Page 91 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘And what did you think of what I told Bertrand?’

‘Cherish. I love that word.’ She kissed him lightly on the cheek, then helped him to lie back down. ‘I am glad you cherish me, Michel. Know that I cherish you.’

On the fourth day, Michel woke to the sound of bells tolling the hour. He sat up and found he was alone. He dressed and opened the door. He was in a field behind a graveyard, the horses grazing nearby. The church bell stopped – four o’clock.

He sat on the caravan’s wooden steps and lit a cigarette. He heard an accordion play a familiar tune in the distance and knew they were performing – small tricks, dances, anything to earn money before they moved on once more towards Werner’s friend and the safety that he promised. It was strange to think of the Big Top lying crumpled in a box. Although tattered and aged, it was still the jewel that attracted people to the circus.

In the distance, Michel saw the sky darkening to its autumnal deep navy. Within weeks, it would change to the pitchest of blacks with only the stars to light the night.

He thought of Paris, and how the lights burned brightly so that the winter sky was never quite completely dark like here in the countryside. Was it still like that?

He shivered and retreated inside. He lit a small fire in the stove and made coffee. Wrapping his coat around his shoulders, he sat next to the fire and dozed, awaiting his friends, his family, his love – Frieda – to return.

‘Michel!’ her voice sounded faraway, worried. He tried to reach out to her.

‘Michel!’ His dream dissolved and she was in front of him, tears streaming down her face, her cheeks flushed, her breathing rapid. ‘Quick, please come! Please!’

Michel followed her out into the night, weaving through the gravestones. His head pounded and he felt dizzy, but he did not stop.

As they rounded the corner of the church, Serge appeared, covered in blood, supporting Werner, who was battered and beaten.

Michel helped Serge to carry Werner to his caravan. No one spoke. Only the grunting and breathing of Serge and Michel could be heard, punctuated with a gurgle of blood from Werner’s nose as he tried to breathe.

Inside the caravan, Michel could see the state of Werner; his nose was broken and bent to the side, both eyes were swollen shut, and, as Serge undressed him, they glimpsed a deep gash in his side that oozed crimson.

‘Frieda, get Madame Rosie now! Go!’ Michel ordered. ‘Serge, fetch Giordano or Hugo and ask them for the génépy. Ask Jean to bring a needle and some thread. Quickly.’

Michel was no doctor, but he treated Werner as he had once treated a tearaway stallion in Paris that had caught himself on a barbed fence. Michel had calmed him as he cried in pain and tended to the wounds with swift hands.

‘Michel…’ Werner tried to speak, his voice muffled by his swollen lip.

‘Hush now. Hush. It will be fine.’

Madame Rosie brought with her a potent liquid, a deep green that reminded Michel of the stagnant water of the Seine in the summer months. She poured it down Werner’s throat, and within seconds his breathing calmed.

‘It won’t last long. You must be quick,’ she said. ‘I will help. You close the wound; I will sort his nose.’

Michel held the wound closed as best he could, and Rosie, with a quick movement, snapped Werner’s nose back into place. She then cleaned his mouth, his lip and his nostrils, so that he could breathe easier.

Michel saw he was missing two teeth as Rosie plugged the bloody holes with cotton wool.

‘What happened?’ Giordano burst in, the génépy in his hand, Jean behind, carrying the thick sewing needle he used to mend his costumes.

Michel grabbed the alcohol and poured it over the wound, then sewed it shut, the stitches pronounced and haphazard.

When he’d finished, Madame Rosie asked everyone to leave so she could clean and dress the ringmaster. ‘I’ll watch him for a while,’ she said. ‘Go and get some rest. If he wakes, I can give him some more of my remedy.’

No one argued. As if they all knew where to go, they followed Frieda and poured into Jean’s caravan, Serge still wearing his shirt splattered with red.

‘I should change,’ he said to nobody in particular, as Frieda handed round tumblers of whisky.

‘What happened?’ Michel asked.

‘He would not stop. He wanted to drink after we had performed in the town square. Just me and him. We drank. No, wait – Odélie was there too. She was talking to some soldiers who were drinking and laughing. I told Werner that we should leave, but he insisted we stay. The others were at the restaurant, having a small meal provided by the chef for free – he liked Frieda, I think. I don’t know…’ Serge stopped, and Michel saw tears in his eyes.

‘I told him – I said, “You are drunk, we should go to the others, have something to eat,” but he did not want to listen. Finally I convinced him and we stood outside, getting some air, and then there he was – this solider from the bar. He asked us for papers and Werner said he had forgotten them. The soldier, he wanted money, he wouldn’t leave us alone. We started to walk away, and then suddenly Werner was on the ground, blood coming from his side. Then I fought the man, I punched him, but he was strong and I fell and he hit Werner, he hit him and hit him and I tried to stop him, I tried to stop…’

Serge held his head in his hands, his large shoulders suddenly smaller as they heaved up and down with each sob.