The Vineyards of Champagne

by Juliet Blackwell

  A warm and welcoming woman in her eighties, Madame Bisset reminded Rosalyn of an elderly chihuahua: She was petite and thin, with a well-coiffed head of pure white hair and an abundance of nervous energy. She introduced them to her husband, Gustave, and, when he turned away, whispered that he “has the Alzheimer’s.”

  “You go play the Beethoven now, Gustave,” she said in a loud voice, and with a nod he complied. “Come, young ladies—please have a seat. Madame Bolze told me you are looking for information about the orphanage, and life in the caves during the war. And about Lucie Maréchal, in particular.”

  “We are,” said Emma, as Beethoven’s “Für Elise” began to play in the other room. “Do you think your mother knew her? I know it was long before your time, madame, but what can you tell us about it?”

  “Oh, please call me Jeanne. Otherwise you’ll make me feel old,” she said, springing up from the sofa to grab a photo, which she handed to Blondine, who passed it around. The photo showed a smiling young woman in a simple tea-length wedding gown. “This is my mother, Topette; she lived with Lucie Maréchal in the caves, as a child.”

  “She’s very beautiful,” Emma said to Jeanne.

  “Wasn’t she? That photo was taken in the nineteen thirties, I think. She left Reims right after the war, and later became a schoolteacher, like Lucie. I followed in her footsteps, and now my daughters are both teachers!”

  “That’s a wonderful legacy,” said Emma. “Lucie was a teacher, then? I heard she was an assistant.”

  “If I recall correctly, Lucie Maréchal wasn’t trained as a professional maîtresse, but during the war she helped in the classrooms they set up in the caves. I’m sorry I don’t have any photos of that time.”

  “And did your mother ever tell you what happened to Lucie?” Rosalyn asked.

  “What? Oh, I’m so sorry. I thought you knew,” said Jeanne, looking troubled.

  “Knew what?”

  “This is why the story is so famous, why my mother told it to me so many times. It broke her heart.”

  The strains of Beethoven heightened the emotion of Jeanne’s words. Rosalyn was suddenly afraid to hear what Jeanne had to say, not wanting the elderly woman to utter words that could not be taken back.

  “Please, madame,” Emma said softly. “What happened to Lucie Maréchal? We know part of her story, but not the ending.”

  “My mother was an orphan; she lost her parents in the war. She found refuge with the villagers in the Pommery caves, and was taken in by Lucie and her mother, Madame Maréchal. Madame taught my mother to knit and crochet—even to tat—and she in turn taught me.” Jeanne smiled. “I remember my mother saying that Lucie was terrible at knitting, and every time she tried, they had to rip it all out and start again. She said Lucie’s talents lay in other areas.”

  “And what broke your mother’s heart?” Emma asked.

  “Lucie and my mother worked the harvest, along with so many others. Women and children, the old people who were still strong enough to manage. They brought in the Victory Vintages, knowing they would have to wait several years for the wines to ferment properly, to effervesce. They believed they were investing in the future of France, a future without war.

  “One night of a full moon, the silver light limned the grapevines and everyone was working among the vines.

  “All of a sudden, the children started screaming and flinging themselves into the mud, the way they had been taught to do when they heard gunfire or mortars. It wasn’t clear where the sniper shots were coming from. Lucie ran toward my mother and sheltered her with her body.

  “My mother said they lay there in the vines for what felt like hours. Finally, the firing ceased, and they remained still for a count of three hundred, as they had been taught. Then they started to crawl toward the hole they used to reach the caves—they crawled along on their elbows, dragging their bodies to remain close to the ground.

  “Lucie ordered my mother to go into the caves. Mother didn’t want to leave her, but Lucie was very stern. When the survivors gathered back at the caves, they realized three people were missing: a boy and a girl, and . . . Lucie. It was only then that my mother realized she was covered in blood. Lucie’s blood.”

  “Lucie was shot,” Rosalyn said, a statement more than a question.

  Jeanne nodded. “Her body was recovered from among the grapevines the following night, along with the two petits enfants.”

  * * *

  “After all this time, we find out Émile survived the war but Lucie did not?” said Emma as they pulled away from Jeanne Bisset’s house, waving good-bye to Topette’s daughter, who stood in her doorway watching them leave. “I can’t believe this.”

  “Maybe she’s wrong,” said Blondine. “She’s old. Maybe her memory is affected. Or she’s making it up.”

  “Why would she make up such a story?” Rosalyn asked. “I think we all want to deny it happened, but it has the ring of truth, doesn’t it? I can easily imagine Lucie giving up her life to save a child.”

  Blondine shrugged. “I think we should find some proof. Maybe there are lists of the civilians killed in the vines, or something?”

  “I didn’t think to look for such a thing when I was at the Reims archives,” said Emma, sounding tired. She checked the clock on her phone. “The archives are open another half an hour—André, let’s see if we can get there before they close.”

  “Oui, madame,” André said, and floored it.

  They pulled up just minutes before closing time. The well-dressed, perfectly coiffed woman at the front desk was not pleased to see them, but when Emma made it clear she wasn’t leaving, the woman agreed to make photocopies of the pertinent documents, then shooed them out, no doubt needing to shop for her intricate French dinner.

  Rosalyn was eager to read through the papers, but the mound of handwritten documents was daunting. The three women were tired and hungry, and overwhelmed by all they had learned that day.

  “I suppose it’s like my father said,” said Blondine after they’d arrived back in Cochet. “They would have been dead for years, anyway. For now, we have dinner to make.”

  “You’re right, Blondine,” said Emma. “We’ll tackle this in the morning, when we’re fresh. For now, hand me that bottle of champagne.”

  * * *

  The next morning in the Blé Champagne tasting room, the three women took their seats at the document-strewn table, divided up the photocopies from the archive, and began reading through the faint handwritten names and explanations entered into the archive’s database.

  “Bouge pas. Wait. . . . Wait,” said Blondine. She looked stricken.

  “What is it? Blondine?” Rosalyn asked.

  She held her hand to her mouth and breathed a shaky breath. She handed Rosalyn a paper.

  “What is it?” demanded Emma, frowning.

  “A list of those killed bringing in the harvest.” Blondine’s voice was flat. “Every year from nineteen fourteen to nineteen eighteen.”

  “And?” Emma looked at Rosalyn, who was holding the paper tight in her hand.

  She blew out a long breath, and read aloud: “‘Le seize septembre, mille neuf cent dix-huit. Sont decedés deux petits enfants: Armand-Jacques Pelletier, âgé de sept ans, et Marie-Suzanne LeFleur, âgée de dix ans. Et leur maîtresse, Lucie Maréchal, âgée de vingt-trois ans.’”

  Emma sighed. “So Topette’s daughter was correct. Lucie was shot and killed by a sniper while bringing in the harvest, along with two children under her care.”

  They sat in dazed silence, sharing the strange, sacred space of grief.

  Blondine sniffed loudly, tears in her eyes. “I knew it was a possibility, of course. We all did, with the terrible number of casualties. It wasn’t just the soldiers who died. . . . One in twenty of the total population of France was killed in the war.”

  “Wait. What was
the date?” Emma asked.

  Rosalyn looked at the photocopy. “September sixteenth, nineteen eighteen.”

  “Lucie would have had her baby by then,” Emma pointed out.

  “So what happened to the child?” Blondine asked.

  “Was there any record of births in the caves?” Rosalyn asked.

  “Good question,” said Emma. “Short answer: I don’t know. The war ended two months later, in November of that year. Most of the city had been destroyed, and people scattered. In all the chaos, I doubt anyone was keeping track of who went where.”

  “Lucie’s mother, of course,” Blondine said. “She would have taken care of her grandbaby.”

  “Except, according to the letters, Lucie’s mother wasn’t well,” said Rosalyn. “What if she couldn’t take care of the baby?”

  “The orphanage,” Emma said, excitement in her voice. “I wonder if the child ended up there. One of the million French war orphans.”

  “Wait,” Rosalyn said. “We know Lucie wrote to Doris and told her she was expecting Émile’s child. If Doris knew Lucie was pregnant, don’t you think . . . ?”

  “Wild horses wouldn’t have kept her away,” Emma said with a nod. “Once the war was over . . .”

  “She would have come to help Lucie,” Rosalyn finished her thought. “Doris would have come for the child.”

  Chapter Forty-seven

  The next morning the trio stood out in front of Madame Bolze’s house, Vieille Ruche, leaning against the car, feeling frustrated all over again.

  After their discoveries the day before, Emma had called Jeanne Bisset to ask if her mother, Topette, had ever mentioned Lucie Maréchal’s baby. According to Jeanne, her mother had referred to the child, but she did not know what had become of the infant.

  “We need to look at that ledger,” Emma had said, “the one you two found in Madame Bolze’s attic, with the names of all the orphans. Let me give her a try.”

  If Madame Bolze was home, she wasn’t answering her phone, so on Monday morning Blondine drove them to the Vieille Ruche. A neighbor boy informed them that Madame Bolze had left two days ago to meet with her daughter outside Tours.

  “Well done, Emma,” Blondine said. “You had to convince her to reconcile with her daughter now?”

  “I could hardly have foreseen this eventuality,” Emma said, then lit a cigarette and leaned back against the car. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, looking weary. “But you’re right. It’s more than a little maddening. We’re so close.”

  “Now what?” said Blondine.

  “Do you suppose it would be crossing the line to break in?” Emma asked, her dark eyes searching the house’s façade as though she was assessing possible points of entry.

  Blondine looked at Emma, alarmed.

  “I . . . do, yes,” said Rosalyn, when it appeared Emma wasn’t kidding. “I think breaking and entering would be crossing a line. I’m not ready for a meet and greet with the local gendarmes at this point.”

  “Honestly, Rosalyn,” said Emma. “Here I think we’re on the same wavelength, and then you go and say something like that. But I suppose Gaspard was right after all. These people lived more than a hundred years ago; we can wait a little longer to learn their fate.”

  “Right now, it’s time for lunch,” Blondine said, checking her phone. “I know a place. C’est pas mauvais.”

  “As you know, pas mauvais means ‘not bad,’” Emma explained to Rosalyn as she stubbed out her cigarette and they piled back into the car. “But here’s a helpful hint: The French apply it to everything, and depending on the inflection, it can mean anything from ‘terrible’ to ‘terrific.’”

  “And in this case?” Rosalyn asked. “Terrible or terrific?”

  Blondine shrugged. “Pas mauvais.”

  They stopped at a corner bistro in the nearby town of Fleury-la-Rivière. The busy bistro was filled with workers in muddy boots and overalls, sipping champagne with their menu du jour the way folks in Napa might have had a beer with their sandwich.

  “So, let’s recap,” Emma said as they savored their entrées, or appetizers, of smoked salmon and duck terrine. “Émile made it through the war alive, which means Lucie wasn’t a widow after all.”

  “No, she was the one who died,” Blondine said, dejected.

  “And Émile was listed as dead, but must have been in some sort of coma, unable to tell anyone who he was,” said Rosalyn. “Was there any way he would have known Lucie had a child?”

  “Not according to the letters,” said Emma.

  “He must have come back to search for Lucie, but . . . ,” Blondine said.

  “By then all the people who had been living underground had dispersed,” said Emma. “Either they took part in rebuilding Reims or they left town. André and I have found references to a few Legrands around Reims, but no sign of an Émile Legrand. We’ve checked tax rolls and census reports, but like I keep saying . . .”

  “It was chaos after the war.” Rosalyn finished her thought. “It’s possible we’ll never find out.”

  * * *

  On their way back to Cochet, Rosalyn noted the unusual traffic and number of people milling about in the villages.

  “They are all coming for the festival of Saint Vincent. It’s great fun,” Blondine said. “Wait until you see your costume.”

  “Oh, good,” Rosalyn said, trying but failing to stir up much enthusiasm. “Thank you.”

  “We should go early,” Blondine continued. “Emma, if André is willing to drive us, we won’t have to worry about parking. But then he’ll have to worry about parking.”

  “I don’t think that will bother him; festivals aren’t really André’s thing. Should we say we’ll leave at nine?”

  “Perfect,” said Blondine.

  “Actually, I’m . . .” Rosalyn blushed. “I sort of made plans to go with Jérôme.”

  “Quoi?” Blondine said, staring at her in the rearview mirror.

  “With Jérôme?” Emma gaped.

  “Jérôme Comtois,” Rosalyn clarified.

  “Yes, we’re familiar with Jérôme Comtois,” Emma said with a smile. “Well, well, aren’t you just the scamp? You remind me of Doris with all your secrets.”

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est ‘scamp’?” Blondine asked.

  “Petite coquine, garnemente, chenapane, polissonne . . . friponne, galopine . . .”

  “Emma, for someone who claims she doesn’t speak French all that well, you sound suspiciously like you swallowed a French thesaurus,” said Rosalyn.

  “I like words,” said Emma. “And don’t try to change the subject. How long have you been keeping Jérôme a secret?”

  “He’s not a secret. I just didn’t happen to mention him.”

  “I think it’s great,” said Blondine.

  “C’est pas mauvais,” said Emma, and they all laughed. She sighed, laid her head back against the headrest, and closed her eyes.

  “Since we’re on the topic of spilling secrets,” Rosalyn began, “Emma . . . are you all right? Blondine said you had an appointment at a research hospital in Paris.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You seem tired. I mean, not for a normal human, but for you.”

  “This is true,” said Blondine, glancing at Emma. “You are not normal.”

  Emma chuckled. “I’ve had a few complications, but nothing to worry about.”

  “But—,” began Rosalyn.

  “I said I’m fine,” Emma said, an edge to her voice. She added in a gentler tone, “I’m frustrated that we don’t know what happened to Émile, and the baby, and I need a smoke. But otherwise, I’m fine.”

  Blondine dropped them off at the gîte, telling Rosalyn she would be back at eight in the morning, costumes in hand. Rosalyn helped Emma into the entry since her crutches made navigating through the door
a challenge. Emma looked wan and weary; Rosalyn knew it wasn’t her imagination.

  “How are you feeling about the festival?” Emma asked as they paused outside their respective chamber doors.

  “Ugh. Ritchie James will be there, I have no doubt. And I’m not big on costume parties.”

  “But Jérôme is taking you. That will be fun.”

  “True. But you saw what happened at the last party. I just hope I can hold it together this time.”

  “Why are you so committed to going, if you hate it so much?” Emma asked.

  “Attending the festival is the reason my boss sent me to France in the first place.”

  “This Hugh character—he sounds like more than just a boss. I mean, you’re unusually committed to him.”

  “I owe him.”

  “Why? Sorry to be blunt, Rosie, but wine reps are a dime a dozen, and you’re really not all that great at it. Surely he could replace you?”

  “Thanks. I feel so much better now.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Hugh’s been an incredibly good friend to me. He was so supportive when Dash got sick, and after I learned just how much debt we were in. And on top of that, do you have any idea how much medical treatment can cost?”

  “I got a crash course in it when I broke my leg in San Francisco,” said Emma. “Pardon the pun.”

  “Even with insurance . . . Dash had to take all these pills,” Rosalyn said, realizing she had never told anyone about the medicine cabinet. “He was supposed to take one every morning and evening. One hundred dollars apiece. And then the antinausea meds so he wouldn’t vomit them up. And the blood thinning meds and the painkillers . . .”

  “So Hugh helped you with the medical bills?”

  Rosalyn nodded. “And it wasn’t just the medical bills, but our regular living expenses—the credit card debt, the car note, the mortgage—and the business itself was underwater. . . . Hugh bought our inventory, and the land, for more than they were worth. He gave me a job and let us live in the caretaker’s cottage on his estate.”