The French House

by Helen Fripp

  The clock struck the quarter hour. Almost half past nine and she hoped that in another fifteen minutes her fortunes would change.

  As she rode back past Thérésa’s house, she told the coach driver to stop. She checked Thérésa’s bedroom window and recognised the shape of Xavier’s cap. He and his friends had always been adept at lock-picking. As a child, she herself had joined them plenty of times in locked barns to eat stolen apples and make dens in the hay.

  It was true what they said, the old country ways were always the best – a simple bit of theft in the night.

  Chapter 23

  The Spoils of War

  October 1813

  The cathedral clock struck half past and Xavier emerged out of the gloom.

  ‘Get in, quick!’

  He jumped up, Nicole rapped on the window and the carriage lurched forward. He reached inside his jacket and dumped the sack on her lap. It was surprisingly heavy.

  She peeped inside. The box was as breath-taking as she remembered and the glut of jewels glowed in the moonlight – more gems than most would see in a lifetime.

  ‘Worth a bit, that,’ said Xavier.

  ‘Thank you. And I’m sorry.’

  ‘Let me out here, sauvage. You’re a braver woman than me, I’ll give you that. I’d rather walk the rest of the way, if you don’t mind. I’m a bloody idiot and I need to walk it off.’

  Xavier hunched his jacket around him and disappeared into the shadows and she followed him with her eyes until he was out of sight. Poor Xavier. They had Thérésa’s betrayal in common now, and a little less trust in the people they loved.

  She held tight on the sack until she was safely in the bedroom at her house in Bouzy. The jewels shattered the candle flame as she opened the box. Nestled in the blood-red lining, there it was: the cameo given to Thérésa by Tsar Alexander, worth more than all her vineyards put together and enough to hold a powerful woman to ransom.

  She admired it, ran her finger over the facets of the diamond, re-read the inscription: in perpetuum. There was a time when she had thought Thérésa’s friendship would last forever, but no more, and a piece of her heart turned to ice. She put the necklace back in the box, hid it under her pillow and got the first full night’s sleep she’d had since the day she gave Jean-Rémy the sack of Pinot vines.

  The stagecoach to Paris was on time and she couldn’t wait to be off and escape for a while. You could be anonymous in Paris, especially a widow like her from the countryside. She smiled to herself as the coach passed Moët’s vineyard, the one that abutted her own Verzenay yard. The soil was freshly turned, the previous ancient and fertile Moët vines moved elsewhere and the new Pinot vines she’d given him proudly planted, carefully spaced, each with a pale compost circle of fumure. She held tighter onto the leather bag containing Thérésa’s necklace and looked forward.

  As soon as she arrived in Paris, she left her luggage with the bellboy at the hotel and rushed the short walk to the Musée Napoléon.

  ‘The Greek and Russian icon room?’ she asked the man at reception.

  He gave her brief instructions and pointed. She knew from his face that Thérésa was already there. A man had a certain stricken look after she had dealt with them.

  ‘Darling!’

  Thérésa enveloped her in musky perfume and her lips brushed hers so briefly she wasn’t sure it had happened.

  ‘I’m so glad you could come!’ said Nicole, ashamed at how overwhelmed she was by Thérésa’s presence.

  ‘How formal, don’t be so silly. Why are you holding that bag like it’s a new-born baby?’

  ‘This? Oh, nothing. The stagecoach was late and I dashed straight from the hotel. I didn’t have time to put everything in the room.’

  ‘Why did you want to meet in this funny little place? It’s completely deserted – we could die in here and they wouldn’t find us for days, and to think that this used to be the Palais de Louvre. Now Napoléon’s filled it with loot from his travels and lets the great unwashed finger the walls in pursuit of his revolutionary ideals to educate the masses through art.’ Thérésa scrutinised her critically. ‘You look haunted. What on earth has been happening in that quiet little place you invest all your energies in? Now, tell me what’s in the bag.’

  Nicole eyed the icon nearest to them. Russian, taken from a church. The scene was of hosts of angels, the holy trinity, and at the bottom a curious monster, sending out a black snake into the throng of saints.

  ‘Napoléon’s troops took that icon from a church in Russia.’

  ‘What of it?’ said Thérésa.

  ‘Russia is our enemy now. Napoléon would take a dim view of any collaborators.’

  ‘Yes he would, but he knows how devoted I am to the Republic.’

  ‘I have evidence that suggests otherwise.’

  Nicole took the box out of the leather bag. Thérésa didn’t even flinch.

  ‘That trinket? Don’t be ridiculous. Are you trying to blackmail me?’

  ‘You’ll keep my secret, or your affair with the Tsar will ruin what status you have left.’

  ‘You’re angry about your little field hand. What’s his name?’

  ‘Xavier. He’s a good man.’

  ‘Very good. Surprisingly gentle, when it came to it.’ Thérésa grabbed the box out of her hands and opened it. ‘Where’s the necklace?’

  ‘I wasn’t stupid enough to bring that, too.’

  ‘I always knew there was steel behind those pale eyes.’

  ‘They say the coalition army – Prussia, Austria and Russia – isn’t far from Paris. If they invade and your love affair with the Tsar is made public, you’re finished.’

  ‘You think I don’t know? The whole of Paris is talking about it. Everyone’s burying their jewels in their back garden or hiding them in biscuit tins. It seems you have me exactly where you want me. How thrilling! In fact, I had rather hoped that I could escape to your little part of the world for a while to avoid all the chaos. I suppose that’s impossible now?’

  Nicole gave her a hollow laugh. ‘You manipulated Xavier, my oldest friend and loyal employee, into revealing my trade secret so you could sell it to my enemies, persuaded him to send his son to the war, then dumped him, all to cover up your own misdemeanours, and you still ask for my protection? What twists of reality happen in your head?’

  For the first time since she’d known her, Thérésa looked rattled and Nicole noticed faint lines that looked like worry. Good. Perhaps there was a heart in there somewhere.

  ‘You think you see it all so clearly? Life isn’t all neat ledgers and profit and loss and little country rivalries. It’s cruel and promiscuous and indiscriminate as disease. Your noble field hand was more than happy to betray you and his family for a night with me. Life is a balance, my darling. I might have asked one favour in return for the many I have done you. I rescued your adorable salesman, gave you money and solace when you needed it and never asked for a thing in return. Your obsession with your business is equally selfish, you just can’t see it.’

  ‘You leave a trail of destruction while convincing yourself of your innocence, then blame it on a heartless world. But we all have choices. I will be very clear. Reveal my secret to Moët and I will use the necklace to expose you as a traitor. The consequences will be your own doing, no one else’s.’

  ‘Such alluring passion, but your family wealth affords you high ideals the rest of us can only dream of. Take this, it belongs with the necklace.’ She handed back the box, stroked Nicole’s cheek and left.

  Nicole was left alone amongst the musty paintings. She thought about her riddling tables, now taking up a large part of her cellars, year of the comet champagne bottles lined up neatly, slowly turned a quarter each day until the moment of disgorgement. Reliable, her own to create and do with as she wanted. Her secret was safe, but her victory felt hollow. Thérésa was dangerously flawed, but she was life, excitement, magic. Even now, after all this, the thought of life without her was a little less
bright.

  She put the box back in the leather bag and hurried back to the hotel. It wasn’t only for her, she comforted herself. Mentine was growing up and her future was secured.

  Chapter 24

  Invasion or Liberation?

  March 1814

  ‘Thank you.’ Nicole kissed the nun on both cheeks.

  Soeur Ayasse patted Mentine’s luggage.

  ‘Your trunk is here. Good luck, and take care, Clémentine. Pray the war is over soon and don’t neglect your studies. Look after your mama, my dear!’

  Nicole noticed that as Mentine hugged Soeur Ayasse there were tears in her eyes. Her little girl had friends she had nothing to do with any more and her face was more angular, new buds pressed at her dress, soft blonde hair, milky skin, a new sultriness to her green eyes. She was as tall as her now!

  Nicole scanned the café for evidence of predatory men. Surely they would all be looking at her beautiful daughter? Everyone just carried on as normal, clinking cups, smoking, gossiping. No danger, but the urge to protect her newly grown-up daughter was overwhelming.

  In the months since she’d last been here to confront Thérésa, Paris had become a different, more threatening, place. The camps of Cossacks, Russians, Prussians, British outside Paris threatened to break through the city gates. Everyone in this café would be weighing up the odds, telling their own stories of how Napoléon was out of support, out of control. Perhaps it would even be better if the allies beat Napoléon. At least the war would be over. One thing was for sure, she had to get Mentine home.

  ‘Am I leaving Paris?’

  ‘For now, yes. You mustn’t worry, there’s no danger yet, but just for a few months, it will be safer for you at home with me and your grandparents.’

  ‘What about my friends? I’ll miss them!’

  ‘The main thing is to be safe. The moment the war is over, you’ll come back.’

  The coffee pot steamed and the gold-rimmed cups were so delicate you could see the liquid through the china. Mentine bubbled away and the room filled with a comforting din of voices. The starched white 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 deserted when they emerged from their hotel. Then she heard them. Tocsins ringing out all around Paris. Women rushing by with white rosettes pinned to their dresses, men with white armbands, dashing up the avenue towards the Champs-Élysées, the deafening sound of hundreds of horseshoes on cobbles.

  ‘Please, what’s happening?’ Nicole shouted to a passer-by.

  ‘The liberators. They’re here, right on the Champs-Élysées!’

  ‘Wait inside the hotel,’ she instructed the boy with their trunks. ‘Don’t move. I’m going to see, but I’ll be back in half an hour.’

  The talk was of a Russian invasion, but a welcome one. After the bloody revolution, then decades of war and a man, Napoléon, who had declared himself effectively a hereditary aristocrat, what had it all been for? The Russians would help to depose the despot and restore peace, everyone agreed.

  Today was a chance to witness history. As she and Mentine followed the crowds, there was the same charge in the air there had been twenty-five years ago on that hot July day of the revolution. At fourteen, Mentine was three years older than Nicole herself had been then. The expensive red woollen dress she’d worn at eleven years old attracted unwelcome attention for the little rich girl she was then, and today she was wearing conspicuous red again, this time a silk travelling robe, and a velvet cape to protect against the grime of the road. She held Mentine’s hand tight, but just as on the day of the revolution, she couldn’t resist the pull of the crowds.

  She pushed through the crush, right to the front, just in time to see the incredible sight. Tsar Alexander on a white horse, surrounded by allied officers – the red of the Cossacks, the blue of the Russians, marching peacefully up the Champs-Élysées. Crowds cheered. The women’s white rosettes signified their welcome, the men’s white armbands happy surrender. There were even some whispers amongst the crowd about the restoration of the monarchy.