The next morning dawned dull, grey and cold; a complete difference to the previous day, as if spring had changed its mind and winter had regained the upper hand.
Marie-Jeanne woke early and looked out of the window. Her heart sank to see the dank garden. If she’d had any say in the matter there would have been no question of exposing Hélène to such chilling weather, but she had known Emile St Clair long enough to know that once he’d made his mind up, he was not going to change it. She would have to ensure that the child was well wrapped up for the journey. She went into the kitchen where Berthe was preparing the breakfast to remind her to put up a basket of food and drink for the journey.
‘Not to worry,’ Berthe said. ‘It’s all ready. There’s bread and cheese and some apples; a bottle of cold coffee too, and another of water.’ She beamed up at Marie-Jeanne. ‘And I’ve made some soup specially for Miss Hélène. I’ve put that in a bottle too, so she can drink it easily. It will taste just as good cold.’
Marie-Jeanne thanked her for her forethought and went to wake Hélène. The girl was already half awake when Marie-Jeanne came into her room. Clearly better now, she sat up rubbing her eyes as Marie-Jeanne threw back the curtains.
‘It’s today, isn’t it?’ she cried as she scrambled out of bed. ‘Today we’re going to St Etienne. I can’t wait to see Maman!’
Marie-Jeanne smiled at her excitement. ‘Well, come here and get washed, Arlette is just bringing up some hot water.’ She supervised Hélène’s ablutions and then told her to get dressed in the clean clothes she’d laid out for her and come down for breakfast.
Hélène needed no second bidding, and was soon sitting at the table drinking hot chocolate and eating freshly made croissants. Briefly, Emile joined her there, but only took a cup of coffee.
‘I have to go out for half an hour,’ he said. ‘By the time I get back, Pierre will be back with a horse and we shall be off.’ He turned to Marie-Jeanne. ‘Is everything packed?’
‘Yes, monsieur.’
‘Then we should load the chaise so that all is ready for our departure.’
‘I will ask Pierre to do so as soon as he gets back,’ said Marie-Jeanne.
‘No,’ replied Emile, ‘I want the luggage on board straight away. I will carry it out myself.’
‘You, monsieur?’ Marie-Jeanne couldn’t help the words escaping, she was so astonished.
‘Indeed me,’ said Emile. ‘Do you think it beyond me to carry a few valises out to the chaise?’
‘No, of course not, monsieur,’ said Marie-Jeanne hastily. ‘I will just close the clasps.’
Within ten minutes the three cases were strapped to the back of the chaise and Berthe had been told to load the basket of food.
‘I will be back very shortly,’ Emile said as he put on his hat and coat, and without further ado, he went out into the street.
‘Where is Papa going?’ wondered Hélène as she drank the last of her chocolate.
‘I don’t know,’ Marie-Jeanne said, ‘and it’s his business not ours. Now, child, if you’ve finished your breakfast, let’s go upstairs and make sure we haven’t forgotten anything.’ Though Marie-Jeanne knew this to be unnecessary as she had done all the packing herself, she wanted to keep Hélène occupied until Pierre arrived with a horse and her father reappeared.
As they reached the top of the stairs there came a loud crash and the front door shuddered from a blow from the outside, followed by another and then another. Marie-Jeanne looked over the banisters as Arlette hurried into the hall to open the door.
‘Don’t!’ cried Marie-Jeanne. ‘Arlette! Don’t open the door!’
The maid hesitated, not knowing what to do, and before she could make up her mind there was a fourth crash and the door burst open, sagging inwards on damaged hinges. As it swung wide, three large and ferocious-looking men erupted into the house. Marie-Jeanne had never seen such men enter the house through the front door; men of the street, in filthy clothes and workmen’s boots, the first waving a pistol and the other two carrying the metal piping that had been used as a ram on the door. Arlette gave a scream of terror and received a backhanded slap across her face from the man with the gun.
‘Shut up, you little slut!’ he snarled as Arlette fell whimpering to the floor, blood gushing from her nose. ‘Get up and get out.’
Arlette managed to scramble to her feet and with one terrified glance up the stairs at Marie-Jeanne, she bolted out into the street, her wails echoing behind her.
‘And don’t come back,’ yelled the second man, shaking his fist after her.
Marie-Jeanne pushed Hélène along the landing, hissing, ‘Go into your room and wait for me!’
Hélène didn’t move immediately, simply stared down at the intruders with wide and frightened eyes.
‘Go!’ Marie-Jeanne gave her a push towards her bedroom.
At that moment Hélène caught sight of a face she recognised and her eyes widened. Jeannot was peering in through the front door.
‘Jeannot!’ she shrieked.
Jeannot’s head jerked upwards and he saw her pale face looking down at him through the banisters.
Hélène! She wasn’t meant to be here! His expression changed to one of dismay.
‘Go!’ Marie-Jeanne urged her with another push. She, too, had recognised Jeannot and knew at once that this was no random attack on a rich house. This was a planned invasion of a prominent man’s home by an envious rabble.
One of the men grabbed the boy by the scruff of the neck and dragged him inside. ‘I thought you said that the house would be empty!’ he growled.
‘I… I thought they’d gone. They was going away!’ jabbered Jeannot. ‘I thought they’d gone.’ He tried to pull away from the man’s grip, but it was too strong for him.
‘So, boy, who else might be here, eh? Any more surprises?’
‘Dunno,’ stammered Jeannot, cringing away from him. ‘I dunno, honest!’
‘Better find out, hadn’t we?’ said the gunman. ‘Jules, you search down here. Auguste, keep hold of the boy.’ He looked up the stairs to where Marie-Jeanne stood, blocking the way up, arms akimbo. He gave a lascivious grin. ‘An’ I’ll take the upstairs.’
The other two men disappeared, Jules heading to the kitchen. The other, Auguste, still holding Jeannot by the scruff of the neck, dragged him into the dining room. The third man, who was the obvious leader, put his foot on the bottom stair and looked up.
‘Anyone else up there?’ he asked.
‘You can’t come up here,’ Marie-Jeanne told him, her hands clenched into fists so that he wouldn’t see they were shaking.
‘Oh? And why’s that then?’ The man climbed two more stairs.
‘It’s only me and the child… and… and she’s ill.’ Remembering how this ruse had worked on that first day they had arrived in Paris, she went on, ‘She has a fever. She is infectious!’
It gave the man pause, but then he laughed. ‘Good try, old woman,’ he crowed, ‘but she looks well enough to me. Pretty and young! Just as I like ’em.’ And he took two more slow steps up the stairs.
‘Hélène! Hide!’
This time the urgency in Marie-Jeanne’s voice did get through to the girl and as if she’d been released from a spell, she scurried out of sight along the corridor and then a door banged.
‘You can’t come up here,’ Marie-Jeanne said again. ‘We’ll call the police!’
‘Doubt if they’ll hear you,’ sneered the man. ‘And they won’t come, even if they do.’
Marie-Jeanne knew he was right, knew that she couldn’t stop this man, but even so she looked round for some sort of weapon. There was an ornamental chair standing at the top of the staircase and she grabbed it, holding it by the back and jabbing its spindly legs at the approaching man. He gave another laugh.
‘Out of the way, old woman. You can’t stop me and you’d be a fool to try!’ He had almost reached the top step, but he was still a little lower than Marie-Jeanne and with one last desperate effort, she swung the little chair into the air and brought it down as hard as she could on his head. It was an elegant piece, not built for such usage, and it disintegrated about his head and shoulders. He staggered, giving a roar of fury, but as he regained his balance he raised his pistol and pulled the trigger.
Marie-Jeanne slumped to the floor, blood spreading across her breast, the momentary look of anguish in her eyes almost immediately extinguished. Her attacker kicked her, pushing her body aside and out of his way with his boot. A call came from downstairs, and Auguste, having heard the shot, reappeared in the hall, Jeannot still held in an iron fist.
‘Gaston?’ he called. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing I can’t handle, mate,’ Gaston answered. ‘You wait down there and watch the front door. Don’t let no one in!’
He knew the shot could have been heard in the street and he wanted no inquisitive busybody coming into the house to see what was amiss. Jeannot had promised there was a haul of valuables just waiting in the empty house.
Well now, thought Gaston, as he thrust the pistol into the waistband of his trousers and went along the passage in search of the young girl, here’s a ‘valuable’ we hadn’t expected! What a hostage she’ll make! What a ransom her rich family will surely pay to get her back… maybe slightly damaged… but alive, if enough gold is offered.
The landing was lined with doors, most of them open, and he glanced into each room as he passed. But he had heard the slamming of a door when the girl had run, and so he wasted no time searching those, he went directly to the two closed doors at the far end.
He opened the door of the first, and went in. The room, a man’s bedroom, looked empty but it offered plenty of places to hide and he flung open cupboard doors, pulled out drawers and looked behind curtains and under the large bed. The remains of a fire lay in the grate, but they were cold and undisturbed. There was no sign of the child and so he moved on to the second closed door. When he opened that, he found himself in another bedroom, a much more feminine room, with a tidily made bed, a dressing table under the window, wardrobes and a tallboy. The fireplace was clean and obviously had not been in use for some days. Whoever slept in here had not done so last night. A quick search of the outer room produced no hidden child, but led him to a second door, tucked discreetly behind a screen. He pushed the screen aside and it fell with a crash to the floor, then he reached for the handle and flung the door open to disclose the ‘cabinet’, a tiny room housing a commode and a washstand. Crouching behind the commode, pale-faced and terrified, he found Hélène.
She gave a scream as he reached in to drag her out of her hiding place. His grip tightened on her arms as he pulled her back into the bedroom.
‘Now then, missy,’ he said, ‘you’re going to come with me and we ain’t going to have no fuss, neither. All right?’
Hélène looked up into his cruel face and was terrified. Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she sobbed for her mother. Gaston shook her violently and shouted, ‘Cut out that wailing or I’ll give you something to cry about!’
Hélène knew enough to understand that she had to be quiet and go with this horrible man and she fought valiantly against her sobs as she was brought out onto the landing. Suddenly remembering how she had escaped the grasp of the man in the crowd in the Champs Elysées, she bent her head and sank her teeth into her captor’s hand. Gaston gave a cry of pain and for a moment released her as he snatched his hand away. It was all she needed and she raced along the landing before coming to an abrupt halt at the top of the stairs where Marie-Jeanne lay like a discarded rag doll, her eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling.
Hélène gave a howl of anguish and flung herself down at her beloved nurse’s side. She could see that pool of blood spread about her and knew Marie-Jeanne was beyond help.
Gaston was on her in an instant, grabbing her by her hair and yanking her to her feet.
‘You’ve killed her,’ shrieked Hélène, and unaware of the pain of her tugged hair, she beat him with her fists, pummelling his chest, his head, his face. ‘Murderer! Murderer!’
Jules, Auguste and Jeannot, gathered below in the hall, stared open-mouthed as Gaston fought to hold on to the screaming girl, then with one blow he slapped Hélène so hard about the head that she was silenced and she collapsed against him. Immediately he hoisted her over his shoulder like a sack of coal and carried her down the stairs into the hall.
‘Time to go!’ he snapped.
‘But what about the stuff here in the house?’ demanded Jules, waving a hand vaguely about him. ‘Weren’t that what we come for?’
‘An’ what about her?’ Auguste nodded towards the body at the top of the stairs.
‘Leave her,’ snapped Gaston. ‘An’ as for the other stuff, we can come back later. We need to get this one away from here and locked up before someone comes looking for her.’ He grinned. ‘She’s our most valuable find!’
He glowered at Jeannot who was staring past the limp figure across Gaston’s shoulder to the body at the top of the stairs. ‘It’s your fault she’s dead, boy,’ he said dismissively. ‘You told us the house was empty.’
‘It is now,’ Jules told him. ‘There was a cook in the kitchen, but she took off out of the back door like a scalded cat. She won’t be back in a hurry.’
‘Right, well, we’ll go out the back way too. Don’t want no busybodies asking about the child.’ He turned again to Jeannot. ‘Where does the back door lead to?’
‘Just the stable yard and then out into the lane at the back.’
Was Pierre hiding in the stables? Jeannot wondered, hoping desperately that he wasn’t. Pierre had been kind to him and Jeannot didn’t want him to be murdered like poor Marie-Jeanne. How he wished he’d never mentioned the valuables in this house to Gaston and his crowd, but they were revolutionaries and he’d wanted to impress them with his knowledge and his daring. How could he have known the stupid St Clairs had stayed in the city? Pierre had told him they were leaving.
‘Right,’ Gaston was saying now, ‘you can lead the way, boy, and no making a run for it, ’cos if you do I’ll tell them it was you what shot the old biddy upstairs.’ He gave a malevolent grin. ‘After all, it was you what knew about this house and what was in it, so you was only getting your own back for being turned off!’
They passed through the empty kitchen, Auguste snatching up a loaf of warm fresh bread as he went through, and emerged into the lane that ran along the back wall.
Marie-Jeanne was left lying where she had fallen. The front door still sagged open, and the house was empty. Gaston and his cronies had been in and out in less than twenty minutes.