The Child Lives On
Chapter Nine
Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight we are traveling back in time to the year 1846. As you can see, we are floating high in the air. On our left, the Atlantic Ocean stretches out as far as the eye can see. On our right is the continent of Europe. As we descend, the coastlines of England and France become clearer, to the point where they almost touch. Do not worry. We will not fall. All is... No! Wait! We are approaching too fast. Put on the breaks! Put on the breaks! Ah, ha-ha-ha... Thank you. That was close.
As we touch down, gently, a quaint little French town appears before us. The light is just beginning to penetrate the darkness, turning everything various shades of gray. Moving a little closer, we find a small cottage, clean and well cared for, with plant life flourishing inside and out. Moving closer still, we enter a neat and tidy bedroom. An old lady is lying still upon a bed, her body covered with blankets. In the chair next to the bed, a small child weeps. Tears flow freely. As you can see, she is heartbroken. "Oh, Clara," she sobs, "why did you leave me?"
Wiping her eyes with a lace handkerchief, the child hops out of the chair, then on tiptoes, she gently kisses the lady. Treading lightly on tiny feet, she dons her cloak, bonnet and shoes and leaves the cottage. Next, we find her on the doorstep of the poste de police.
Sergeant Renault is at his desk, sipping coffee and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He is tall and lanky. His long thin face is adorned with an ample supply of nose and chin. The child catches his eye. "Mademoiselle, you are up early."
She approaches the desk, wringing her little hands. "Monsieur, I must speak with you."
"Speak away, by all means."
"Granny is dead."
"That is too bad."
"She is in the cottage."
He rises, slipping on his cap. "Show me the way, little one."
The child watches as somber men in dark coats wrap up the lady and carry her away. She trembles, pulling her cloak tightly around herself. Though it is summer, she feels a chill. With a handkerchief, she wipes her face, wet with dew and tears. Sergeant Renault speaks to her. He is gentle with the child. "Mademoiselle, is there anyone to care for you?"
Fearing a trip to the orphanage, she makes up a lie. "I have an aunt in Barfleur."
"Will she come for you?"
"I will go to her." She holds out some coins in her tiny hand. "Here is money for passage."
"Very well. I will see you safely on the coach."
Outside the only inn in town, a coach-driver is loading luggage onto a coach. He is small and wiry. His face and hands are wrinkled and weathered. His coat and hat are made of sturdy leather- weathered like his skin. Sergeant Renault speaks to him. "Will you see that this child arrives safely to her aunt's in Barfleur?" The driver assures him that he will. The child is lifted into the coach. She has only a small cloth-bag, filled with odds and ends, which is placed at her feet. Two middle-aged ladies take up positions on either side of her, leaving little room. Her arms are pinned to her sides. Unable to knit, which calms her when she is anxious, and overwhelmed by strong perfume, she braces for a long unpleasant journey.
Little does she know, the journey will take ten days. To spare us what she will endure, we will fast forward to the final day of the journey. We can do that, she can't.
As the coach approaches Barfleur, we see the child still squished between two ladies, though not the same two ladies as at the beginning. They talk over her, as if she isn't there. One complains about her husband. The other, the help. The child has heard this conversation many times before.
She has been ignored, but not neglected. When the coach stopped for a night, one lady or another gave her a hot meal, a bath and a convenient closet to sleep in. These little kindnesses made an otherwise unpleasant journey bearable.
The coach stops. A lady nudges her. "Wake up child," she says. The child rubs her eyes, yawns and stretches. Awake, she hops out of the coach onto the street. A crowd engulfs her. She is momentarily lost among the giants, buffeted and nearly trampled, holding tightly to her cloth-bag. When she emerges, slightly disheveled, the coach is gone. Now that she has arrived, what will she do?
Purchasing some bread and cold meat at a shop, she sits on a rock, staring out at the sea, and nibbles absentmindedly until her hunger is sated. The beautiful colors of the sunset distract her, but only temporarily. She must find a place to sleep.
The inn is large and imposing. The foyer is empty. A man is sitting behind a desk, writing. Hearing soft footsteps, he looks up. A child is standing before him. "Monsieur," she says, "I would like to rent a room for the night."
"I will not rent to unaccompanied children," is his terse response.
"I beg your pardon, Monsieur, I am not a child. I - I - I am a midget."
"And I am Napoléon. Run along home."
"But…"
"I am not in the mood for pranks. Run along."
It is dark. She has been chased from every inn. Knocking on house-doors is out of the question. A secluded doorway offers shelter. "I have been foolish," she says. "I thought I knew what to do. Without Clara, I am lost. What will become of me?" Laying her head on her cloth-bag, she falls into a fitful sleep.