Chapter Twenty-Five
Another year had gone by, and another wedding anniversary rolled around to pierce Mathilde to the core.
Jacques was alive, as far as she knew, but it was far too dangerous to travel back into the occupied zone to meet him, and she could neither leave Esmé behind nor take the tiny baby with her.
The thought that Jacques might be waiting for her on the steps of Sacré-C?ur tore at her heartstrings, yet there was nothing to be done.
Next year, she promised, wondering where she would be then.
Still at the chateau? Somehow she couldn’t imagine it, though she couldn’t picture herself anywhere else.
The outside world seemed increasingly remote and unreal.
Since Esmé had been born, Mathilde wasn’t making her usual Sunday trips around the countryside; she’d heard nothing from Yves so she didn’t feel too guilty about neglecting her duty.
Instead she and Esmé called at Paulette’s every Sunday for an instalment of the latest gossip.
‘A box of ration coupons has been stolen from the town hall,’ Paulette reported.
‘Of course the new police chief’s livid.
I saw him the other day, strutting around the square.
Captain Corbeille, his name is, and there’s no getting round him with a boiled ham.
He threw old Madame Vidal in jail for buying two chickens on the black market, and you know what can happen once you’re in prison. ’
‘A few things spring to mind,’ Mathilde said, remembering her time in Sainte-Anne.
Paulette drew a finger across her throat.
‘Anything goes on that the Germans don’t like, they shoot a few prisoners in reprisal – doesn’t matter why they were arrested.
We’ve all had enough. The train to Paris is raided practically every journey, or so I’ve heard, but you can’t blame people for stealing food when they’re starving.
Prices on the black market are rising every day.
Oh, and this is good: there were four barrels of wine headed for Domaine Les Roches but one of them rattled when it was being unloaded, and guess what they found inside? ’
‘Stones?’ Mathilde offered. ‘Snakes?’
‘Guns!’ Paulette told her triumphantly. ‘Guns and grenades. Of course Monsieur Bourriane the winemaker denied any knowledge, but he’s under arrest. People are on the move; you mark my words.’
Mathilde felt the faint stirring of a long-forgotten impulse, a harkening back to the person she’d been before Esmé. She would file this information away and think about it later.
‘And Corbeille’s rounding up more volunteers to send to the factories in Germany,’ Paulette went on. ‘Volunteers, my arse. Thierry turns eighteen next month and I’m worried that if he goes, he’ll never come back.’
‘Have you heard any news of the children?’ Mathilde asked, to change the subject.
Gradually the remaining Jewish children had left the chateau, two by two – all except for Stefan and Anna, who were staying as part of the household.
Doctor Pailleau and the mayor had contacted everyone they knew and travelled as far afield as Arles and Saint-Rémy to find the children homes with suitable families.
‘It will be better for them in the long run and safer for us,’ the countess had said.
The previous police chief, Longchamp, had been too lazy to investigate what was under his nose, but Corbeille was a different matter.
He’d already visited Madame de Courcy, asking for details of her staff.
‘Not much to report,’ Paulette replied. ‘My cousin’s next-door neighbour has one of the boys and apparently he’s stealing food from the larder and hiding it under his bed, but she’s making allowances.’
‘It’s wonderful, the way everyone’s come together,’ Mathilde said.
‘That’s because the mayor’s asked them to. More coffee?’ Paulette topped up Mathilde’s cup. ‘He’s a popular man, and so is the doctor. We’re lucky to have them. Now, what news from the chateau?’
Mathilde groaned. ‘The inspectors from Vichy came to check the wine they’re taking for fuel, rather than drinking.’
‘Salauds,’ Paulette muttered.
‘Well, the worst of it was, they poured a glass of heating oil into every barrel to make sure no one could drink it on the sly. Georges was beside himself! That stink never goes away so the barrels are ruined now, and they were over twenty years old. The older the barrel, the better the wine, according to Monsieur Rousseau. Madame’s called the tonnelier, Lebrun, to have new ones made. ’
‘I heard Lebrun’s in on the smuggling scheme,’ Paulette said casually. ‘A little bird told me half the barrels he makes are filled with anything other than wine. Apparently he and the stationmaster in Arles are in on it together.’
Mathilde digested the information. ‘Then you should keep it to yourself,’ she warned.
‘The fewer people who know about that, the better.’ Paulette bridled a little.
‘Anyway, he’s meant to be making eight barrels for us that will be full of wine,’ she went on, ‘but who knows if they’ll be ready before the harvest.’
‘All right, Miss Goody Two-shoes,’ Paulette muttered. She gave Mathilde a sly look. ‘Speaking of the harvest, I wonder if it will be as productive this year as last?’
‘What do you mean?’ Mathilde asked, blushing despite herself.
‘I saw you then, sneaking away with a dashing stranger in the middle of the night. I thought to myself, aha, something’s afoot, and nine months later there I am, delivering your baby.
Come on, let’s have a proper drink.’ She brought a bottle of wine from the pantry and poured two glasses. ‘Gift from a grateful customer.’
Mathilde closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Mon Dieu, I’m in such a mess.’
Paulette squeezed her hand. ‘Can you tell me about it? You know what they say about a trouble shared. I’ll keep it to myself, I promise.’
‘Swear?’ Mathilde asked, the longing to unburden herself overwhelming. Paulette nodded. ‘All right, then. I’ve found out I’m not a widow after all. My husband’s alive – or he was last year, when I’d been told he was dead, and there’s a good chance that’s still the case.’
Paulette whistled, raising her eyebrows. ‘Heavens, that’s a bombshell, all right. What sort of a man is he, this husband of yours?’
‘One of the best,’ Mathilde replied. ‘But even so . . .’ She took a gulp of wine.
‘Well, don’t panic,’ Paulette said. ‘There’s nothing you can do for now, and worrying won’t help. Just sit tight and cross your fingers, and maybe things will work out. Your daughter’s very beguiling.’ They both glanced at Esmé, sleeping peacefully in the pram.
‘But she’s not his,’ Mathilde said.
‘And that is a drawback,’ Paulette acknowledged. ‘Look, perhaps you can leave her with someone round here while you go back to Paris and explain – once things have quietened down, that is. Odile would be willing, wouldn’t she?’
‘Never!’ Mathilde was surprised by her own vehemence. ‘Esmé’s my child, I’m not giving her away.’
‘It wouldn’t have to be for ever – just till he gets used to the idea.’
‘No,’ Mathilde said. ‘I told you, she belongs with me.’
Paulette held up her hands. ‘Fine, it was merely a suggestion.’
‘We’d better be going.’ Mathilde drained her glass. ‘I’m calling in at the tonnelier’s to see how he’s getting on. Thanks for the drink, and the chat. I’ll see you next week.’
‘Don’t be cross,’ Paulette told her. ‘I’m only being practical. You might have to be too, one day.’
Yet Mathilde would rather have died than parted with Esmé; the very idea was unimaginable. She dismissed it from her mind, and soon she was too hot and short of breath from pushing the pram uphill to Les Roches to think about anything but a cool drink of water from the fountain.
‘You see? I’m working on a Sunday,’ Monsieur Lebrun called, looking up from his bench. ‘If it was anyone else but the countess, they could have whistled for new barrels. Just as well I could find enough seasoned wood.’
‘She’s very grateful,’ Mathilde assured him. ‘How are they coming along?’
‘Three nearly done, five to go.’ He gestured to the half-made barrels standing in a corner of the workshop, their slats splayed like the wooden skirt of a giantess.
‘Let’s hope the Boche don’t get their hands on these ones,’ Mathilde said.
He chuckled. ‘Seeing as you’re here, will you help me for a moment?’
Mathilde held the top iron ring steady while he assembled the staves inside.
They’d been shaped so that they fitted snugly together, and when the bottom ring was hammered into place, they’d draw tighter still.
First, though, each half-formed barrel needed to be soaked and warmed over a brazier so the staves would become pliable and could be bent into shape: mise en rose, as it was called.
The tonnelier was a master craftsman, and Mathilde loved to watch him work.
People had been making barrels this way for hundreds of years, Monsieur Rousseau had told her; each one was a work of art.
‘Did you hear about that shipment bound for Domaine Les Roches the other day?’ she asked casually.
Lebrun gave her a sharp look. ‘I did indeed. Monsieur Bourriane’s still in prison and they’re questioning all his workers.’ He gazed at the results of his labour. ‘Well, you could hide almost anything in a barrel this size.’
And that was as much as he would say. Mathilde chewed her lip with frustration; there was clearly a network in the area and she longed to be part of it.
Her bicycle trips around the neighbourhood hadn’t led anywhere, and the map she’d made and shown Yves so proudly now seemed amateurish and pointless.
No wonder he’d dropped her. Or maybe he was dead?
She was too proud to ask Doctor Pailleau for news of him.
In another couple of weeks, the grapes were ready to be harvested, and all eight barrels had been delivered to Chateau Albertine.