Chapter Thirty-Two #2
‘I’m hoping to make it back to Germany. At least you and your daughter will give me free passage out of here.
’ A note of malice sharpened his voice. ‘I know the child is yours, by the way, so don’t bother denying it.
And I know who the father is, too. Georges Leclerc has been most informative.
’ He prodded Mathilde from behind with the gun.
‘What were you going to tell your poor husband, I wonder?’
When it was clear she wasn’t going to reply, he said, ‘Well, fortunately for you, the question won’t arise. He’s been sent to Poland, I’m afraid, and he won’t be coming back.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ Mathilde said. ‘I was told he’d been killed and that turned out to be a lie.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Schmidt sighed. ‘Jacques was always too good for you. I admired him, you know. He was a man of principle and culture, which is rare these days. In fact, I even tried to save him: I got him an Ausweis to come south. He could have joined you in Avignon but he chose to stay in Paris. Perhaps he didn’t love you so very much after all. ’
Mathilde turned around to face him. ‘Don’t waste your breath. I’m not listening to a word you say.’
‘And yet I find myself compelled to talk to you,’ he told her.
‘Strange, isn’t it? Part of the reason I came here was to find you, and I’m still not sure why.
The pleasure of seeing you finally dealt with, of course, but also a curious urge to explain myself.
A conversation I would sooner be having with your husband, but that, alas, is impossible.
’ He pushed the gun into her chest. ‘Keep moving.’
Mathilde walked on as slowly as possible; it felt safer to keep Schmidt contained underground.
‘You seem to believe you’re so much better than me,’ he went on, ‘but don’t fool yourself you’d have acted any differently in my shoes.
Fate might have put me on one side of the fence and Jacques on the other, but we’re essentially the same: capable of both good and evil, depending on the circumstances. ’
Mathilde snorted. ‘You think so?’
‘You should know that it wasn’t my fault he was arrested. You were the one who encouraged him down the wrong path, so if anyone’s to blame, it’s you. You’ve always done exactly what you wanted and this is the result.’
‘My husband is capable of making up his own mind,’ Mathilde retorted. ‘Anyway, why do you care what either of us think? You were nothing to Jacques; he couldn’t even be bothered to hate you.’
Schmidt yanked her back by the hair. ‘Be very careful,’ he hissed into her ear. ‘I might lose my temper and shoot you by mistake.’
By now she could see the steps leading up to the winery at the end of the tunnel.
What would Schmidt do then? Try to steal a car, she supposed, and load them into it.
He would make her drive so he could keep the gun trained on her, knowing she wouldn’t risk crashing on purpose.
If she was going to attack him, she would have to do it soon.
The gun jabbing her back, she climbed the steps and walked through the winery, blinking in the light, to the large double doors that led outside.
Schmidt paused on the threshold, shifting Esmé to hold her with the other arm as he surveyed the prisoners being held on the terrace, ahead of them on the right. ‘We’ll go down the side of the house to the front,’ he said. ‘And if you try anything, the child gets it first.’
Just as they were about to set off, Mathilde heard running footsteps and a man came hurtling down the path from the house towards them. It was Yves.
‘Stop!’ he shouted, aiming his rifle. ‘Lay down your gun.’
‘Don’t shoot!’ Mathilde screamed as Schmidt stepped out from behind her and into the open, holding Esmé like a shield.
Everything happened so fast that it was hard in retrospect to tell the precise order of events.
Yves hesitated for a moment, long enough for Schmidt to aim his pistol over the little girl’s shoulder and fire off a shot.
Yves staggered back, clutching his chest, and somehow in the commotion, Esmé managed to wriggle out of Schmidt’s grasp.
The knife was already in Mathilde’s hand.
Whirling around, she gave Schmidt a swift uppercut to the jaw, forcing back his head, at the same time as she drove the stiletto deep between his ribs.
He fell to his knees and toppled forward with an expression of shocked surprise.
Mathilde ran to catch up with Esmé and hugged her close. ‘It’s all right, my darling,’ she whispered, rubbing her back. ‘You’re safe now.’
Then she scooped her up and carried her to where Yves was lying on the path. He was still alive, but only just. She propped him up with one arm and held Esmé with the other, tears running down her cheeks.
Yves gazed at the little girl, and then up at Mathilde. ‘Is she . . .?’ he whispered.
‘Yes,’ Mathilde replied. ‘She’s yours. Her name is Esmé.’
‘Hello, ma petite,’ he said faintly, smiling at her. ‘It’s lovely to meet you.’
Esmé patted his cheek and said, ‘There, there. Better soon.’ Which, extraordinarily, made them both laugh.
With a supreme effort, Yves kissed his daughter on the cheek. ‘Have a happy life, darling girl.’
Mathilde put her arms around her daughter and this man she had loved so fiercely for such a short time, as if she could shield them from all the sorrows in the world. They stayed quiet and still, the three of them locked together, until Yves’ eyes lost focus, his head fell back and he was gone.