Page 90 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

The next time he awoke, Bisou’s face was above his.

‘Get out of the way!’ Giordano was there again, pushing the small pony back. ‘He was in Werner’s caravan so you could rest, but he ate a silk-covered pillow and Werner went mad. So, he’s here with us again.’

‘I need to sit up,’ Michel said, but as soon as he did, the swimming in his head made him sick.

‘Stay there. Stay still. We’ll stop soon. Just rest, Michel. Just rest.’

Three days followed of Michel being cared for by either Giordano or Frieda. He stayed awake a little longer each time he, but soon his head would swim and throb with pain and he had to sleep once more. Madame Rosie brewed him a tea that took the edge off the headache, and applied a poultice to the wound.

That evening, Frieda appeared and woke him as her quick fingers took the poultice away. She wiped his face with a cloth, then held a glass of water to his lips.

‘You are looking better.’ She sat beside him and stroked some hair from his face.

‘I feel a little better now.’ He smiled at her.

‘You have a letter,’ she said, and placed an envelope on his chest. ‘It came the morning we left Lucien’s.’

Michel sat up slowly, then saw the familiar writing of Bertrand. He opened the letter and tried to read, but the words jumbled and ran into one another.

‘Can I read it for you?’ she asked.

‘Please.’

Dearest Michel,

Once more your letter has cheered me completely. There is no news here apart from bad. The Germans seem able to defeat anyone in their path. I heard in Odette’s that Jewish refugees are sent to camps in the south – have you seen such a thing on your travels?

It all seems so hopeless, but when I saw your letter my heart leapt with a little joy.

Alas, you tell me of your own experiences, and have explained why the woman you cherish so much cannot be yours. It makes sense to me now. I am sorry, Michel. But take solace that you have known how it feels to fall in love.

Your letter was short; you talked of cold, of weather. I can tell from your tone how bleak things have become. You wouldn’t ever let me know how bad it is, so I can only guess.

I enclose in this letter a few francs – not much. I hope it finds you. There are many letters that go missing now, and this may well disappear into the void, especially with money inside. But it is worth the risk to know I have tried to help you as much as I can.

I did sell my father’s watch – it bought me a little to get me by. I worry that this winter will be cold – too cold for these old bones – and with the higher cost of food now, I do fear that my savings will not last me long at all.

Pah! Listen to me, an old man indeed – talking of money and heating and the cost of food. When did I become an old man, Michel? It seems to me that it was just a year ago that Amélie and I met – I was young and full of love, full of hope for my life. I wonder what joy will be left in my life now. I look in the mirror and see my grey head, my wrinkled face, and sometimes I ask my reflection, ‘Who are you?’ An imposter in my mirror!

Please write to me again, Michel. Do not fear telling me things – tell me everything. I wait in earnest for your next letter.

Be safe, my friend.

Yours,

Bertrand

Frieda stopped talking and Michel took her hand in his.

‘I would love to meet him one day,’ she said.

‘And I hope you will.’

‘You must write to him when you feel better.’

‘I will. Frieda, the letter talks of you and Werner. I shouldn’t have said anything to Bertrand… it’s just, I thought you were his. Werner’s.’

‘Hush. No need to explain. Werner filled me in. I must admit I found the confusion a little funny.’