Page 95 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

Serge nodded and stretched out on the sofa. ‘They’ll come. They’ll find us. They know we have arrived.’

Before Michel could ask more, Serge closed his eyes and it seemed to Michel he was instantly asleep. Michel stoked the log burner, feeding it and listening to it crackle as Serge snored, and Werner muttered strange words in his sleep.

Michel, though weary from the journey, took out some paper and a pen, and wrote back to Bertrand.

Dearest friend,

I received your letters – Lucien kept them safe for me and gave them to me when I returned to Vodable.

It was a joy to hear your voice, so distinct through your writing, and yet it brought me sadness and fear to hear of the way your spirit has dimmed since I left.

I understand, of course. I think we are all changed in such a small amount of time, and I wonder if we will ever go back to being who we once were.

You are right that the Germans are everywhere now. I have seen them many times with my own eyes. They fill the roads with their jeeps and black cars, which frighten me. There are more people on the roads too. On our journey here (we are now in Senlis, not far from you!) we saw many people carrying their belongings, their children. It reminded me of the day I left Paris – that same feeling of panic, of having the urge to leave and yet the fear of not knowing where you will end up.

These people on the roads were from other countries too; there were some who had travelled from Belgium and were picking their way further south. We passed them on our way up north.

You are wondering now why we are here? I am too. There is a part of me that feels we should have stayed south, but we had no money, and rationing was making things hard. It has got so bad, Bertrand, that Werner thinks we are safer with his mysterious friend – who I am yet to meet. He has talked of getting papers for us to leave France. I need to be honest; I don’t think it will be possible. I think he is running scared like everyone else, just trying to find something, anything, to cling on to.

He is unwell. He was attacked by some soldiers in a bar. The truth is, I have come to like him. In my last letter to you, I told you of his wife. I have to tell you I was wrong. Frieda is not his wife, but his daughter. I wish I could tell you more, but as things are, I cannot.

As I sit here and write, I can hear the drone of planes overhead. Whose planes, I do not know. I like to think it is the British, perhaps here to end it all?

I have not eaten much for a while now. None of us have. Bread, coffee, cigarettes, and soup when we find something to put in it. I imagine if we carry on like this, we will soon disappear. I cannot help but remember how lucky I was to be able to buy mutton before, eat pastries and cakes. My stomach rumbles at the memory.

Are you eating, Bertrand? I hope you are keeping well. I thank you for the francs you sent; they helped indeed. Please do not send more. They would not reach me anyway, as I am not sure when or if I will see Lucien again. Keep the money for yourself; keep warm and fed.

I wish I could help you. The city is not far from here and I wonder if it is safe for me to visit you? I think it would be fine, but it is the getting there which may cause problems – I cannot very well ride into the city on a circus horse or with a caravan in tow!

I will write again soon.

Yours,

Michel

A knock on the door woke Michel. He had fallen asleep on a chair next to the fire that now burned low.

Before he could answer, the door was opened to reveal a tall thin man, dressed head to toe in a black suit, his beard neatly trimmed to a point and his eyes the brightest of blues.

‘You made it!’ The man said. ‘Do you know that your horses are in the next field?’

‘They don’t have a stable,’ Michel said.

‘Indeed, they do. Indeed, they do!’ The man’s voice was melodious, his accent mixed, from countries Michel could not place.

‘May I?’ the man asked and stepped inside. ‘Ah, Serge, sleeping like the baby he is. And Werner. Oh God! Werner. What happened?’

‘He was attacked.’

‘Good God. I’ll go home right now, get my doctor. Wait here. Ah, you are already here… but don’t go anywhere!’

The thin man practically leapt out of the caravan, and Michel watched his long legs sprint through the dewy grass towards the shadow of the large house.

Serge grunted then woke. ‘It’s freezing, Michel, close the door!’

‘There was a man here.’

Serge sat. ‘What kind?’