Then we heard that the Prussians were in Versailles. It was January when Paris, threatened by famine, surrendered.
It was a bitterly cold day when Marie-Christine and I drove into Paris.
One of the coachmen took us. He had a daughter living there and was eager to find her.
That was a day of bitter sadness.
We went to the house first. It was no longer there. There was just a gap and a pile of broken bricks and rubble where the house had been. There were a few people in the street. No one could tell us what had become of those living in the house. It seemed there was nothing very unusual about such a house. There were many in a similar condition.
“Let us go to the studio,” I said.
To my relief, I saw that the building was still standing. I had been terrified that that, too, might have been destroyed.
I mounted the stairs. I knocked at the door. There was no answer. I went across to that other door. To my immense relief Lars Petersen answered my knock.
“Noelle!” he cried. “Marie-Christine!”
“We came as soon as we could,” I said. “What has happened? The house is gone. Where is Gerard?”
I had never seen him solemn before. He seemed like a different person.
“Come in,” he said.
He took us into the familiar studio, with its easels, the tubes of paint, the cupboard in which were the portrait and sketches of Marianne.
“Is Gerard not here?” I asked.
He did not speak.
“Lars,” I said. “Tell me, please.”
“He would have been all right if he had stayed here.”
I stared at him blankly.
“But … nowhere in Paris was safe. It was just bad luck.”
“What?” I stammered. “Where?”
“He was at his uncle’s house. He was worried about his mother and his uncle. He wanted them to get back to the country somehow. But it wasn’t possible. Not that there was any safety anywhere in France. War is terrible. It destroys everything. Life was good … and then the Emperor quarrels with Bismarck. What is that to do with people like us?” he finished angrily.
“Tell me about Gerard.”
“He was there. He never came back. The house was destroyed with everyone in it.”
“Dead … ?” I whispered.
Lars looked away. “When he did not come back for two days, I went there. I found out. Everyone in it was killed. There were nine people, they said.”
“Gerard, Robert, Angele … all the servants. It can’t be.”
“It was happening all round us. Whole families … that is war.”
I turned to Marie-Christine. She was looking at me blankly. I thought: This child has lost her family.
I took her into my arms and we clung together.
“You should go back,” said Lars. “Don’t stay here. It’s quiet now, but Paris is not a good place to be.”
I can’t remember much of the drive back to La Maison Grise. The driver had been jubilant when he arrived to take us back. He had found his daughter and her family. They had all survived the bombardment of Paris; but when he heard what had happened, horror took the place of his delighted relief.
As for myself, I could only think that I should never see Gerard again; I could not stop thinking of my good friends Robert and Angele … gone forever.
I felt an extreme bitterness towards fate, which had dealt me one blow after another. My childhood had been made up of fun and laughter and so soon I had been brought face to face with tragedy … not once, but three times. Those whom I had loved had been taken from me.
I felt desperately lonely, and then I reproached myself when I considered Marie-Christine. She was robbed of her family; she was alone in a world of which, because of her tender years, she could know very little.
She became in a way my salvation—as I think I did hers. We needed each other.
She said to me: “You will never go away from me, will you? We’ll always be together.”
I replied: “We shall be together as long as you want it.”
“I want it,” she said. “I shall always want it.”
And the weeks began to pass.
It was March when peace was ratified at Bordeaux. The terms were harsh. France had been utterly humiliated, and there was a great deal of uneasiness and resentment. Alsace and part of Lorraine were to be ceded to the German Empire, and France was to pay an indemnity of five billion francs, and there would be a German occupation until the money was paid. The Emperor had been released and, as there was no longer a welcome for him in France, he had gone to join the Empress in exile in England.
France was in turmoil. In April there was a communist uprising in Paris and a great deal of damage was done to the city before the rising was suppressed in May.
Things were beginning to settle.
We heard that a cousin of Robert’s had inherited the house and estate. It did not pass to Marie-Christine, as the old Salic law, which ordained that female members of the family could not inherit, seemed to apply to the families of the nobility.
However, Marie-Christine would be comfortably off financially. Robert had left me some money and the house in London, which he had always intended should be reverted to me.
Lars Petersen came to see me.
He had changed a good deal; he had lost some of that old exuberance and was more serious.
He was going home, he told us. Paris had lost its charm for him. It was no longer the lighthearted city, refuge of artists. He had had enough of Paris, and there were too many memories for him to be contented there.
I told him that Marie-Christine and I would be leaving. La Maison Grise was passing into the hands of Robert’s cousin and Robert had left my old home in London to me.
“Who would have thought things would have turned out like this?” said Lars. “Gerard … dear old Gerard … I was fond of him, you know.”
He shook his head sadly. I fancied he might be feeling a little guilt and remorse, remembering perhaps that once he had intended to take Gerard’s wife to live with him.
Marie-Christine and I sadly watched him drive away.
It was a few days later when the cousin came to La Maison Grise. He was very pleasant and delighted with the house, which he had never thought would come to him.
I explained that we were preparing to leave for London, which we should do very soon, to which he replied graciously that we must not feel we had to hurry.
He stayed a night, and when he had gone, I said to Marie-Christine: “It has been decided for us. I wonder what you will think of London.”
“I shall like it if we are together,” said Marie-Christine. “And it will be different, won’t it?”
“Different, yes.”
I was thinking of the people at home … the house of memories. My mother’s room … I could see her clearly … reclining in her bed, her beautiful hair spread out on her pillow; ranting against Dolly … and most of all, I could not forget the nightmare of seeing her lying dead on the floor.
The French episode was over. I could ask myself: If Gerard had lived, should I have married him? Should I have been able to build a new life … a life when memories might have ceased to fill me with regrets?
I should never know.
CORNWALL
The Dancing Maidens
We settled into the house. The Crimps had welcomed us warmly. They were obviously delighted, not only that we were there but because the house was now mine.
Mrs. Crimp did say to me some days after our return that this was how it should be. That Monsewer Robber had been a nice enough gentleman, but it was a funny sort of setup, if you asked her. And now it was all back where it belonged. “With you, Miss Noelle,” she added with satisfaction.