25

Marcel, following them at a distance, had been some way behind Georges and the children when the unexpected bombardment started. Within minutes the streets ahead were ablaze, the crash of falling masonry combining with the thunder of the cannon. People rushed from the buildings, desperate to escape before they were crushed in the rubble. Marcel dashed forwards, thinking only of his brother and sister, but he had no sight of them in the ensuing mêlée. It was hopeless, the cannonade lasted for another half hour, by which time the whole area was devastated. Fires were still burning and many of those who had rushed to escape both fire and bombardment lay dead or wounded in the street. As the cannon fell silent, survivors emerged from where they had taken shelter, and desperate attempts were made to bring the fires under control. Marcel, still unable to see Georges or the children, concluded that they must have escaped the onslaught and were safely in the tunnel, for Marcel knew it had to be a tunnel, wherever that was, and he joined in the battle with the flames, filling buckets from the pump in the street, gradually reducing the fires to sporadic flares. People were moving the wounded away and it was as he helped a young woman carry her injured child back to the shelter of an almost undamaged house that Marcel found Georges. He was sitting beside the blown-in front door of an apartment building. The building itself seemed to have survived the bombardment, though it was surrounded by the broken glass from its many shattered windows. Georges was sitting with his back against the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him. His trousers were torn and blood was seeping from a hidden wound. His face was paper-white and his eyes closed against the pain of his damaged leg.

‘Georges?’

His eyes flew open at the sound of his brother’s voice. ‘Marcel?’ His voice was a husky thread of pain and he closed his eyes again. ‘Is it really you?’

‘Yes, it’s me,’ Marcel said as he crouched down beside him. ‘Tell me where you’re hurt.’

‘Just my leg.’ Georges opened his eyes again and managed a brave smile. ‘Nothing much really, but I think it’s broken.’

‘Where are the children?’ Marcel asked, looking round him for any sign of them.

‘Told them to leave me here, to get away. Told Jeannot to take her back to the house and find you.’

‘I wasn’t there,’ Marcel said. ‘I was following you.’

‘Hrumph,’ puffed Georges. ‘Thought you might be. Heard someone behind me.’

‘Never mind that now,’ Marcel said. ‘We’ve got to get you home. D’you think you can walk at all?’

‘Don’t know till I try,’ Georges said. ‘Here, give me your hand and pull me up.’

Marcel, reaching down to take his hand asked, ‘Which leg?’

‘Left,’ answered Georges with a little gasp of pain. ‘Careful!’

Marcel put his arm round Georges’s body, and taking his weight, eased him up onto his uninjured leg. A swift glance at his brother’s face told him of the agony he was in, but Georges made no complaint as he struggled to keep his balance. Marcel looked about him and from the debris he pulled a stout wooden stave. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘you can use this as a crutch.’

Georges took the piece of wood and leaned on it. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’ll do.’

‘Right,’ Marcel said briskly, ‘lean on me as well and let’s get you home.’

They made extremely slow progress; Georges leaned on the stick and Marcel took as much of his weight as he could, but he knew his brother was in considerable pain. People were helping other wounded and no one paid much attention to the two men who struggled through the debris and began the long walk home. With numerous stops to rest, it took them over two hours to cover the comparatively short distance back to the Avenue Ste Anne and dawn was streaking the eastern sky as they turned into the avenue.

By the time they reached the garden gate, Georges could hardly move. His injured leg was dragging, he was light-headed, sweat poured down his cheeks and his pale face was a mask of pain.

‘Only a couple of metres to go,’ Marcel said as he swung the gate open, but for Georges it might as well have been a couple of miles. He slumped against the gatepost and in one swift movement Marcel scooped him up and carried him into the stables. Once inside he laid him on a bed of straw bales where Georges passed out.

Marcel straightened him so that he was in a more comfortable position and while he was still unconscious; removed the torn trousers to reveal the injury they hid. The leg was indeed broken, a white shard of bone now protruding through the skin. Marcel had seen worse, far worse on the battlefields of the war. A doctor could clean and set the leg without much trouble, but without a doctor he knew Georges might not even survive his apparently minor injury. Even small wounds went bad quickly.

Marcel looked down at him. Should he try and move his brother to one of the city hospitals? No, surely that would indeed be the death of him.

In which case, Marcel decided, I’ll have to get a doctor here.

He remembered his mother had always called Dr Simon to their bedsides when they were ill and Marcel wondered if he were still in Paris, or had he, too, made a hasty exit when the civil war broke out?

Georges was still unconscious, if he went now to fetch Dr Simon perhaps he could come at once and, Marcel thought, set the leg before Georges returned to the world.

Suddenly he remembered the two children. He had been so taken up with getting Georges home that for a moment he’d forgotten them, forgotten that they were supposed to be back here, waiting for him. Then he realised that the gate had been closed and locked, but surely that would have presented no problem to a boy like Jeannot. He’d have been up and over in a trice. So, where were they?

Georges gave a moan and the sound brought Marcel back to the matter in hand. He made up his mind. He would go and fetch Dr Simon and bring him back here. While he was out he’d leave the gate unlocked so that the children could get in when they got back. If they got back. The thought slipped into his mind, but he dismissed it immediately. Of course they’d get back, Jeannot was no fool and he was probably lying low somewhere until it was full daylight and they could walk the streets without fear of being questioned. Marcel wondered if he could trust Jeannot to look after Hélène, but for the moment he had to. He did not know where she was and so could do nothing for her; his present responsibility was Georges.

When he reached the doctor’s house, it seemed to be shut up, but when there was no answer to his hammering on the front door he went round and banged on the back door. The windows were curtained, but he thought he could see a glimmer of light inside and he continued to knock until at last he heard movement indoors, and a reedy voice called, ‘Who’s there? Who is it?’

‘It’s Marcel St Clair,’ Marcel called back. ‘I’m looking for Dr Simon. My brother’s been injured in the bombing and I need his help.’

There was the rattle of a chain and the thud of bolts being drawn back and when the door opened he was faced by an elderly woman, a nightcap on her head and a shawl flung over her nightgown. Marcel recognised her as Madame Yvette, the doctor’s housekeeper. She, however, did not recognise him and at the sight of a man in the uniform of the National Guard, she tried to slam the door again. Marcel was too quick for her, putting his boot in the gap and saying, ‘Madame Yvette, is the doctor here? I need his help.’

‘You’re not Marcel St Clair,’ cried the woman. ‘I know what he looks like, and it’s not like you.’

Marcel ignored this and said, ‘My brother Georges has been injured in the bombing. I need the doctor to come to him at once. Please tell him I’m here and I need his help.’

At that moment the doctor appeared behind his housekeeper and said, ‘Who is it, Yvette?’

Before Yvette could answer, Marcel explained about Georges.

‘Broken leg, you say?’

‘Yes, it looks pretty bad.’

Dr Simon said he would come at once and having checked his bag for everything he might need, they hurried together back to the house. On the way the doctor said, ‘I knew you were both in the army, but I heard you were missing.’

‘I was for a while…’ began Marcel.

‘And now you’re back,’ finished the doctor. ‘And in disguise, too. I won’t ask what secret mission you’re on.’

For a split second Marcel didn’t understand what the doctor was saying, and then it dawned on him. Dr Simon was assuming he was still in the French army and only dressed as a guard as a disguise. He decided not to enlighten him.

When they reached the stable, Dr Simon went at once to Georges. He had regained consciousness and was lying on his bed of straw wondering where Marcel was; if he’d simply deserted him. And the children? Where were they? He asked as soon as Marcel appeared behind the doctor.

‘I’ll tell you about them when the doctor’s finished with you,’ Marcel said, not wanting to discuss that topic in public. ‘The important thing now is to get you patched up.’

Dr Simon took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves and looking down at his patient, said, ‘This is going to hurt like hell, but it has to be done or you may never walk again.’ He turned to Marcel, ‘Perhaps you could bring me some clean water and then come and hold your brother still.’ He got to work to clean the wound and then, retrieving splints from his bag, he turned his attention to the broken bone. As he began to manipulate them, Georges passed out again, leaving the doctor free to align the bones and bind them in place.

‘I’m afraid he’ll always have a limp,’ he said to Marcel when he’d finished, ‘but he should be able to walk again, perhaps with a stick.’ He looked up and went on, ‘Now, who’s here to look after him?’

‘No one,’ Marcel replied. ‘My parents are still in the country, thank God. The servants have gone with them and I have to return to my unit.’

‘I could recommend a good woman who might come and look after him,’ suggested the doctor.

‘The problem is,’ Marcel said cautiously, ‘that this place is… being used. The army… you know?’

‘Of course,’ the doctor said hurriedly, ‘I understand.’ He thought for a moment and then said, ‘If we could move him to my house, just until he’s getting better, I’m sure Madame Yvette would be happy to look after him and that way I, too, can keep an eye on his progress.’

Later that day, two men with a stretcher came and carried Georges to the doctor’s house. There was still no sign of the children, so Marcel left the gate unlocked for them. He needed to return to his unit, manning the barricades hastily built to block the streets when the French army finally broke in. Marcel had done what he could. The children had vanished, he could do no more for them, Georges was in good hands and would be out of the final battle, a battle Marcel knew the Communards were going to lose. He doubted he was going to survive the fighting and there was one more thing he wanted to do before he died. On his way to his unit he went to the tenement Jeannot had shown him. The front door opened to his touch and Marcel walked into the hallway without knocking.

‘Gaston’s rooms is on the left when you go in. He may not be in them rooms, but watch it, he’s got a cellar which is where he kept Hélène. Watch out for his wife too, if she’s still there,’ he’d advised. ‘She’ll stick a knife in you, soon as look at you.’

The door to his left was ajar, as if someone was expected.

Well, thought Marcel as he drew his pistol, he can expect me now, and again without knocking, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room stank, a formidable combination of faeces, urine and rotting flesh. There was a man on a cot in one corner, lying propped up against a pillow and covered with a blood-stained piece of blanket that concealed his legs. Much of the smell emanated from him. His eyes flew open as Marcel came in, staring at him and the gun which was pointing straight at him.

If he hadn’t known who he was looking for, Marcel wouldn’t have recognised Gaston Durand. Pale as death, there was very little left of the bullying man who was prepared to sacrifice his comrades to achieve his own freedom, or make use of a girl of eleven for his own enjoyment. His face was shrivelled, his beard thin and grey against the grey pallor of his skin, his eyes red-rimmed and watery, and there was a drool of saliva leaking from the side of his mouth.

‘Well, Durand,’ said Marcel, staring with revulsion at this wreck of a man. ‘Have you been expecting me?’

‘St Clair,’ he drawled. ‘Come to kill me, have you?’ He sucked lips in over almost toothless gums. ‘Had a lot of fun with your sister, I did. Did she tell you? Didn’t always do what she was told, mind, but she learned… in the end.’ For a moment he stiffened as pain shot through him, the sepsis working its relentless way through his body. ‘Go on then,’ he challenged. ‘Shoot me! Do me a favour.’

The man shrank back as Marcel cocked the gun, but didn’t fire it.

‘Chicken, are yer?’ taunted Durand. ‘Afraid to pull the trigger on a helpless man? If someone had done to my sister what I done to yours, I’d shoot him like a dog.’

‘Whereas I won’t be goaded into committing cold-blooded murder, like you,’ returned Marcel coolly. ‘For what you did to my sister I’d rather let you die a long, lingering and very painful death. Why should I end your suffering? Whoever did this to you, did well.’

‘Paid for it with his life, he did,’ jeered Gaston. ‘I got the last laugh!’

‘Rot in hell,’ retorted Marcel, tucking the pistol back into his belt. He had no need of it now, Jeannot had done the job for him.

As he walked back down the steps to the street he could still hear Durand screeching, ‘I’m the one laughing, ain’t I? I’m the one laughing!’