Georges came home on a sunny morning two days after his message and his coming brought excitement and laughter into the house. His parents greeted him with delight while his sisters mobbed him and he had to fend them off like so many boisterous puppies. Even Clarice forgot her dignity and hugged and hugged him, crying, ‘Georges, Georges. You’ve come back. You’ve come home,’ while Hélène and Louise climbed one onto each knee and clung to him as he laughed and hugged them in turn. Hélène and Georges had always been particularly close despite the disparity in their ages, and though she was happy to share him with her sisters for now, she was determined to get him to herself for a while before he left.
Berthe, on instruction from Hélène, had prepared Georges’s favourite food and the celebration dinner in his honour was a gay and festive affair, for which even Louise was allowed to stay up. When at last the girls were collected for bed by Marie-Jeanne, they were all tired, their faces pink with excitement and their carefully dressed hair awry from the party games in which everyone except Papa had joined; and even Papa had watched with an indulgent eye instead of returning to the peaceful seclusion of his study.
Left alone with his parents at last, Georges sat back with a glass of cognac and told them of the past nine months. Of Marcel he had heard nothing since before the Battle of Sedan, when the Emperor had been vanquished and thousands of his men had been killed or taken prisoner.
‘It was dreadful at Sedan,’ Georges said quietly. ‘The whole army was in chaos and the German bombardment never stopped. No one knew what was going on and when we did get any orders they were in complete conflict with the ones we’d had before. The Emperor was there, and somehow he managed to move from place to place trying to encourage the men, but no one took any notice of him. He’s a pitiful little man.’
‘Georges!’ expostulated his father. ‘That’s no way to speak of the Emperor.’
But Georges was unrepentant. ‘It’s the truth, sir, he was an incompetent, and the army was better off without him. He ordered a white flag to be flown before the battle was lost. General Wimpffen had it hauled down, but the damage was done. Morale was gone and in the end defeat was inevitable.’ Georges sipped his cognac and his parents waited in silence for him to continue his tale. Neither could imagine the horrors of such a battle where civilians and soldiers alike were subjected to continual bombardment, where fear ran like fire through the streets consuming not only the fighting men desperately trying to break through and come to grips with the enemy, but also the civilians, men, women and children cowering in their houses, homes which might at any moment come tumbling about their ears.
‘When the white flag was finally allowed to fly and the guns stopped it was quiet, but frightening. There seemed to be a total silence, though of course there wasn’t – there were too many people wounded or dying for that. After the surrender we officers were offered a chance to give our parole and never to fight against the Germans again. Several of the fellows took up the offer and went free but I couldn’t believe that I wouldn’t be able to escape, so I refused. I was sent to the internment camp – the camp of misery we called it. It was just a piece of land in a huge loop in the river, where we were herded in like animals. There was no shelter and almost no food – and as it turned out, no prospect of escape. Several tried jumping into the river to swim to freedom, but the Prussian soldiers camped on the opposite bank used them for target practice. I doubt if anyone made it to safety on the other side and if they did, I doubt if they got very far with so many Germans in the surrounding countryside.’
Silence again lapsed between them as they contemplated the horror of what he had described.
After a moment or two, Rosalie asked, ‘Was Marcel a prisoner too? Did you see him?’
‘No, Maman,’ said Georges gently, and added as he saw the hope fade from her eyes, ‘But there were thousands of us there. I did look for him, of course, and I found some of his company, but no one had news of him.’
‘He must have been killed then,’ said Rosalie flatly.
‘He may have been, Maman, it’s something we must face up to, but on the other hand no one had seen him killed, and even now men are filtering back into Paris and many of them have come to rejoin their old regiments.’
What Georges said was in effect true, but the numbers of such men were few and he himself held out little hope of news from his brother now.
‘What happened to you then?’ asked Emile, anxious to turn the subject away from Marcel.
‘Well, I was there in the camp for about a week. It was so bloody awful, I beg your pardon, Maman, it was so awful that I lost track of the days. Existing was the most any of us could do. Anyway, at last our company was called and we were marched out – not that any of us were really in much condition to march. Some food had been brought in by the citizens of Sedan, but there’d been little enough of it and with the cold and the wet none of us had much strength. Anyhow, we were moved out on our way to Germany as prisoners, and I watched for a chance to escape. The guards were well prepared, however, and the two men who I saw make a break as we passed through a neck of forest were shot in the back.’
Rosalie gasped and at the sight of her pale face Georges slid over the events of the few days that followed.
‘We were lucky,’ he said. ‘We were exchanged for Prussian prisoners taken at Metz and so suddenly I was free again’ – he smiled wryly – ‘free, that is, within the besieged fortress of Metz.’
‘And that was a shameful defeat for France,’ put in Emile bitterly. ‘A complete fiasco. General Bazaine was a traitor and should have been shot.’
‘He should have made a break in the early days of the siege,’ conceded Georges, ‘but in the end he had no alternative but to surrender – he’d left it too long and we were starving. Food was rationed but even that wasn’t enough. Some of us got out. I managed to get hold of a woman’s dress and shawl and slip through the lines.’
‘But how?’ asked Rosalie, pressing her hands to her mouth in agitation. ‘How did you get away?’
‘Well, food was so desperately short, we used to creep out into the fields beside the city and grub for potatoes. Occasionally the Germans fired over our heads to discourage us, but often they turned away and left us to search. Anyway, this time I carried a basket and was wearing my dress, so hoping they wouldn’t shoot a woman, I worked my way towards the edge of the field. It was early in the morning, and very wet and misty so the visibility was pretty poor. I knew there was a clump of bushes in the far corner of the field, so scuffling along, I made for that. Once there I lay down and pulled a covering of leaves over me and waited for dark. It poured with rain all day and I dared not move an inch in case a German from one of the outposts spotted me. I lay there for nearly eight hours…’
‘Eight hours!’ echoed Rosalie in horror.
Georges gave a rueful grin. ‘I couldn’t come out in the daylight, Maman, so I had to wait until evening. When at last it was dark enough to risk moving I was so cold and wet and stiff I could hardly stand. There was no moon and I couldn’t see where I was going. Twice I fell flat on my face and I sounded like an elephant moving through the undergrowth. How the guards didn’t hear me I don’t know, except that the weather was so bad they were probably sheltering in their dugouts.’ Georges shivered now at the recollection.
‘Anyway, I did manage to stumble on and get clear of the immediate line of German guard posts. I had no idea where I was going except to put as much distance as possible between me and that fortress. I found a road and decided to follow that as I thought I’d make better progress than across country I didn’t know. It was a mistake and I nearly ran into a German troop bivouacked at the roadside. They heard me and there was some shouting, but I hitched up the petticoats I was still wearing and took to my heels.’ Georges laughed a little at the recollection of his undignified flight. But his parents did not smile, they just sat silently watching this tall soldier who was their son, who had returned to them so much older than his twenty-one years; so different from the young man who had left them in St Etienne less than a year ago. His face, though still handsome, was leaner and his eyes more serious; experience had left its mark both in the premature lines which creased his forehead, and in his bearing and demeanour. Georges was no longer an inexperienced youth, but a man grown to maturity and refined by war.
‘It was after that that I knew I had to find somewhere to hide, or I’d be caught again at first light. So I kept going, hoping I was moving away from the actual German lines. It was pouring with rain and there was no moon or stars, so I couldn’t actually tell. Still I was lucky. As it began to get light I reached the outskirts of a village and found a house with a hen coop in the garden.’
‘A hen coop?’ exclaimed Rosalie in surprise.
‘Yes, and I can tell you Maman, I’ve never been more glad to see anything. I was soaking wet and freezing cold and just wanted to get out of the rain, so I crawled inside. The hens cackled like mad, but I was too tired to care.’
‘My poor boy,’ murmured Rosalie. ‘You must have been exhausted.’
‘I was, but there was plenty of hay in there and I simply fell asleep. After that it seemed like a miracle. When I woke up again I wasn’t in the henhouse any more, but in a bed with white linen sheets and soft pillows. It was the first bed I had slept in since long before the battle at Sedan. I tried to sit up but I couldn’t move. I was as weak as a kitten. There was a woman sitting by the bed and when she saw I was awake she asked me if I could understand her. I said I could and she cried out, “The Lord be praised,” and rushed from the room. She came back at once with her husband, who smiled and asked me how I was. I managed a croaky, “Very well, thank you, sir,” which made him laugh and tell me I was a brave fellow.’
‘But where were you?’ demanded Rosalie.
‘It turned out,’ replied Georges, ‘that I had chosen the henhouse in the garden of a lawyer, Monsieur Claviet. The maid found me when she came to collect the eggs and had called her mistress. At first, of course, they thought I was a woman, until they pulled me clear and saw several days’ growth on my chin. My disguise had only been for deception at a distance. Anyway, they guessed I was a soldier who’d escaped and it was very obvious I was ill so they’d taken me into the house, cleaned me up and put me to bed. They tell me I was delirious and shouted a good deal. In fact, one day when there was a German troop in the village they were afraid I’d betray them all with my cries – but at last the fever broke and I regained my senses. Madame Claviet and her daughter nursed me through a long illness and all through my convalescence. They kept me warm and fed and at last my strength began to come back. I was there for three months before they would let me consider rejoining the army. Three months – so that the siege of Paris was nearly over before I could begin to make my way back to find my regiment. Metz had fallen long before, Gambetta had just been defeated at Orleans and Paris was being bombarded.’
‘But why didn’t you write to us?’ cried out his mother. ‘Why didn’t you let us know you were safe at least? We might even have fetched you to St Etienne.’
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.