The French House by Helen Fripp (ebook reader with highlight function TXT) 📕

tablecloths, chandeliers sparkling on the high ceilings and spring sun pouring through the big windows made the war seem a million miles away. She hoped Xavier had bricked up her cellars, as she had instructed, to stop looting. Moët had already lost a quarter of his entire stock at Épernay, so Madame Olivier had written to inform her.

‘And Thérésa said I was always to say no. A woman should use her power wisely and not give it away unthinkingly, don’t you think, Maman?’ said Mentine.

‘Of course, sweetie,’ said Nicole, not really listening.

‘She gave me this dress. Have you noticed it’s the exact colour of my eyes? My first empire-line dress. How lucky am I to be dressed by the most glamorous and fashionable woman in Paris?’

‘Thérésa gave you that dress? When?’

‘Just last week, when I told her you were coming to take me home. She was so sweet, she said I was growing up now and should have a dress to impress you with. Isn’t that kind? Do you like it?’

Nicole made a mental inventory of clothes she had sent to Mentine in the last year. Little girl’s cotton dresses, pinafores to wear over the top. The same clothes she’d been wearing all her life.

‘It’s beautiful. You are beautiful. I can’t believe how much you’ve grown up.’

Her proud smile warmed her. Perfect, innocent, vulnerable.

‘How often do you see Thérésa?’

‘Every Saturday. She takes me to her house on the rue de Babylone. Her girls are my best friends. She says I can’t live cooped up in a convent every day of the week. She gives me cakes and sweetmeats and clothes and takes me on carriage rides in the Tuileries with my friends. It’s my favourite day of the week!’

Nicole thought of the pile of unopened letters from Thérésa she had thrown on the fire whilst she was in Paris and forced herself to remember the casual cruelty with which Thérésa had treated her. Could she have misjudged her friend?

‘I must thank her for being so kind.’

‘You must. She treats me like I’m her own daughter, Maman.’

All this for Mentine, despite the necklace?

‘Can’t I stay? Thérésa says there is no danger, that the Russians are gentlemen.’

‘I’m sure she would.’

‘A clever daughter,’ interrupted a man on the next table. He was sitting alone, newspaper folded next to his lunch. ‘Russian soldiers are gentlemen. But she has a wise mama, too. If you have somewhere to escape to from Paris, I would leave soon. I hope you don’t mind my interrupting?’

His French was perfect, almost. Dark eyes, nearly black, and dark skin, even though it wasn’t summer. Years of friendship with Natasha taught her to recognise the accent.

‘You are Russian?’

‘I am. And you too? There aren’t many who recognise my accent any more. Russians accuse me of being French, but not many French accuse me of being Russian.’

‘I’m from Reims, French through and through.’

‘Where my favourite wines are from.’

‘Mine too…’ She smiled and turned back to her conversation with Mentine.

‘I hope you don’t mind my interrupting again, but I would get back to Reims as soon as you can. The Russians are peaceful invaders, liberators they say, but no war is without casualties. You should hire a coach and horses the minute you can. They’re in short supply as so many are hoping to leave, so please don’t waste any time. I couldn’t overhear and keep silent, so I took the risk of being considered rude in full knowledge of my crime. I hope you can forgive me.’

‘It’s kind of you to take the time, thank you,’ said Nicole. ‘We’re leaving tomorrow.’

‘Today would be better.’

He took his newspaper and left.

Mentine giggled. ‘He was funny.’

‘You have a lot to learn! Finish your cake. We’ll pack tonight. I’m not afraid to be in Paris, but I have to get back to protect my cellars.’

‘The girls at the convent say the Russian officers are dashing. Do you think we’ll pass some?’

‘I hope not. It will be so lovely to have you home with me for a few months.’

‘But what about me? Paris is so exciting compared to Reims and you’ll be all distracted by your vineyards, like you always are, and I’ll be thrown together with Josette and Grandma and Grandpa while you’re out digging.’

‘Mentine! The digging is for you, to secure your future.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t bother for me. I’m fine how I am.’

The Russian man was right. The next day, news spread like wildfire of the troops breaching the city gates, of scuffles in Montmartre, surrenders at Montreuil. The allies had taken the French troops by surprise. Napoléon was miles away, in Fontainebleau, and it would be days before he could reach Paris, by which time it would be too late. Besides, the rumours were that the French troops had lost faith in Napoléon. They were malnourished and war-weary. We all are, thought Nicole. Twenty-five years of constant war.

The Russian was right on another count too. Coaches and horses were in short supply. Every form of transport out of Paris was fully booked. Anyone with a bench on wheels was profiting, charging ten times the price. Nicole managed to find space for one person on a farm cart leaving tomorrow from Pont de Bercy on the road to Reims, leaving at midday. Mentine would have to squash in somehow. She took a deep breath. She would be escaping one war, but going back to her own, against Moët, against thousands of years of tradition where men did business and women stayed at home, with few exceptions.

The next morning, both their trunks were packed. Nicole put Thérésa’s necklace in the leather bag and slung it over her shoulder. They would have to walk to the Pont de Bercy, with a boy pulling their trunks on a handcart. Even small boys in need of a franc or two were hard to come by and this one looked too skinny for his burden, but she was glad to give him the money.

The Avenue d’Alma was strangely