Chapter Twelve #2
Apparently there was a disused septic tank in a corner of the vegetable garden that had been emptied and filled with gravel a few years before.
Georges was in the process of removing most of this gravel to make room for the wine, which Odile and Mathilde were to transport from the cellar via the underground tunnel, just in case they happened to be surprised.
They would leave only a small amount for household consumption, which the Germans graciously allowed them to keep.
‘The less important bottles, naturally,’ the countess said. ‘Rousseau has told me which ones we can afford to lose.’
Mathilde and Odile went down to the cellar to begin removing bottles from the racks and loading them on to a wheelbarrow.
By the time they’d wheeled five loads through to the winery, Georges had excavated enough gravel to start burying the bottles.
In all, it took twenty-one trips to transfer most of Chateau Albertine’s wine from the cellar to the vegetable garden, where he and the countess stacked it in neat, shining rows.
At last there were no more bottles to be transferred and the pit was three-quarters full.
Breathing hard, the four of them looked down on the crop planted so unexpectedly among beans and potatoes.
‘There’ll be some party when we dig them up again,’ Georges said, throwing a tarpaulin over the bottles before preparing to cover them with a layer of gravel.
Madame de Courcy laughed. ‘Think of that,’ she said. ‘Thank you, everyone. And now let’s rearrange the cellar.’
The women left Georges to his work and went back through the tunnel to fill the empty shelves with odds and ends and make the best display of what little wine remained: mainly bottles from the later 1930s, which needed ageing and were disappointing to begin with.
‘There!’ the countess said finally, standing with her hands on her hips as she looked at the collection of bric-a-brac. ‘Very convincing, don’t you think? I just hope we’re not depriving ourselves for nothing. We shall have to drink piquette from now on, except for special occasions.’
Mathilde had come across piquette in Avignon: a sour, lightly sparkling concoction made from a second pressing of the grape skins.
For a moment, she wondered whether hiding the wine had been a mistake, just another reason for Odile to resent her.
Soon, though, it wouldn’t matter what Odile thought because she would be on her way.
Madame de Courcy hadn’t asked her to leave yet but her month’s grace ran out at the weekend and she would have no choice but to go.
As things turned out, they had hidden their wine in the nick of time.
Two days later, Mathilde and Odile were preparing the midday meal when Madame de Courcy appeared in the kitchen with a familiar figure beside her.
Mathilde recognised Herr Weber immediately, his paunch even larger than ever.
Luckily, he didn’t give her a second glance and the countess made no move to acknowledge her either.
‘I’m looking forward to seeing your famous cellar, Madame la Comtesse,’ Weber said in an oleaginous tone as he descended the steps.
‘You’ll find it’s sadly declined since my husband’s day,’ Madame de Courcy replied, following behind.
‘Really? I was told the count had an extensive collection. Surely you can’t have drunk it already?’ Weber wheezed with false laughter.
‘I’m afraid you were misinformed,’ Madame de Courcy replied coldly, ‘as you’ll soon find out.’
Mathilde edged closer to the doorway but their voices had receded. She caught Odile’s eye and raised her eyebrows.
‘So you were right, then,’ Odile said, chopping a carrot with venom. ‘Congratulations. As long as no one decides to dig for potatoes in the gravel pit.’
‘Can’t we declare a truce?’ Mathilde asked, finally losing patience. ‘I shan’t be here for much longer – why don’t we try to get along for the next few days? I’m not trying to take your place; you’ve been here for years and the countess is loyal to you, not me. You hold all the cards.’
Odile paused with the knife in mid-air. ‘Then why do you think you’re better than the rest of us?’
Mathilde laughed. ‘What on earth makes you say that? I can’t cook, I can’t sew, and you’ve made it clear my ironing isn’t up to much. All right, I have a university degree but that’s as much use to me now as a bucket with a hole.’
Odile laid down her knife and drew out a chair at the table. ‘I have a question. What were you doing with those men, the night you came here?’
Mathilde sat opposite her. ‘I was being transferred from one prison to another when our van was ambushed to free them. I didn’t know what else to do, so I tagged along with them and ended up here.
What did you think was going on? I’m a decent woman, a widow.
I’d left my husband behind in Paris when I came south because his mother was sick, but now the Nazis have killed him, too. ’
Odile had opened her mouth to reply when they heard voices and footsteps approaching from the cellar. Irène was grizzling in the pram so Mathilde picked her up and held the baby close to her face as Herr Weber and Madame de Courcy passed through.
‘You’ll see me again next year, Madame,’ Weber was saying. ‘In the meantime, an inspector from Vichy will be visiting regularly. Everything you produce now belongs to the Reich.’
‘So I understand,’ the countess said, her voice like acid.
Their voices retreated, fading to silence. Mathilde laid Irène back in the pram and turned to face Odile, who was drying her hands on a tea towel.
Odile met her gaze. ‘You can’t rely on Madame to save you. She only cares about the chateau, and whatever loyalty she’s prepared to give comes at a high price. But maybe I’ve misjudged you, and I’m sorry about that. And I’m sorry you’ve lost your husband, too.’
This unexpected sympathy was harder to take than Odile’s usual spite; Mathilde left the room without another word, her head lowered.
She would need to be strong for the next stage of her journey.
Each night before she went to sleep, she’d been running through a litany of encouraging thoughts: her forged papers were of excellent quality and she was unrecognisable now; she’d carved out a place for herself here and could do the same somewhere else; if she managed to survive till September, there would be plenty of work in other vineyards when the grape harvest began. One day at a time, she would cope.
That Friday evening, Madame de Courcy invited Mathilde to her study for a glass of piquette. ‘Welcome to the new regime,’ she said wryly. ‘And thank you for saving the better vintages. My husband would approve.’
‘My pleasure.’ Mathilde took a sip, wincing as the tart liquid hit the back of her throat.
‘And now to business,’ the countess told her. ‘I should like you to stay on at the chateau for as long as it suits you.’
Mathilde spluttered. ‘That wasn’t at all what I was expecting,’ she said, once she’d composed herself.
‘Well, Georges thinks you’re a hard worker and it would make sense for you to carry on with him in the grounds.
We shall be busy once the harvest starts and I’ll need someone to fend off the wine inspector.
Odile has no objections, and I’ll look for a girl she can train to help in the kitchen and around the house. ’
Mathilde let out her breath. Only now could she acknowledge how much she had been dreading leaving the chateau. ‘Thank you, Madame, from the bottom of my heart.’
‘Not at all.’ The countess bent to stroke Brioche, who was gazing up at her, thumping her tail. ‘It will be good to have you here. You’ve made me face up to reality, and I like your spirit. I’m afraid we may need it in the days to come.’
‘I’m afraid we will.’ Yet Mathilde’s heart soared. Not only did she have a home, she’d be able to stay in contact with Yves and work with him on the only task that mattered: driving every last Nazi out of France.