Authors: Francesca
‘We are too early, Francesca. No one stirs here till midday.’
‘Surely there must be some servant…?’
‘Not in the front half of the houses, not before noon. Haven’t you noticed that there are no street vendors about, either? Their cries are not allowed to disturb the peace of this neighbourhood till later in the day. If we return this afternoon, I am sure we shall find someone.’
Francescsa had to agree, and they returned, somewhat tired, to their hotel, where they went to their rooms to rest. But when Francesca called for Madame Elisabeth later in the day, she found that lady stretched out on her couch looking very frail.
‘I am sorry, Francesca. I cannot walk another step today. Could we try again tomorrow?’
‘Of course! You make me ashamed of myself, Madame Elisabeth. I dragged you all the way here without pause or rest, and then got you up early…Of course, you need rest. I have been unpardonably selfish.’
‘Oh, no, my dear! You are anxious to find your nurse, I understand that. I shall be perfectly fit tomorrow, you’ll see.’
Francesca sent for a chambermaid to attend to Madame Elisabeth. ‘You must not allow me to stop you, Francesca,’ said Madame Elisabeth. ‘It is a beautiful afternoon—I am sure you would find someone to ask if you went back to the rue du Luxembourg.’ She spoke to the maid in rapid French, then turned to Francesca. ‘The maid says the streets are quite safe round here, but you must take care if you go further afield.’
Francesca thought for a moment. Then she said, ‘I think I’ll take the carriage, Madame Elisabeth. It’s here in the stables, and the grooms are in the yard—I saw them as we came in. I just might want to go further, if someone tells me where Maddy can be found.’
‘Of course. I’m sure you wish to find your nurse as soon as possible. You must be worried about her.’
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right? I’ll get one of the chambermaids to stay with you if you wish.’
‘No, no, that won’t be necessary. A rest today and I shall be quite well again. And I am happy that you will be safe with the grooms we brought from England to guard you. They seem to have their wits about them. Off you go, my dear. And—
bonne chance
!’
The street was full of activity when Francesca arrived there for the second time. Nursemaids were walking the children, footmen were delivering notes and parcels, and next door to
her father’s house an elegantly dressed lady was just setting foot in her carriage. Francesca sent one of the grooms to knock at the door of her father’s house and waited, aware of curious glances directed at her from all sides. The groom knocked once more, but there was still no response. Her heart sinking, Francesca left the carriage and went up to the house. The groom shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.
‘It’s no use trying there. They’ve gone.’ Francesca’s French was far from perfect, but it was adequate enough to understand these words. She turned round. The speaker was about eight years old, and looking up at her with a child’s curiosity. ‘
Tais-toi, Virginie
!’ The nursemaid with the little girl took her hand and hurried her away.
Francesca looked helplessly round. The elegantly dressed lady, who had stopped to stare, got into the carriage and gave an abrupt order. The carriage moved off before Francesca could speak to her. A small crowd of footmen, other servants, street vendors and children had gathered at the bottom of the steps, gabbling rapidly. Francesca regretted that Madame Elisabeth was not with her. Her own French was not equal to this.
‘C’est la maison de Milord Beaudon?’
she asked hesitantly.
They all stared, then one of the footmen, taking pity on her, said, ‘
Oui, mais
…the little one is right,
mademoiselle
. The English milor’ has not been here for months. More. And
Madame
was taken ill.’ Francesca caught this last word—
malade
was ill.
‘Where is
Madame
now?’ she asked. The footman shrugged his shoulders. There was a discussion. At one point they eyed her uncertainly, then shook their heads.
‘Please,’ she cried. ‘I must see
Madame
!’
They only shook their heads again. One woman—a street vendor from her looks—obviously disagreed with the rest.
She harangued them in a French which was totally incomprehensible to Francesca’s untutored ear. They replied in kind, and the footman ended the discussion with a decisive
‘Non!’
Then he turned again to Francesca.
‘I regret,
mademoiselle
, we cannot help you. Perhaps the embassy will advise you?’
Francesca thanked him, pressed a few sous into his hand and turned away disconsolately. She had the impression that they knew what had happened to Maddy, but had decided not to tell her. The speed with which they disappeared seemed to confirm this notion. She started back towards the carriage, and was just getting in when she heard,
‘Psst! Psst,
mademoiselle
!’
Francesca turned. The street vendor was sidling up behind her. The groom attempted to push her away, but Francesca stopped him. The woman clearly had something to tell her. She was talking in some kind of patois, but when she saw that Francesca did not understand a word, she tried again, more slowly.
Francesca gathered that she was trying to give her an address, and eventually, after many false starts and failed repetitions, Francesca managed to say the address to the woman’s satisfaction. She beamed with pleasure and held out a dirty hand. Francesca gave her some money, and they parted on good terms. As she hurried off down the street, the woman shouted something in a warning voice, but Francesca did not heed her. She was sure that
La Maison des Anges
in the rue Giboureau was where she would find Maddy. It sounded like a hospital of some sort.
A
fter studying the street map one of the grooms had procured, Francesca saw that the rue Giboureau was some distance away in what looked like a prosperous district not far from the Bois de Boulogne. It should be easy to find. It was still early, so Francesca decided that, if she went straight there, she could see Maddy, find out how she was and still have time to get back to the hotel before it was too late. Then the next day, if Maddy’s health permitted, she could set about making arrangements to convey her to England. Francesca gave the orders, and the carriage set off in the direction of the Bois de Boulogne.
The journey took longer than Francesca had anticipated, and it was almost evening before they reached the rue Giboureau. The road was lined with high walls, interrupted occasionally with tall, elaborately decorated iron gates. Francesca marvelled at tantalising glimpses of opulent houses set in lawns and flowerbeds behind them. If Maddy was in one of these, she was clearly being comfortably looked after—these mansions were like no hospital Francesca had ever seen.
‘Miss Beaudon! Look!’ One of the grooms was pointing at an elegantly discreet board set outside an open gateway which bore the legend
Maison des Anges
.
They drove up a short drive, lined with statues of nymphs in various graceful poses, to a beautiful house, built in the days before the Revolution. Broad steps led up to an imposing portico and intricately carved doors, and again there was an elegant board at the side which gave the name of the house. This time the board was surmounted by the head of a beautiful girl, her long, curling locks forming a frame for the whole.
Francesca rang the bell and then studied the board more closely as she waited. Flowers and leaves formed a background to the girl’s head, all beautifully carved, and looking very lifelike—there were even a few insects on the flowers. Francesca saw that they were mostly bees—in fact, they were all bees. How strange!
‘Madame?’
An exotic figure in Turkish costume was standing impassively at the door. He was at least six and a half feet tall with huge shoulders and a swarthy face half hidden by an imposing moustache.
Francesca blinked, checked the board, which still said
Maison des Anges
, and cleared her throat. In her coolest manner she said, ‘I have come to see Madame Madeleine…’ She stopped. What name would Maddy now be using? ‘Madame…’
‘
Je regrette. Madame Madeleine est malade
.’ The deep voice expressed nothing but a detached finality. He started to close the door.
‘Yes, I know she is sick,’ said Francesca, raising her voice and speaking with all the authority at her command. ‘I have come to see her. Please tell her that Miss Beaudon, Miss Francesca Beaudon, is here. Meanwhile, I should like to see your…your
directrice
.’
‘
Pas possible!
’
‘Of course it is possible! Kindly let me in!’
‘
Qui est-ce, Hassim?
’ Hassim’s tall figure completely
blocked the view into the hall, so Francesca did not see the owner of the voice until she appeared at her servant’s side.
The man bowed.
‘Une anglaise, Comtesse. Elle veut voir Madame Madeleine.’
Though the Countess was in her fifties, she was still a beautiful woman. Her hair was grey, but fashionably cut, and her dove-grey dress, though sober in hue, was of heavy silk and trimmed with white lace. The figure revealed by the superb cut of her dress was still elegantly slender.
Francesca was impressed, but did not disguise her annoyance with this cavalier treatment. ‘My name is Beaudon,’ she said coldly. ‘Until recently, Madame Madeleine was living in the rue du Luxembourg, in my father’s house. I am one of her oldest friends. It surely cannot be that difficult for me to see her. Even if…’ Francesca hesitated. ‘Is she so very ill?’
The Countess looked disconcerted. ‘Miss Beaudon? The daughter of Lord Beaudon? But you should not be here, mademoiselle! Please go at once!’
Francesca set her jaw. ‘I have come from England to see my friend, and I am not going until I know how she is!’
‘But you don’t understand…Oh,
mon Dieu
, you mustn’t stand here on the doorstep where anyone could see you. It is most unfortunate. Please go!’
‘If you do not take me to see Madame Madeleine,
immediately
, I shall return with someone from the British Embassy.’
The Countess had been looking distinctly agitated, but at these words her lips curved into an ironical smile. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time one or two of them had visited me,
mademoiselle
, but they wouldn’t bring
you
back here, I assure you.’
‘What do you mean?’ Francesca was growing angrier by the minute. ‘Surely even in Paris one may visit a sick friend in hospital?’
‘A
hospital
! Is that what you think? Ah! Now I understand…a hospital! That explains a lot.’ The woman turned her head away, but Francesca could have sworn she was laughing. It was too much! Exasperated, she turned on her heel and started down the steps.
‘No! Wait, Mademoiselle Beaudon. I have changed my mind. You can see Madame Madeleine, if you promise not to stay too long. I think you are right. Your visit might do Maddy some good.’
Francesca swung round and stared at the Countess. ‘
Maddy?
’
‘I, too, am a friend of Maddy’s. An even older friend than you, I think. But please come inside. We can talk more comfortably there. If you will permit, Hassim will show your groom where to put the carriage. But you must be away from here before…Please do come in, Mademoiselle Beaudon.’ When Francesca hesitated, the Countess said with a charming smile, ‘You shall be perfectly safe, I assure you. Believe me, my sole object is to protect you. Let Hassim speak to your groom. We cannot leave the carriage in the drive for all to see. Come!’
Somewhat doubtfully Francesca allowed herself to be escorted inside.
Francesca had an impression of velvet and gilt, painting and statues, ormolu and boulle, as she walked into the grand entrance hall. Spacious rooms could be glimpsed on each side, and a broad staircase swept up in a wide curve to the first landing, its balusters supporting candelabras in the form of nymphs on either side. The house obviously belonged to someone of enormous wealth, though the furnishings were too opulent for Francesca’s taste. What sort of hospital was this? She looked doubtfully at her hostess.
‘I shall take you straight away to Maddy. I think you will be reassured when you see her. She has been ill, but will soon be well again.’
Francesca tore her fascinated gaze from one of the nymphs, on whose scantily clad bosom rested a small carved bee, and said, ‘But…why is she here,
Comtesse
?’
The Countess had started up the stairs, but now she stopped. ‘Do you not know? Your father has sent no money to Maddy for the past three months—since he last visited her, in fact.’
‘But, indeed, he has! His agent in London…’
‘Swears he has sent it? I thought as much,’ said the Countess, looking satisfied. She started up the stairs again. ‘I said so to Maddy. Richard has not forgotten you, I told her. And if she had not been ill, I think she would have had more confidence in him, and pursued the matter. There has been some trickery, I think. I never trusted her steward, I’ll swear he’s to blame. But…why are you here,
mademoiselle
? Why has your father not come in person?’
As Francesca explained the circumstances which had led to her visit, they reached the top of the stairs and started walking down a wide corridor with beautifully carved and painted doors on either side. Once again the theme was that of nymphs, bees and flowers, though here some of the nymphs were disporting themselves with more exuberance than decorum. Francesca blinked at one spectacularly improper scene and hastily averted her eyes. They passed a smaller passage leading off to the left, which was hung with diaphanous rose and gold draperies. The air here was scented with roses and a heavier, more exotic perfume.
Francesca wanted to ask the Countess what it was, but her attention was caught by a deep semi-circular alcove a little way beyond the side passage. The walls were covered in dark red damask and in the centre was a small fountain. A white marble nymph was bathing herself in abandoned grace in the basin at its foot. Francesca felt the colour rising in her cheeks. The statues Lord Elgin had brought from Greece had been
positively
chaste
compared with this. She hurried to catch the Countess up. ‘I had no idea where Maddy was, otherwise I would have written to her long before this,
Comtesse
. Where…where are we?’
‘You know where you are, Mademoiselle Beaudon. You are in
La Maison des Anges
.’
‘Yes, but…’ Francesca looked back doubtfully at the marble statue, but said no more. They turned into another side passage to the left, an altogether simpler affair with no doors, no draperies and only a faint scent of lavender.
‘Maddy talks of you frequently. She loved you and your mother.’
‘You have known her long?’
‘We were children together.’ They had now reached the end of the passage. The Countess turned and started to mount a narrow staircase. The scent of lavender grew stronger. ‘We married more or less at the same time, had our babies more or less at the same time. Then the hurricane came to the island…We both lost everything…everything. We left the island after that—we could not bear to stay.’
‘Maddy came to St Marthe. She was my nurse.’
‘I know. And I came to France. But here is Maddy’s room,
mademoiselle
. Wait here one moment.’
They had been talking so busily that Francesca had had no time to look around. She saw that they were now in a much plainer part of the house, and the door that faced them was uncarved and unadorned. The Countess went in and Francesca could hear her speaking rapidly, then an exclamation of joy in another voice—a well-loved voice from years ago. Questions and answers followed. She could make out none of the words, though there were echoes of the patois she had learned on St Marthe in her childhood. Then the Countess came out again.
‘She is overjoyed to be seeing you again, but still weak—
do not overtire her, Mademoiselle Beaudon. I have much to do, so I hope you will excuse me now. But…I
beg
of you, do not leave this room until I come to fetch you.’ She led the way into a simply furnished room and then went out again. Francesca did not see her go—all her attention was on the figure in the armchair by the window. Maddy held out her arms and Francesca ran to her with a cry of delight.
Marcus arrived in Paris a little less than twenty-four hours after Francesca. He drove straight to Francesca’s hotel, and found Madame Elisabeth alone in her room. From there he went to the rue du Luxembourg, and discovered that the house was still shut up and deserted. There was no sign of Francesca, but one of the boys in the street told him he had seen an English lady driving off in a big coach earlier in the day. He had no idea where they had gone.
Marcus went back to the hotel to find that Francesca had still not appeared, and that Madame Elisabeth was beginning to grow anxious for her. After doing his best to reassure the old lady, Marcus then went to the British Embassy and spent some time with a certain Mr Percy Gardiner, one of his closest friends there. What he discovered appalled him.
‘Good God! Are you sure?
La Maison des Anges
?’
‘Only too true,’ said Mr Gardiner, looking at him curiously. ‘Why are you so upset? The lady mean anything to you? No, that can’t be so—Madeleine Lachasse is nearly old enough to be your mother, Marcus old dear.’
‘She’s nothing to me personally. I…I’m acting for a friend.’
Mr Gardiner looked sceptical. ‘Well, you’d do better to tell your friend to leave
La Maison
well alone. Good Lord, I don’t have to tell
you
what goes on there—apart from serving as a high-class brothel with some very peculiar practices, that is.’
‘I have to get her out of there.’
‘You mustn’t go near the place, Marcus!’ exclaimed Mr Gardiner, dropping his casual air. ‘What the devil can you be thinking of? Don’t touch it! Can’t someone else fetch the lady?’
A vision of Francesca arriving at
La Maison des Anges
flashed through Marcus’s mind. He shuddered. ‘That’s just what I’m afraid of. Er…has anyone else been asking about Lord Beaudon’s
petite amie
? Today, or yesterday, perhaps.’
‘No…I don’t think so.’
‘It’s important, Percy. Could you ask around?’
Mr Gardiner came back a few minutes later with the assurance that no one had even mentioned the lady for the past few months. Marcus breathed a sigh of relief. Francesca had not yet learned Maddy’s address. But in that case, where was she?
‘What is all this about, Marcus? You can’t seriously be considering visiting that palace of corruption! Think what it would do, man, if you were found there!’