Page 68 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

The troupe sluggishly climbed back aboard the wagons, following Serge and Odélie, who led the procession.

Michel waited for Claudette and Beau to finish grazing, reluctant to leave the view of the sea. When he turned back, he realised Werner had not returned to his caravan and sat on the grass, smoking a cigar.

‘This is my last one,’ he said.

Michel nodded.

‘You are angry at me for last night? The way I treated you?’

Michel did not answer and patted Claudette’s neck.

‘She explained that it was a surprise. A gift.’

‘Beau needs to be re-shod,’ Michel said.

Werner looked out into the ocean as if he could find words in the salty surf.

‘Tell me, Michel, why do you stay? What have we got here now that entices you so?’

‘It is a job.’

‘One I have never paid you for.’

‘I couldn’t stay in Paris. I have nowhere else to go.’

‘Don’t speak to her again,’ Werner said, but there was little threat in his voice, only fear.

Michel took the reins in his hands and walked the horses on to the camp. He looked back once at Werner, who still sat gazing out to sea, looking as lost as Michel felt.

The troupe had made camp quickly and returned to their caravans and tents, so Michel was alone in putting the horses away for the night.

Jean, perhaps, had erected his tent, and Michel sat inside, his stomach empty, his nerves frayed, and wrote his thoughts to the only person he really trusted.

Dearest Bertrand,

It is night. The owls are quiet, and the wind is blowing through the trees with the promise of a gale.

I am in my tent, alone as always. Yet I feel a little joy at the fact that I visited her yesterday. We talked. And it was enough for me – just to hear her voice again. I cherished her, every moment. It was enough.

I do not think I will be here much longer; my desire for her was seen by the wrong man – by the boss. She is not mine, and despite the fact that I know she cannot be, I hold out hope – fruitless foolish hope.

What should I do, Bertrand? Tell me.

I try to hear your voice, to hear your counsel, yet there is nothing tonight. The wind has picked up even more. Rain is not far away.

The horses are cold. I have used my own blankets to warm them, but they look at me with sad eyes – they are tired of moving, of running. I think I am too.

Bertrand, I wish you could tell me a story – those stories you told me when I was a child and, when I think of it, even as an adult, they made the world seem a magical place, full of adventure. The reality of this adventure is too much for me. The war is raging around us and it will not be long until it finds me and drags me to it. I wonder if I should have stayed in Paris – looking back, there seems little reason for me to have left. There is nowhere safe to run to.

I worry for you, Bertrand. I heard from Anton that bombs were dropped near Paris, that the city is infested with Germans, their language, their rules. Are you well? I hope that you are. I pray that you are.

I must go now, my friend. Let this letter find you in good spirits.

Your friend,

Michel

The wind that evening continued to grow, bringing with it a spattering of rain. Michel wrapped his coat around him to scare away the cold. One by one, the troupe blew out their candles until it became completely dark. He listened to the wind groan as it bent the tents easily to its will. He wondered whether it would grow strong enough to lift the tents clear off the ground, sending them sailing over the ocean like balloons a child had let go. He turned onto his side and pulled his coat up further, shivering and worried for the horses who must now be damp with only his blankets for cover.