Chapter Twenty-Six
Renard and Monsieur Lebrun loaded both barrels on to the tonnelier’s van; one considerably heavier than the other.
Mathilde was torn between relief, desolation and fear as she watched them drive away.
The journey to Arles station would be dangerous enough in itself, let alone what had to happen when they arrived.
Locking the winery door behind them, she took the tunnel back to the chateau and ran up the back stairs to see whether Esmé was awake and make her ready for the day.
Odile had arrived in the kitchen by the time she returned downstairs, carrying the baby in the crook of her arm. ‘I just passed Lebrun,’ Odile said, taking off her coat and hanging it on a hook by the back door. ‘What’s he doing here so bright and early?’
‘Collecting the spare barrels,’ Mathilde replied, ‘since we don’t need them anymore. Didn’t Madame tell you? He has to get them to Arles in time to catch the first train.’
Odile sniffed. ‘He’ll have a hard time of it – the Boche are on the move already. Georges and I have been watching the procession drive past: cars, Kübelwagens, even a couple of tanks, would you believe. Now we’re for it. Just as well those children have gone.’
Mathilde hugged Esmé tight to her chest, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. ‘I’ve fed the baby,’ she said, settling her daughter in the playpen.
‘I’ll give her a top-up later,’ Odile said, casting a professional eye over Esmé. ‘She’s taken to the bottle very well. We can probably start weaning soon.’
‘I suppose so,’ Mathilde sighed, thinking how much she would miss breastfeeding – especially at night, when the rest of the world was asleep and she had the luxury of simply gazing at her daughter.
The older Esmé grew, the more complicated their lives would become.
One day at a time, she reminded herself; there were more urgent problems to deal with.
Later that morning, she and Stefan were in the vineyard with Georges, who was to have the final say on whether it was time for pruning to begin, when they saw an open-topped Kübelwagen making its way up the drive, followed by a French police car.
Georges narrowed his eyes. ‘What’s going on now, then? Get on with the weeding while I find out.’ And he strode off down the hill.
Once he’d gone, Stefan said, ‘You know, I cannot stay here if the Germans are coming. As soon as I open my mouth, they’ll realise I’m one of them.’
‘But where will you go?’ Mathilde asked.
He shrugged. ‘Marseille and then Spain, perhaps? Or up to Lyon and over the border into Switzerland.’
Don’t leave, Mathilde wanted to tell him, I’ll miss you. She watched five men climb out of the vehicles, three in grey-green and two in black uniforms. ‘Is that Captain Corbeille? I can’t tell from this distance.’
‘Probably,’ Stefan replied. ‘He’ll be smarming up to the Boche – you can count on it. I wonder what they’re doing here?’
Mathilde’s unease was rapidly turning to fear. ‘Well, there’s no point speculating. Might as well do as Georges says and get back to work.’
Twenty minutes later, they saw the convoy proceeding slowly back down the drive, and Georges was waving at them from the bottom of the hill.
‘Madame wants to speak to everyone,’ he said, once they’d hurried down to meet him. ‘In the kitchen, right away.’
They were the last to arrive. Gustave, Marcel, Odile, Anna and Ernestine were already waiting, gathered around the table. Madame de Courcy stood leaning against the sink. She was composed, but very pale.
‘Thank you for coming,’ she said, as if they’d had any choice in the matter.
‘I have some bad news, I’m afraid. The chateau has been requisitioned by the German army as military headquarters for the area.
They’ll be occupying the whole house, so I’ll move into the old servants’ block and Fleur, Stefan and Anna will sleep there too.
Georges and Odile, they’re billeting troops in the gate lodge so you’ll be joining us, and you’ll have to make do with the servants’ kitchen, Odile. Their cooks will be using this one.’
‘Well, they shan’t get their filthy hands on my saucepans,’ Odile muttered.
‘Anna and Ernestine, the Germans would like you to carry on cleaning the house, if you’re prepared to,’ the countess went on, ignoring her.
‘They have also agreed we may keep the kitchen garden, which is something. Meanwhile, the ground floor has to be cleared of all movable furniture by tomorrow morning, so I’d be grateful for your help.
We’ll store as much as possible in the cellar and the barn.
Thank you, everyone. Of course I’m sorry this has happened but I’m sure we’ll make the best of things – the colonel assures me his men will behave correctly. And now, let’s get to work.’
There was no time to talk amongst themselves.
For the rest of the day and long into the night, Stefan, Mathilde and the others went back and forth from the house to the outbuildings, until the old servants’ block and the barn were full to bursting with the most precious items: Louis XIV gilt chairs, Madame’s rosewood desk, family portraits, Sèvres porcelain – and of course, Odile’s gleaming copper saucepans.
When every square inch had been filled, they crammed as much as they could into the cellar.
It was incongruous and sad to see so many lovely things piled higgledy-piggledy on top of each other.
‘They’re only belongings,’ the countess said, wiping her hands down her thighs. ‘People are more important.’
Which was true enough, yet those belongings had been handed down from one generation to the next and cherished over many years.
They represented peace, continuity and loving care; a time that had passed and would not come again.
Madame de Courcy’s nineteenth-century four-poster bed, for example, in which she’d given birth to her children, was too large to be moved and wouldn’t have fitted through the door of the servants’ block anyway.
She would have to sleep on a bed from one of the attic rooms.
‘We’ll give her two mattresses, so at least she’ll be comfortable,’ Stefan said as he dismantled the iron frame.
The countess had her own bathroom in the new accommodation, too, and another room to use as a study.
All the same, it would be strange for her to be in such close proximity to the rest of the household.
For one thing, Doctor Pailleau would presumably find it harder to visit.
Mathilde wondered how they would all manage, as she lay in a bedroom that was very similar to the one she’d had before.
She’d managed to tuck the gun hidden under her mattress into her blouse and now it lay beneath her again.
Esmé shifted and cried in her crib beside the bed, and Mathilde reached down to comfort her.
The little mite was getting a cold, and the next day would be difficult enough without a poorly baby.
Although they were all prepared for what was to come, seeing the procession of military vehicles advancing up the drive was chilling: six-ton trucks, cars, motorcycles, a whole fleet of Kübelwagens, and carts loaded with sacks and crates.
It was another rainy morning, so Mathilde had left Esmé with Odile and Irène amid the chaos of the new kitchen to work with Stefan in the vineyard.
They watched as the supplies and equipment were unloaded and carried into the house, the loathsome grey-green uniforms scurrying back and forth as the troops turned Chateau Albertine into an alien, hostile place.
‘Have you decided what to do?’ Mathilde asked Stefan.
‘Madame thinks we should pretend I’m soft in the head and can’t speak,’ he replied, ‘but I can’t see that fooling them for long. I’ll leave tonight or tomorrow.’
By common consent, they turned away to get on with their work. After a couple of hours, Mathilde went back to see whether Esmé was feeling any better.
‘She’s restless, poor little thing,’ Odile reported, ‘but I’m keeping an eye on her. Listen, though, I can’t find my moulin legumes anywhere – I think it’s been left behind in the dresser. Can you retrieve it for me? I can’t bear to see what the Boche are doing to my kitchen.’
Reluctantly, Mathilde agreed. She left the servants’ block and made her way around the back of the chateau to the kitchen door.
Inside, the floor and table were piled haphazardly with sacks, crates and boxes, and two men were installing a Frigidaire.
Odile would have had kittens and Mathilde felt physically sick.
Swallowing hard, she cleared her throat and, pointing at the dresser, asked whether she might look for something.
They seemed to understand; at least, they let her proceed.
She checked the drawers one by one but found nothing so, crouching down, she peered into the base cupboards.
And there was the moulin, pushed into a dark corner.
She reached for it and was straightening up when she heard a voice floating through from the hall that sounded strangely familiar: suave, speaking elegant French yet unmistakably German.
Why should it terrify her so? Clutching the food mill, she crept nearer the open door to find out.
‘Will you kindly gather together your staff, Madame la Comtesse?’ this man was saying, his back to Mathilde. All she could see of him was a long neck, and dark hair cut en brosse under his cap. ‘You’ll appreciate the need to check everyone’s papers,’ he went on. ‘It won’t take long.’
‘I understand,’ Madame de Courcy replied. ‘But you will also appreciate that several of them are working out in the fields. I shall need an hour or so to gather everyone together.’
‘An hour you may have, but no longer.’ He clicked his heels together. ‘I have matters to attend to in the library. Thank you for your cooperation.’
‘Not at all, Kriminaldirektor Schmidt,’ the countess said.
Mathilde gasped, putting a hand against the wall to steady herself. She should have realised immediately: Werner Schmidt, whom she had last seen in Paris nearly two years ago. His career in the Gestapo had clearly flourished since then. But what on earth was he doing at Chateau Albertine?
Now Herr Schmidt was walking away. Mathilde waved frantically at Madame de Courcy, but the countess didn’t notice. Darting forward, Mathilde grabbed her by the sleeve and pulled her back down the corridor.
‘I’m so sorry, Madame,’ she said, once they were out of sight and earshot, ‘but I know that man, I had dealings with him in Paris. If he sees me, he’ll recognise me straight away.’ Short hair and spectacles wouldn’t be enough to fool Schmidt.
‘Are you sure?’ the countess asked. When Mathilde nodded, she said, ‘In that case, I’ll tell him you’re out on an errand – that will buy us some time. Go to the woods and wait at the camp until someone comes for you.’
Mathilde passed her the food mill. ‘Could you very kindly give this to Odile? And ask her to look after Esmé for me?’
‘Of course.’ The countess took the shawl from her shoulders and wrapped it around Mathilde’s. ‘Now hurry!’
Pulling the shawl over her head, Mathilde slipped out of the back door and down the steps to skirt the terrace and reach the path that led to the lane.
She walked as quickly as she could without attracting attention, expecting at any moment to hear someone shouting at her to stop.
Would she make a run for it? No, that would be madness; they’d be bound to shoot.
Werner Schmidt was busy in the library on the other side of the chateau.
As long as she kept calm, she would be safe – for the time being.
Schmidt wouldn’t concern himself with one missing worker, Mathilde reasoned as she paced around the sodden clearing.
Of course he didn’t know she was at the chateau; he might conceivably have heard that her cousin had been killed and she’d been imprisoned, but he was unlikely to know she’d escaped and would have no reason to think she’d have ended up there.
He was probably checking all the larger properties in the area for fugitives as a matter of course.
She refused to listen to the nagging voice that asked: But what if this isn’t a coincidence? What will you do then?
After what seemed an age, she heard footsteps approaching, and her heart sank to her boots when she saw who it was: Madame de Courcy herself, carrying Esmé and accompanied by Stefan. Their faces were grave.
‘Tell me,’ she said, darting forward to take her baby.
‘I’m afraid Herr Schmidt is trying to find you,’ the countess said.
‘After he’d checked everyone’s papers, he showed us photographs of people the Gestapo want to apprehend and yours was among them.
Yves, too, though Schmidt seems not to think you’re connected.
Naturally we all pretended we’d never seen either of you before.
But Schmidt’s staying at the chateau until tomorrow morning – he’s expecting Fleur Morisot to present herself before then. ’
Mathilde laid her cheek against Esmé’s head, cosy in a knitted bonnet. ‘I shall have to leave,’ she said, her voice muffled.
‘It looks as though you will,’ Madame de Courcy replied.
Stefan laid a haversack at Mathilde’s feet. ‘We’ve packed you some clothes, and your money and papers are there, though of course you’ll need new ones.’
‘I’ve telephoned Doctor Pailleau and explained the situation,’ the countess added. ‘He’ll help you both, insofar as he can.’
‘Both?’ Mathilde repeated.
‘I’m coming with you,’ Stefan said. ‘If that’s all right?’
She nodded.
‘And now you must say goodbye to Esmé,’ the countess told her. ‘Odile will look after her until it’s safe for you to return.’
Instinctively, Mathilde clutched Esmé closer.
She had no choice, though, and she knew it.
How could she possibly head into the unknown with a sick baby?
Knew, too, that she was lucky to have someone as reliable and kind as Odile to care for her daughter.
And yet this knowledge didn’t lessen the agony of parting.
That awful moment had come, as she’d somehow known it would.
‘Give me a minute,’ she said, retreating into the privacy of the trees.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she held Esmé against her shoulder and willed the world to stop turning.
Darling girl, I’m going somewhere you can’t follow, she told her silently.
I love you so much that I’m leaving you behind, but we’ll be together again one day, I promise. Don’t forget me.
Then she watched the countess walk away, carrying her baby like a trophy.