We visited Aunt Sophie regularly. Sometimes I went; sometimes Amaryllis did. Always Sophie talked of Tamarisk, her beauty, her charm. I said to Amaryllis: “She is fast turning the child into an angel of virtue.” And she agreed.
Jeanne was very worried. “She eats scarcely anything; and does not rest at night. Often I hear her moving about. I went in last night. She was sitting at the window looking out. She said she thought she had heard Tamarisk in the garden, calling to her. She was icily cold. I got her back to bed and although I covered her with several blankets she lay there shivering for a full hour. She can’t go on like this.”
“I wish we could get some news of Tamarisk,” I said.
It was a balmy September day when we heard that Napoleon had entered Moscow.
“This is the end,” said David. “The effect of Moscow’s surrender will be devastating for the Russian army. It will collapse.”
David was a shrewd observer of the political field, I had always thought. He approached all subjects with logic. My father was apt to have preconceived notions and a certain amount of emotion crept into his judgements.
But for once David was wrong. We waited for news with the utmost eagerness. Moscow was burning. It was first thought that the French had set fire to it; but that would have been folly. Napoleon did not want a destroyed city. He had his army to house and feed. It was a last desperate manoeuvre by the Russians—an example of what they called the scorched earth policy. They had tried it out consistently during the war and Napoleon’s advancing armies, far from home, found nothing ahead of them but burning towns.
“He has to make a decision now,” said David. “To stay the winter in a burned-out city or to withdraw. He is hesitating. If he waits much longer it will be too late.”
“What we must pray for now is his retreat from Moscow and an early Russian winter,” said my father. “That will be better than an avenging army.”
“Those poor soldiers,” murmured my mother, and I knew she was giving up a prayer of thanksgiving because Charlot was no longer one of Napoleon’s soldiers, but snug, she hoped, in his vineyard.
“Those poor soldiers, Lottie,” retorted my father, “are the very gentlemen who would be over-running this land and bringing their accursed emperor here to rule over us.”
“I know. I know. But it is always sad when men … whose quarrel it is not… have to risk their lives. I do hope it will be over soon. Oh, if only it could be.”
“Then you should pray for a hard winter.”
I have no doubt that the Russians prayed for the same—and those prayers were answered. Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow decimated his army. However well drilled, well disciplined those men, they could not stand up to the terrible climatic conditions.
There were many to rejoice—ourselves among them—when Napoleon returned to Paris, and of the army of six hundred thousand only one hundred thousand had survived.
We were dining with the Barringtons when the news came.
“Perhaps he will make peace now,” said my mother hopefully.
“Not him,” said my father.
“Nothing short of capture and the complete destruction of his armies will silence Napoleon,” added Edward Barrington.
“You are right,” added his father. “Nothing will subdue him but complete defeat.”
“It will come, depend upon it,” said my father. “And when it does we shall be free of this threat which has been hanging over us for so long. The French have a lot to answer for.”
“Yes… all this unrest stems from them,” added Mr. Barrington.
“You mean your trouble at the works?”
“It is really getting serious,” Edward explained. “The mob is getting more and more violent. We have to have all-night guards on the machines.”
“Idiots,” said my father. “The law is not harsh enough.”
“I think they are going to tighten it up,” said Edward. “They’ll have to. We can’t go on like this.”
Then they talked once more of Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow and speculated as to what his next plans would be.
When we returned home one of the grooms from Enderby was waiting for us. He said that Mademoiselle Fougére was very anxious about Mademoiselle Sophie and she thought we should go over to see her as soon as possible.
My mother said we would go at once, so with my father, David, Claudine and Amaryllis, I went to Enderby.
I could never enter that house without a little shiver of expectation. I never knew what it was. Amaryllis did not feel it. She said it was my imagination; but I did really feel that so many strange events had taken place there that somehow they had been caught up, captured and become part of the house.
I was certain as soon as I entered it that night that I sensed the presence of Death.
Jeanne came down to the hall to greet us; her hair was awry which was unusual for Jeanne, who always believed that one’s coiffure was of the utmost importance. Her face was white and the misery in her eyes was apparent.
“I am afraid,” she said, “terribly afraid that she is slipping away from me.”
We went up to Aunt Sophie’s bedroom. We stood round her bed. I am not sure whether she recognized us. She lay with her eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“I wish I could have got a priest,” said Jeanne.
My mother said: “Perhaps she will recover.”
“No, Madame, not this time. This is the end.”
As though to confirm this, Aunt Sophie’s breathing became stertorous. After a while she was quiet.
“My poor Jeanne,” said my mother, putting an arm about her.
“I knew,” said Jeanne. “For the last days I have known. This last blow … It was too much.”
My father said he would send one of the servants for the doctor.
“I have already done so,” said Jeanne. “He will be here shortly. Ah … I believe now. But there is nothing he can do. Yesterday he told me. There is nothing, he said.”
My mother gently led Jeanne out of the bedroom.
My father took the doctor into the bedroom and the rest of us went downstairs. As we sat in the hall with its high vaulted ceiling and its haunted minstrels’ gallery I had the feeling that the house was listening, waiting. And I thought: Who will live here now?
Jeanne was saying that Aunt Sophie had never recovered from her grief over the loss of Tamarisk.
“It’s a pity that child was ever born,” said my mother.
“Poor Dolly,” I said. “She would have loved her.”
Claudine put her hand to her head and said irrelevantly: “I don’t like this house. There’s always trouble in it. I believe it is something to do with the house.”
If I let my imagination stray I was sure I would have heard the house laughing, mockingly.
“She grieved for Tamarisk,” mused Jeanne. “If only the child had not gone. She did so much for her. She was her life. She could see no wrong in her. To go like this without a word. The gypsy in her I suppose. And what it did to my poor lady!”
“What she would have done without you, Jeanne, I can’t imagine,” said my mother.
“She brooded on her misfortunes,” said Jeanne. “She always did. I used to think she revelled in them. But not this one … not losing the child.”
“I should like a little brandy,” said my mother. “Something to warm us up. I think we all need something.”
Jeanne went away to get it.
“It gives her something to do,” said my mother. “Poor soul. This is a terrible grief for her.”
When Jeanne came back the men joined us.
The doctor said Aunt Sophie had died of a congestion of the lungs.
“And a surfeit of sorrow,” added my mother.
Claudine looked over her shoulder at the minstrels’ gallery and shivered.
“Are you cold, Mamma?” asked Amaryllis. “Here. Have my shawl.”