Chapter Thirty #2
‘What news?’ she demanded, her heart thumping.
‘It was bombed yesterday, apparently. Not the house itself, but the grounds. People think it might have been a plane short of fuel ditching its load.’
Mathilde let out her breath. ‘So nobody was hurt?’
Sanglier shook his head. ‘A woman and a child were killed.’
‘What?’ She grabbed his arm. ‘Do you have their names?’
‘Not yet. A woman and a little girl, that’s all I know.’
‘I have to go there.’ She was already running to retrieve her bicycle from its hiding place. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll come back as soon as I can,’ she called over her shoulder, the wind whipping her words away.
It took Mathilde the best part of a week to make her way back to Provence.
She cycled along back roads rather than risk the train, buying or scrounging provisions when she could and sleeping rough in barns and under hedges.
She’d brought a few essentials with her, packed in a haversack: some soap she could trade, binoculars, a small cooking pot, a Colt automatic pistol, a pen knife and a lethally sharp stiletto she wore hidden up her sleeve.
She was filled with a superhuman energy, obsessed by the need to find out what had happened.
‘A woman and a little girl.’ Odile and Irène, or Odile and Esmé? Not knowing was unbearable.
Arriving in the Alpilles, she waited until dark and pushed her bicycle uphill to Les Roches, spending the night in the ruined fort. First thing in the morning, she emerged in her wig and spectacles and went to sit in the village square until she found Paulette – or Paulette found her.
Les Roches was a small place so it didn’t take long. ‘I thought we’d seen the last of you,’ Paulette whispered, tucking her arm through Mathilde’s and swooping her off. ‘Come to my house before Corbeille or his goons spot you.’ It was only ten minutes’ walk away.
‘Is Esmé dead?’ Mathilde asked, as soon as the cottage door closed behind them.
Paulette’s eyes filled with tears. ‘No. Irène is, the poor little mite.’
‘Oh God.’ Mathilde sagged against the wall, ashamed of the relief flooding through her. Sweet, happy Iréne! The news was unbearable. ‘Perhaps it’s just as well Odile died too. She wouldn’t have wanted to live without her.’
‘Odile’s fine,’ Paulette told her. ‘It’s the countess who was killed.’
‘Madame de Courcy?’ Mathilde stared at her in disbelief. ‘How?’
‘They were out for a walk. Esmé was having a nap, apparently, and Odile was making jam, so Madame took Irène off to get her out of the kitchen. They went to see the horses in the paddock, and took the dog with them. She died as well, along with the pony.’
Mathilde put her hands over her face. Not Brioche and Mascotte, too; somehow that was the final blow. ‘How heartbreaking,’ she said. ‘And what will happen to the chateau now?’
Paulette shrugged. ‘I suppose Fabrice will take it over, if he ever comes back from Germany, or maybe Amélie and her son will move in. But you should see the state of the place! All the lovely old furniture chopped up for firewood and bullet holes everywhere.’
Mathilde took her hand. ‘Do you happen to know if that man from the Gestapo is still there?’
‘He comes and goes, Ernestine said,’ Paulette replied. ‘In any event, you can’t stay, Fleur – or whatever you’re calling yourself now.’
‘I need to see Esmé,’ Mathilde told her. ‘Just for a moment.’
‘It’s not worth the risk. Esmé’s happy and healthy – Odile’s taking good care of her, especially now she doesn’t have her own daughter to love.’ Paulette pulled out a chair. ‘Have something to eat and then you’d better be off. Things are dangerous around here.’
‘Tell me all the news,’ Mathilde said, taking a seat at the table.
It wasn’t good. Doctor Pailleau had been caught treating a wounded American pilot whose plane had been shot down, and he was imprisoned in Sainte-Anne.
The Boche were trigger-happy, especially now they were losing the war; the other day, they’d shot a farm lad because he couldn’t get an identity card out of his pocket in time.
The Milice were just as bad, if not worse, roaming around the countryside looking for any excuse to beat people up.
At the chateau, the Germans had discovered a stash of wine buried in the vegetable garden and held a party that lasted for days, and Anna the Jewish maid had left for Spain.
Paulette’s cousin had been killed during a bombing raid on Avignon, Madame Sausson from the café was sleeping with an SS officer, and Thierry was still hiding out with the Maquis somewhere deep in the Alpilles.
‘I need to make contact with him,’ Mathilde said urgently. ‘Can you send a message, asking him to meet me?’
‘Maybe.’ Paulette shot her a guarded look as she pushed a plate of bread and sausage across the table. ‘But listen, you can’t stick around here till then. The old biddy next door is hand in glove with that bastard Corbeille.’
‘I’ll go to our camp in the woods,’ Mathilde said, wolfing down the food. ‘Tell Thierry to meet me there whenever he can. He knows where it is, doesn’t he?’ Paulette nodded.
‘And don’t give up,’ Mathilde added, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘We’re going to win, you know – and soon! Better days are coming.’
‘If you say so,’ Paulette replied wearily. ‘But the Boche won’t give up without a fight, you can be sure of that.’
Odile was sitting on the front step of the servants’ block, podding a colander of peas. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, getting to her feet as Mathilde approached.
‘Odile, it’s me,’ Mathilde whispered, searching momentarily for the right name. ‘Fleur.’
Odile took a step back, kicking over the colander and scattering peas across the ground.
‘I just . . . just wanted to say—’ Mathilde stammered, but Odile grabbed her arm and pulled her inside the building.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, glancing around in case anyone should see.
‘I had to tell you how sorry I was,’ Mathilde began. ‘I heard a little girl had been killed, and I didn’t know—’
‘You should leave,’ Odile snapped. ‘If anyone spots you, the rest of us will be in trouble.’
‘I’m so sorry about Irène,’ Mathilde said. ‘I loved her. She was a beautiful child.’
‘Don’t talk about her,’ Odile hissed, digging her fingers into the flesh of Mathilde’s arm. ‘You have no right. I was her mother!’ She looked half-mad: her eyes red and swollen, the birthmark standing out even more vividly against the pallor of her skin, her unbrushed hair sticking up in tufts.
Mathilde struggled to free herself. ‘Of course, I understand. But can I see—?’
‘No, you can’t,’ Odile snapped. ‘Get away from here and leave us alone.’
At that moment a high, clear voice cried, ‘Maman?’
The two women looked at each other for a moment before Mathilde broke free from Odile’s grip and ran down the corridor towards the kitchen. Beside the stove, a little girl with chestnut hair was standing in a playpen, holding on to its bars.
‘Esmé!’ Mathilde cried, dashing forward to pick her up. ‘Chérie! How I’ve missed you.’
But the child shrank away, her brown eyes huge and frightened.
‘It’s all right,’ Mathilde said, crouching down to her level. ‘I won’t hurt you. Don’t you remember me?’
She hardly knew what she was saying; of course Esmé wouldn’t remember the woman who’d left when she was five months old.
And now Mathilde was pushed out of the way, sending her sprawling, and Esmé was reaching up her chubby arms to the mother she knew.
She nestled her head against Odile’s shoulder and stared at Mathilde, sucking her thumb.
‘So now you’ve seen her, you can leave,’ Odile said.
‘Can we not have five minutes alone together?’ Mathilde asked. ‘Please?’
‘I won’t have the child upset,’ Odile replied. ‘This isn’t the time or the place. Go, before the Boche catch you.’
And so Mathilde went. Odile had looked after her daughter, loved her and kept her safe, and this was the price she had to pay.