Chapter Nineteen
Paris Bound
With the train ready to depart from the quayside, along with all the rest of those on board the Rome Express, the Bransons and the Crawleys now settled down into their seats in the two compartments reserved for them, for the long run south westwards to the French capital.
Moments later, and the heavy train with its full complement of passengers and all their luggage pulled slowly out of the Gare Maritime bound for the Gare du Nord in distant Paris: a journey, so said Matthew, in answer to Robert, of just under two hundred miles, and in about three hours' time in answer to Danny who then wanted to know how long it would be before they all reached the French capital.
Although neither of the two compartments in the dark green carriage belonging to the Chemins de Fer du Nord was as luxurious as those they would all occupy for the run south from the Gare de Lyon later that evening, they were more than adequate for their present purpose: beautifully appointed inside, the upholstery deep and well sprung.
While the two families made themselves comfortable, at the rear of the train, and in one of the two gleaming dark blue coaches belonging to the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits, in the sleeping compartment reserved for the earl and countess of Grantham, Hodges began seeing to the disposition of those items from Her Ladyship's luggage of which the countess would have need later that evening. In the compartments reserved for her and the three Crawley children Nanny Bridges did likewise: however, apart from the assistance on offer from the steward allocated to the sleeping car, later that evening, when the time came, the Bransons would have to shift for themselves.
Almost as soon as the train had begun its long journey southwards, having hurriedly summoned the Chef de Bord to their compartment, Matthew quickly saw to it that the necessary arrangements were put in hand immediately to enable Edith and young Max to move compartments, so as to permit the two of them to join the rest of the family and share the seats previously allocated to the Bransons, the Crawleys, and their children.
Very fortuitously, the splendidly moustached Chef de Bord turned out to be the very official who had welcomed Matthew on board the same train when the earl of Grantham had previously journeyed to Paris en route to the headquarters of the League of Nations in Geneva earlier in the year. Accordingly, the necessary changes regarding seating arrangements to accommodate both Edith and young Max were swiftly made, which was just as well as later events were shortly to prove.
Hitherto, one compartment had been reserved for the adults, but now, so as to accommodate Edith and Max, much to their delight, Danny and Robert were permitted to share their parents' compartment, while Edith, despite being pressed to join her two sisters and brothers-in-law, along with young Max, settled down in the other, in the seats vacated by the two eldest boys; the second of their two reserved compartments having being occupied previously by all the younger children.
After negotiating a succession of sharp curves through Calais town, the train began quickly to gather speed, pounding up towards the summit at Caffiers, thereafter running down through Marquise, and thence along the coast to Boulogne, where, standing in the corridor, Matthew explained to an excited Danny, an equally excited Robert, and a disinterested Tom, the British Army had first landed back in 1914 at the very beginning of the war.
As the train steamed on through Boulogne-Ville, still standing out in the corridor, over the heads of their two sons, Matthew caught his friend's eye and shook his head ruefully.
"Do you know Tom, the war, seems a lifetime ago? Thank God, that in our own different ways, we both made it through. These days, I often find myself wondering what it was all for, that senseless slaughter and suffering, whether it was worth it".
Tom nodded, and glanced back through the glass of the door of their shared compartment, to where Sybil was now seated chatting quietly with Mary and with Edith who had joined them there for a few moments, along with Saiorse who was sitting beside them.
"I know how you feel, Matthew. Once upon a time, I said very much the same thing to Sybil that sometimes hard sacrifices have to be made for a life that's worth living. But, then again, perhaps some sacrifices demand too high a price". Tom ruffled the hair of his eldest son and then impulsively hugged Danny to him in an open display of both paternal love and affection.
Not surprisingly, at least to begin with, Saiorse had not been at all pleased by the last-minute changes to the seating arrangements, and said so: loudly. Why was it that only Danny and Robert were allowed to share a seat in the same compartment as their parents for the train journey to Paris? Why couldn't she sit in there too? And while Bobby, Simon and Rebecca might very well need the help of a nanny, Saiorse herself did not. So why did she have to sit with the babies?
In a rare display of exerting discipline, it was now, probably because he was so overwrought with concern for Sybil, that Tom sharply told his daughter that by her present behaviour she was showing just how much in fact she did need a nanny. Only then did Saiorse finally desist from her complaining. After all, she adored her father and never wished to seem less than perfect in his eyes. Even so, it was only when Sybil chimed in and explained to her headstrong daughter that along with young Max, her beloved Aunt Edith would also shortly be sitting in the seats previously occupied by Danny and Robert, that for Saiorse her original seat in the adjoining compartment along with the younger children suddenly became an altogether far more attractive proposition. Thereafter, she made no further complaint and by way of further recompense, Tom also promised Saiorse that during the journey to Paris, if she wanted to do so, Saiorse could change places with Danny. However when Saiorse realised that might entail sharing a seat with Robert, that decided the matter once and for all.
To the bemusement of her father, Saiorse capitulated; said, on reflection, that she would much prefer to stay just where she was thank you very much. At that Tom had laughed whereupon Saiorse extracted a promise from her father that from time to time he would come and sit next to her in the other compartment. When he agreed to do so, Saiorse had beamed and hugged her father tightly. Now, if only she could manage to devise a foolproof way to get rid of Bobby, Simon and Rebecca, leaving her seated in the same compartment with just Da, Aunt Edith and her young cousin Max, Saiorse would have exactly what she wanted, including the undivided attention of her beloved father.
Despite his usual bonhomie, Tom was in fact extremely concerned; realising that Sybil was very upset about something indeed, the nature of which she had yet to fully divulge to him. Granted, she had said it was nothing he had done, that it was, as he had rightly surmised, something to do with young Max, and that she would talk to him about it later. But, Tom being himself, remained nevertheless very concerned. After all, it would be some time, probably not until later in the evening, in their sleeping compartment, where they would at least be assured of some degree of privacy that he would find out just what it was that had so upset Sybil and so obviously disconcerted Mary.
Beneath an almost cloudless blue sky, the express train steamed ever onwards towards Paris, passing quickly through Etaples, then Abbeville, slowing to a crawl through Amiens, which, Matthew explained to both Danny and Robert, had been badly damaged during the war by German shell fire - the scars of the damage and devastation wrought still now, all these years later, being clearly apparent; the battle for the town in 1918 having led directly to the Armistice, which finally ended the horror of the Great War.
Along the route traversed by the railway, there was to be seen a far more sombre and stark reminder of the terrible cost of that appalling conflict; one which Matthew did not shrink from pointing out to the two boys, to both son and nephew alike. For, from the windows of the passing train, and clearly visible to them all, were to be seen row upon row of neat, uniform, white headstones which marked the site of yet another of the numerous military cemeteries, beneath which lay the fallen of the Great War; those who at least possessed the quiet dignity of a known grave. What Matthew did not tell Danny or Robert was that there were countless numbers of the dead whose last resting place beneath the dirt and mud of Flanders remained unknown, and which, in all likelihood, would stay that way forever.
Instantly recognisable for what they were, and in their ordered neatness, belying the very horror and savagery of warfare, the silent, white sentinels, mute memorials to the appalling cost of war, of man's inhumanity to man, were to be found, scattered like so much wind-blown chaff, throughout the length and breadth of this part of northern France, in what was an otherwise depressingly, drab, featureless, flat, watery landscape; pock-marked by the still raw scars of war, crisscrossed by a network of slow-moving canals and sluggish rivers; dotted with the spires of churches, shabby pit villages, grimy collieries and towering above them all, the grey, black mountainous heaps of both slag and waste, the shape of some of which Edith observed to young Max and also to his cousin Bobby, looked just like the pyramids of Ancient Egypt.
The train sped onwards, passing through Longueau, the very limit, said Matthew, of the German advance in 1918, climbed to Gannes and ran down to Creil, then up to the summit at Survilliers, and dropped down again, this time to St. Denis, the ancient burial-place of the kings of France, now swallowed up by the voracious maw and sprawl of the Paris suburbs.
Thereafter, but a short while later, wreathed in steam and smoke, with a thunderous roar, the train from Calais drew gently to a stop beneath the massive, arching glass roof of the Gare du Nord. For some, for many in fact, their journey from the French coast, inland by train to Paris, was now over, among them two men who, along with all the rest of the passengers, had boarded the express at the Gare Maritime.
Of course, thanks to the discrete, hushed payment of a crisp, new, one hundred franc note to a young steward, to whom, with his wife expecting their first child, additional money by way of tips was always more than welcome, without any difficulty, they had found out the whereabouts in the train of the compartment reserved for Lady Edith Crawley and her young son. Yet shortly after the train had passed through Longueau, when they had paid a surreptitious visit to the same compartment, it was empty.
When found and questioned further, the helpful carriage steward, unwilling to become further involved in a matter in which he realised, too late, he had no business to have become involved with in the first place, now said, that with other duties to attend to, he could be of no further help to the two men. Singularly unaware of the last-minute alterations to seating made by the Chef de Bord to accommodate a personal request from the earl of Grantham, the young steward could offer no explanation whatsoever; other than a grin, a Gallic shrug, and the politely made suggestion that perhaps the two men were mistaken; that the lady and her son had not boarded the train after all.
Now, whether it was the grin, the shrug, or else the tongue-in-cheek suggestion that the men had been mistaken, or perhaps a combination of all three, the two men were distinctly not amused. Thereafter, following a decidedly unpleasant encounter in the darkened confines of the baggage car, all the young steward now had to show for himself was a bloody nose, a cut lip, and the loss of the new hundred franc note from the breast pocket of his hitherto spotlessly white tunic.
It was only after getting off the express at the Gare du Nord, among the streaming flood of passengers leaving the train in Paris, that by their sheer good fortune, at least for them, the two men now happened upon the Chef de Bord.
As a result of their chance meeting, a short while later, in a darkened alleyway at the side of the station, with gentle persuasion having been brought to bear upon the elderly railway official, it was only then that the two men at last found out what it was that had actually happened to explain the seeming disappearance of Lady Edith Crawley and her young son. But by then, of course, it was already too late.
Leaving the Chef de Bord where he had fallen, and despite running at breakneck speed back into the station, all the two men could now do for the present was stand helplessly, and watch equally impotently from the platform as, with a fresh engine now backed onto to the rear of the train, the through coaches from off the Paris portion of the Rome Express were drawn smartly out of the Gare du Nord, bound for the Gare de Lyon, by means of the Petite Ceinture.
Author's Note:
Founded in Belgium in 1872 by Georges Nagelmackers, the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits soon became the premier operator of railway dining and sleeping cars in Europe during the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries. With its headquarters in Paris, the company is still in existence today.
Chef de Bord – the Chief Steward on board an express train.
The route of the Rome Express, through northern France from Calais to Paris, in 1932, was as described.
Opened in stages between 1852 and 1869, the Petite Ceinture ("the Little Belt") was a railway that once provided a circular connection between the main railway stations in Paris within the old fortified walls of the city. In decline from the 1920s, most of it has long been abandoned; there is presently much heated debate over the future of what still remains.
The Gare de Lyon is perhaps the most famous of all the railway termini in Paris.