Chapter Thirty-One
Ignoring Paulette’s advice and visiting the chateau had been a mistake, but Mathilde couldn’t have cycled past the place where her daughter was living without trying to see her.
At least Esmé was alive, she told herself.
She was healthy, cared for, and as safe as any other child in a country at war.
Odile was devoted to her, and for that, Mathilde was grateful – yet how it hurt that she should be completely obliterated from her daughter’s life!
She couldn’t bear being so close to Esmé but not able to hold or speak to her.
Odile was right, though, and Paulette too: Mathilde had been risking their lives for her own selfish needs.
And she could take a certain comfort from breathing the same air as her daughter and feeling the same sunlight on her skin.
If she cut across the field at the top of the wooded hill, with the help of her binoculars she could see a corner of the servants’ block and the path that led to the lane.
She spent hours lurking in the shelter of the hedge, hoping to catch a glimpse of the little girl.
But there was no sign of Odile or Esmé, though she spotted Georges working in the vineyard and once, talking to some Germans for what seemed like an unusually long time.
She was grateful the paddock on the other side of the house was hidden from view; it would have been heartbreaking to see the spot where Irène and the countess had died.
What must it be like for Odile to walk past there every day?
Thankfully, the camp in which Esmé had been born seemed not to have been discovered by the enemy, though its stores were sadly depleted and the metal trunk had vanished altogether.
Mathilde knew where to forage in the nearby farms and fields, but even so, she was ravenous by the time Thierry appeared, several days later.
Living with the Maquis had turned him from a boy into a young man, as had been the case with Stefan, although it was a good eighteen months since she’d last seen him.
His shoulders had broadened and his features were more defined: a strong jaw, deep-set eyes and a long nose that gave him an aristocratic look.
Paulette must have been proud of her handsome son.
He’d brought Mathilde some bread and an egg wrapped in moss, which she broke into her cup, stirred with a twig and swallowed raw.
‘Will you take me to your Maquis?’ she asked, when she’d finished and thanked him. ‘I’d like to make contact and report on conditions in the Vercors.’
‘The Vercors?’ he repeated, with a look she didn’t understand.
‘What is it?’ she asked, alarmed. ‘Has something happened there?’
‘The Maquis have been routed,’ he told her. ‘Didn’t you know? The Boche have taken control of the plateau now.’
Apparently thousands of German troops had invaded the Massif on foot and airborne soldiers had been dropped by gliders on the plateau itself, while planes bombed the Maquis hideouts and farms suspected of sheltering them.
Hundreds of Resistance fighters and civilians had been killed, and any surviving Maquisards had fled through the forest.
Mathilde sank to her haunches. ‘I had no idea,’ she murmured, numb. ‘It’s been over a week since I left.’
‘Just in time,’ Thierry said. ‘You were lucky.’ She looked at him sharply but he returned her gaze innocently enough, and said that he would take her back to his camp to meet the boss.
It was midday and the sun was at its fiercest, so they decided to rest for a while before leaving for the mountains.
As soon as Mathilde closed her eyes, she saw images of Sanglier and his men lying wounded or dead, or running for their lives.
She and Sanglier had not got off to the best start but she’d come to respect and like him very much, and she wouldn’t have survived as long as she had without the lessons he’d taught her.
And what was she to do now? It was too risky to stay here for long; she’d offer her services to Thierry’s Maquis because, despite this setback, she was sure the Allies would be coming to liberate the south of France soon, and she wanted to fight alongside them.
The camp lay only an hour away by bicycle, so they set off to arrive in good time before the curfew, cutting across fields where they could and taking back roads wherever possible.
They kept some distance apart as that seemed safer, and Mathilde wore her wig and spectacles, which made Thierry guffaw when he first saw her.
Soon the limestone peaks of the Alpilles rose up before them and they turned off the road to follow a narrow path through the scrubby undergrowth, which led them into the foothills.
Mathilde had an unpleasant surprise when they reached the camp, deep in a pine wood.
It turned out to be run by somebody she recognised: Renard, the sandy-haired man with a ginger beard who’d accompanied Yves when he was smuggled out of the chateau – and who’d clearly regarded her as an annoying distraction at best, and a positive danger at worst.
He didn’t seem overjoyed to see her now, either. Briefly she explained her situation and told him she could make herself useful in whatever they might be planning, but he was more openly suspicious even than Thierry about her time in the Vercors.
‘Of course I had no idea the Boche were about to attack!’ she protested.
‘Then why did you suddenly leave and come here?’
‘Because I heard Chateau Albertine had been bombed.’ It was an unconvincing reply. Why should she care so much about a place where she’d only worked for a year and half? ‘Look, you know I’m on your side,’ she added. ‘Didn’t I help you escape from the chateau?’
‘The police were waiting for us at Marseille,’ he said. ‘If I hadn’t taken the barrel apart before we got there, we’d have been caught.’
‘Come on, the police are everywhere – they weren’t waiting for you in particular. And why would I go to all that trouble only to turn you in? If the Patron trusts me, you should too.’
Renard looked at her through narrowed eyes. ‘All right,’ he said eventually. ‘You can stay, so long as you make yourself useful.’
Mathilde nodded, shouldering her haversack. She thought even less of Renard than the last time they’d met, but he was her link to Yves and she had nowhere else to go, so she had no option but to stick with him.
Renard’s Maquis was smaller than Sanglier’s, with only ten members hiding out in the woods.
Mathilde spoke mainly to Thierry – known as Chiot, or Puppy, within the Maquis – keeping herself to herself as she had in the Vercors.
The place was also less efficiently run, with rubbish left lying around and weapons neither cleaned nor stored safely.
From what she could make out, the men had been mainly involved in blowing up railway lines, reporting on German troop movements and raiding supply depots for food.
However, the second day she was there, three of them stole away to hold up a local tabac for cigarettes.
Sanglier wouldn’t have put up with that; he was always telling his men that when the war was over, they would have to answer for their behaviour.
Yet Renard merely took a pack for himself.
There was no discipline in the camp and she wouldn’t have wanted to go out on one of their missions – which was just as well, as they didn’t seem keen to involve her.
Determined not to spend her time cleaning up after them, she went out and about for most of the day: hunting, foraging and seeing what the Boche were up to.
Despite the summer heat, she sensed an urgency in the patrols marching to and fro, manning roadblocks and questioning villagers.
Occasionally an American or German bomber flew overhead and she would hear the distant rumble of an explosion; she kept away from railway lines or viaducts, for safety’s sake.
From what she could gather, Allied forces were pushing the Germans back, with American troops now entering Brittany and the British capturing Mont Pincon, the highest point in Normandy.
Every encouraging piece of news kept her going through the hard, lonely times.
One day soon, she told herself, she’d be able to travel freely in her country again, would reunite with her child and find her husband.
And then finally, a rumour circulated that French and American soldiers had landed on the C?te d’Azur around Saint Tropez, and were pouring towards Marseille – swiftly confirmed as fact. At long last, the south was about to be liberated.
Renard and his men were jubilant that night, excited at the prospect of serious fighting rather than local skirmishes.
Mathilde wondered whether Yves was still alive.
So many people she loved had been scattered or killed, and he would be in the thick of the action, preparing the way for the Allied forces.
‘Have you heard from the Patron?’ she asked Renard, though she knew it was a futile question: he wouldn’t tell her, even if he had.
Sure enough, he turned away without replying.
If it hadn’t been for her connection with Yves, she was certain he’d never have allowed her to stay with his Maquis, and he wasn’t going to let her take an active role within it.
She couldn’t sleep that night, lying beneath the pine branches on her bed of hay.
The end was so nearly in sight; maybe Paris would even be liberated by the time of her next wedding anniversary in September.
She’d hope to meet Jacques on the steps of Sacré-C?ur and tell him about Esmé when they were used to each other again and the time seemed right.
He was her husband; only when she knew what had happened to him would she be able to think about Yves.
If Jacques didn’t come, she’d have to decide whether to stay in the city and wait for news of him, or go back to Provence and get to know her daughter again.