains.
In spite of the food, it was a lively meal. Captain Barkley and I got on well together, now that he appeared to have forgiven me for once having dragged him over half of France.
Under the glittering chandeliers in the larger room where we had our table, diamonds glinted and the silverware was perfectly polished. Although the fashionable ladies of Paris were denied the usual accoutrements of fashion because of the war, they managed to look as elegant as ever, their dressmakers making up in ingenuity what they lacked in silk fabrics and feathers. Quite different from the more depressing look of London. I felt rather dowdy in my best uniform, although it seemed that the military style was popular even in velvets.
During a lull in the conversation, I asked the Captain if he knew anyone in French Army HQ.
He started to answer me, then stopped short, staring at me.
For an instant I thought he was afraid I’d stumbled on the truth about what had brought him to Paris. I should have known better.
After a moment he said, “Don’t tell me. Bess? Are you in any trouble? Is that why you’re in Paris?”
“No, truly, I’m convalescent. It’s just—there was a French officer in Rouen.” I didn’t think this was the time to add anything about where I’d first encountered him or what had happened at Base Hospital Three. “I thought I’d see how he was progressing. It was his feet, you see. His boots had been taken while he was a prisoner. He was released from hospital, but I doubt he’ll see any more fighting, if the war does end soon. Rumors are flying that it will.” There. I had neatly changed the subject.
Or so I thought.
Only partly reassured, Captain Barkley put down his knife and fork. “How well do you know this French officer?”
“Not well at all,” I told him. I reached into my purse and took out the photograph Wilma Johnson had given me. “He’s wearing an American uniform here, of course—his own was in shreds and had to be replaced.”
“You have his photograph?” He took it from me, staring at the uniform and then at the man’s face. What seemed to disturb him most was the uniform. “He seems to be standing on his injured feet well enough.”
“The photographer told me he nearly fell into his chair as soon as he heard the camera’s click.”
“Are you certain he’s French?”
It was my turn to stare at him. “What else could he be? Really, Captain—?”
“No, I’m serious, Bess.”
“He was wearing a French officer’s uniform,” I said.
“I don’t like the sound of this. Are you sure he’s not still wearing his American uniform?”
“I have no idea.” It was true. In the taxi earlier, I’d only seen his face briefly. Although I tried, I couldn’t bring back anything that might tell me what uniform he was wearing. “It was given him by the staff in Rouen. I don’t see that it’s anything to worry about. I’m sure he must have replaced it by now.”
“Yes, well, one of the reasons I came to Paris was to look for any Allied deserters who’d decided the war was about to end and wanted to be alive to see it.”
I found that interesting. At the Gare he’d told me only that he’d been given a few days’ leave. I couldn’t help but think that neither of us had been quite honest with the other. But then he wasn’t Simon Brandon or the Colonel Sahib, who knew I could be trusted.
“I can assure you that anyone who stops him and questions him will be in no doubt that he’s French. Not American.”
“There are French-speaking people in Louisiana. It was once a French possession, if you remember.”
I smiled. “I do recall my history lessons.”
“I know you, Bess,” he said after a long moment, passing the photograph back to me. “You aren’t likely to be looking for a former patient—or a handsome Frenchman—unless there’s a very good reason behind it. Not when you’ve been wounded yourself.”
Captain Barkley was right; he knew me too well.
“Curiosity,” I said lightly, although it took some effort. “He was found clinging to a shattered tree on the edge of No Man’s Land. It was one of the coldest nights we’d had, and his uniform was in tatters. He had quite a few wounds, most of them not life threatening, but they’d bled enough to weaken him, and he was exhausted as well, dehydrated, and barely coherent. I learned later he’d escaped from the Germans and made his way back to the nearest lines. An extraordinary story. And extraordinary courage.”
“I see.” He wanted to ask more questions but was already thinking better of it.
I waited.
“You’re an officer’s daughter. A trained nurse.” His tone was accusing, as if I had no business concerning myself with this Frenchman. As if he had already guessed that I was looking at trouble.
“I know.”
“You must remember that, Bess. It wouldn’t do to call attention to yourself. This isn’t London.” The lecture delivered, he changed the subject. But I was wishing I’d never mentioned Lieutenant Moreau.
We finished the meal, and the Captain took me back to my hotel.
“It wasn’t too much for you, was it? Going out to dinner? You look tired.”
“It was lovely,” I said. “Good for my spirits if not my wound.”
“Bess.” He paused. “Perhaps I can help you find this Lieutenant Moreau. It might be best.”
I had been afraid of that, that he might decide it was better to join the enemy than to lecture her. “I’m not actively hunting for him,” I said.
“I think you are. And you aren’t up to the task.”
Oh dear.
“Can we talk about it tomorrow? I’m quite tired. It’s been a long day.”
“Yes, of cou
rse,” he said quickly, worried about me.
The truth was, my side was hurting. I’d taken aspirin before going out to dinner with the Captain, but it was wearing off, and I was counting the minutes before I could go to bed.
Perhaps I should have begged to go to England after all, I thought, slowly mounting the stairs to my rooms. And come back to Paris when I was well again.
But the French officer was still in Paris, and he might not be when I returned.
I shook myself, figuratively speaking. Tomorrow I’d feel better. And everything would seem possible.
And it was true, I did feel rested, having slept well enough, for the governess’s bed was comfortable and there was a small fire on the hearth to take the chill off the room. I had looked at the sedatives I’d been given, if the pain grew unbearable, thinking they might at least make rest possible, but I’d seen too many patients become dependent on that relief. Instead I took another aspirin, went to bed, and surprised myself by drifting off almost at once. A measure of my fatigue.
Madame Ezay brought me a cup of tea and then suggested that I take my breakfast in my room. It was difficult to be sure of her age. She was possibly thirty-five, possibly forty. Dressed in black, her dark hair in a severe bun at the back of her neck, she appeared to be nothing more than a charwoman, but there was intelligence in her face, and a lively curiosity.
I asked if she had lived in Paris before the war. If she had worked for the family who had owned the Hôtel de Belle-Île.
She told me she had come from Lille, that she was a war widow, and that her only son was now at the Front.
“Eighteen, Mademoiselle. Only eighteen. When he joined his regiment, his uniform was too large at the neck and too short in the sleeves, a boy merely. The next time I saw him he was a man. Strong and a good inch taller. Filled out too, and very like his father. It broke my heart, but what is a mother to do when her son wishes to fight for his country? I blame the Boche. The Germans. If they had stayed at home and minded their own business, I would not be a widow and fearful for my only child.”