The Champagne Girls

by Tessa Barclay

  All the talk was about what Russia would do. The party broke up in the early hours of the morning, the men shaking their heads and predicting weeks of diplomatic tension throughout Europe.

  Gaby was worried too, but about trade. If by any chance hostilities should break out between Russia and Austria-Hungary over this matter, it meant chaos in the railroad system and so trade would be blocked. She knew there were shipments of sweet champagne waiting to go to Russia ‒ she was pretty sure her brother put a ‘delay’ order on the loading.

  All her anxieties were about upsets to business. She expected all the trouble to come from Russia. But none of her worries were strong enough to make her hurry home to France. David in Paris and her father at Calmady would handle everything. She still had business to do in London.

  As expected, Russia ordered general mobilisation on July 30th. Her rail system, never of the best, became clogged with troops being shunted towards the Austrian frontiers.

  The Austrian Empire was in turmoil. No one quite understood what was going on. Later it was said that the German High Command hadn’t bargained for general mobilisation in Russia ‒ whatever the reason, the German government, appealed to by Austria, sent an ultimatum to the Russian government demanding demobilisation. When the demand was rejected, the Germans declared war on Russia.

  ‘Let them fight it out between them,’ said London friends to Gaby as they sat in a box at the Haymarket Theatre. ‘Serves ’em right!’

  But two days later, for no reason that anyone could see, Germany declared war on France.

  It was the 3rd of August. Many members of London society, and thus of the British government, were in the country getting ready for the shooting season. Everyone was stunned, amazed.

  ‘I must get home,’ Gaby said. ‘I must get back to Paris at once.’

  ‘My dear, don’t be silly! Nothing’s going to happen! The Prussians are just being noisy, as usual ‒ they’re not going to attack France, it’s just a ruse to distract the Russians.’

  ‘No, no ‒’

  ‘Dear girl, travelling will be very uncomfortable in any case for a few days. Wait a little.’

  Uncertain, anxious, she waited. Twenty-four hours. A fateful delay. In the morning came the news that the German Army had demanded passage through Belgium so as to attack France, had been refused, and nevertheless sent in her troops. The British, bound by a treaty to defend ‘little Belgium’, declared war on Germany.

  And when Gaby tried to leave for her home, she found the travel system utterly clogged. The British Expeditionary Force was being moved to France. It was impossible to get on board a cross-Channel steamer without a pass.

  She had friends, of course, who would provide her with one. But even for them it took time. Almost a week went by before she reached Calais on a crowded, dirty cargo boat. But at Calais things were even worse. No trains were running for the use of civilians. No taxis or hire cars were available ‒ the vehicles had either been requisitioned or their drivers called up. When she tried to telephone she was told by the operator that only official calls were permitted.

  The manager of the hotel suggested she ask for official help. She went to the Mayor’s office, sending in her visiting card to introduce herself. A harassed secretary saw her. ‘I’m sorry, mademoiselle, it is entirely impossible to do anything for you at the moment. Military traffic must take priority.’

  ‘But surely I have a right to get home to ‒’

  ‘Mademoiselle,’ he said, fixing her with a grim, tired smile, ‘this morning the Germans occupied Liege. Do you think your troubles are more important than that?’

  There was nothing to say. With a little shake of the head she got up and went out.

  The House of Tramont had shipping offices in Calais but all the horses for the heavy drays had been requisitioned. The shipping manager said he would do his best to find private transport for her. Next day she was called down to the vestibule of the hotel before breakfast. Piquet was there, the agent from the warehouse on the docks. ‘Mademoiselle, an acquaintance of mine is going to Paris tomorrow on business, has permits from the Military Transport Officer. He says he’ll take you as a passenger in his carriage if you don’t mind being squashed in with him and two other people who have to get to the capital.’

  ‘Oh, Monsieur Piquet, I don’t mind anything so long as I can get there! Have you managed to get through to the Paris office yet?’

  ‘They keep saying there will be at least two hours’ delay, it’s hopeless. Monsieur Ravelon asks that you’ll limit your luggage to one valise, mademoiselle, as he doesn’t want to overstrain his horses.’

  The journey took four days, a trip that by train took less than that number of hours. The civilian traffic was kept off the national routes and continually held up at level crossings while troop trains went through.

  Always the young men would hang out of the windows laughing and waving their caps. ‘We’re going to finish off the Boches!’ they shouted.

  ‘One hopes they soon will,’ muttered Monsieur Ravelon. ‘Friends of mine in high places ‒’ he looked mysterious and important ‒ ‘say it will all be over by Christmas.’ They had problems getting feed for the horses, for often they had to pull in for long hours at the roadside with no village nearby. The inns where they put up at night had little to offer for either man or beast. They were continually stopped by military gendarmes to have their papers checked: spy scares were rife. Gaby heard of two men shot in Beauvais for asking questions.

  Exhausted, cold and depressed, she thankfully said goodbye to her travelling companions in the early hours of 15th August near the Place Pereire and was lucky enough to get a hackney. She went at once to the office, hungry for news.

  The office was of course open but the first thing she noticed as she entered the counting-house was that there were no young clerks at their usual posts. The counting-house manager hurried to greet her. ‘Good God, Mademoiselle Tramont, I thought you were still in London!’

  ‘No, no, I’ve been on my way for days ‒ weeks, it seems. Is my brother here yet?’

  He hesitated. ‘No, mademoiselle, he got his enlistment papers four days ago.’

  ‘Enlistment? At thirty-five?’

  ‘Everyone not in an essential occupation is being called up according to age group and your brother ‒’

  ‘Did he leave a message?’

  ‘In his office, mademoiselle‒- a letter addressed to you in London with instructions to send it on as soon as the mail becomes organised again.’

  She went ahead of him, up the short open staircase and along the passage to the big cold office where she and David had spent so many hours arguing over business problems. His desk was extremely tidy, but on the centre of the blotter was a large envelope with her name on it.

  She tore it open. It contained a note from David with a letter, addressed to him in his father’s handwriting.

  ‘Dear Gaby, Clochinou will explain that I have gone to the Army. I’ll write or telephone as soon as I have a settled address, I suppose a training camp. Please read Papa’s letter for news of the family. I hope to be in touch soon, your affectionate brother David.’

  She took her father’s letter from its envelope.

  ‘My dear son. It’s said that there will be a postal collection from Rheims this afternoon so I am writing to give you the latest news here. You won’t be surprised to hear your cousin Pierre volunteered the day after the war was declared and has gone, so far we don’t know where. His mother felt she couldn’t argue against it in the circumstances but she is very upset.

  ‘Most of our men have gone or are going. I’ve asked your Uncle Gavin to come back to the manor to be more on the spot, for I think we’re going to have big problems with the picking. The authorities have requisitioned almost all our horses and vehicles. All that’s left are two teams of young horses, you remember the new ones we were going to train during the coming winter? Old Mellisot says we can get in some of the grapes using handcarts and th
ere are of course some donkeys but you know the load-capacity of a donkey cart is low.

  ‘I hope your sister has the sense to stay in London until this is over. I gather most people expect to have it finished by Christmas, thank heaven, as we want to concentrate on the new blend about then. I’ve written to Gaby by this same post but I really wonder how long it will take for the mail to get through under the present conditions. Your loving father.

  ‘PS. Young Mellisot remarks to me that you too may be called up quite soon. He says two groups are being called, the twenty to twenty-one and the thirty-five to thirty-six ‒ how he gets this information I’ve no idea, but he says your group are wanted for guarding installations and the like. As that seems a terrible waste, I’m asking to have your call-up indefinitely postponed on urgent business reasons.’

  Monsieur Clochinou had stood by anxiously while she read this. He now said, in a troubled tone, ‘Are there any instructions, mademoiselle? We don’t know what to do here ‒ the authorities have taken ‒’

  ‘I know, I know, all your transport. It’s the same everywhere.’ She sank down in her brother’s armchair behind the desk. ‘See if you can get me some coffee and rolls. Monsieur Clochinou. I’ve been on the road so long … And, monsieur, ask the concierge to find someone to tidy the rooms upstairs. I’ll be staying here a few days before I set out for Calmady.’

  ‘Oh, mademoiselle …’ He stood staring at her, the habitual frown between his brows deeper than usual.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I fear you won’t be able to travel in that direction for a while.’

  ‘I understand that. But in a day or two when transport gets back.’

  ‘No, mademoiselle. You haven’t heard?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Our Army launched a great offensive against the Germans in Alsace and Lorraine yesterday.’

  She sat staring across the desk at him. After a moment she put up her hands and began to untie the veil that held her travelling hat in place. ‘Very well,’ she said in a voice that she kept very steady, ‘please order my breakfast and then in about half an hour I should like to go up to the apartment to wash and change.’

  ‘I’ll tell Madame Debusse at once.’

  ‘As you go, ask Monsieur David’s secretary to come in.’

  ‘I’m sorry, mademoiselle, he’s gone too.’

  ‘Then find someone ‒ a dactylographist ‒ I want to dictate some instructions. Is there any correspondence? When I’ve read it I’ll want to do some letters.’

  ‘Yes, mademoiselle.’

  She could hear the note of thankfulness. Someone had come, someone had taken charge, he was no longer responsible for any mistakes caused by the chaos of the present times.

  Later that day came news that the French flag was flying once more over Mulhouse in Alsace. Paris went wild with joy. As she worked at David’s desk. Gaby could hear the shouts, loud flourishes by some amateur trumpeter, singing of patriotic songs. She went to the window to look out. Below, a little group were dancing and waving hats in the air. Good, she thought, the fighting will soon be over, everything will quieten down,

  I’ll be able to get home.

  Home … How precious it had suddenly become. Often when she was abroad on business she’d think of Champagne with vague nostalgia, but life in St Petersburg or London had always seemed compensation enough for missing the pale grape blossom or the flurry of the harvest. But now she was filled with a fierce longing to see the vineyards again ‒ the straight rows of vines, the chalky soil, the grey-roofed village with its quiet square and its weathered statue of an angel.

  She’d go back the moment the Army had wiped up the German resistance. A week or two, at most.

  That was her last day of real optimism for the next four years. For the following day the German army hit back at the French attack, two weeks later they were at the River Marne, and on 4th September they occupied the city of Rheims.

  Chapter 15

  The Battle of the Marne banished any rejoicing from the streets of Paris. The capital, and beyond it the whole of France, watched in hypnotised anxiety and horror as the German Army came ever nearer and near.

  Épernay fell, then Château Thierry, Compiègne, Villers Cotteret, and all the little towns and villages in between. Refugees streamed into Paris, haggard, exhausted, mud-spattered after heavy autumn showers.

  The French government had gone to the safety of Bordeaux before the Battle of the Marne, for the capital was already threatened by the occupation of Brussels and the retreat from Mons on the coastal front. Two armies now came inexorably nearer. The sound of the great howitzers could be heard on the Champs Elysées.

  Many decided to follow the example of the government and seek safety in the south. But Gaby Fournier-Tramont wouldn’t even listen to the suggestion. ‘We don’t belong in Bordeaux,’ she said curtly. ‘We’re champagne-makers.’

  ‘But if the Germans come in, mademoiselle …?’ faltered Clochinou.

  ‘Then it’s the end anyway. Besides …’ She looked down at her desk, determined not to let the tears show. ‘Bordeaux for me is too far from my people. I want to be here so as to get to them the moment the fighting stops.’

  For nothing, absolutely nothing, had been heard from Calmady. She had only the letter her father had sent to David, dated 26th August. But now the Germans were in Rheims, had rolled over the village of Calmady with their gun-trains and their staff cars, had taken Épernay where Aunt Alys and Netta and little Elinore lived.

  Where were they? Where were her family? What had happened to the workers of the Tramont winefield, to old Mellisot and Suchet and Madame Meniller?

  The anxiety was almost unendurable. She couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. She carried out such business tasks as needed to be done in the Rue Lelong but Paris was almost paralysed not with fear, exactly, but with a kind of dreadful consternation.

  On the 16th September the newsboys were running like greyhounds through the streets. ‘Germans Retreat! Joffre Turns the Tide!’ Gaby sent a clerk out to buy copies of the newspapers.

  It seemed to be true. With the help of the British, who emerged from the Crècy forests, Maunoury was advancing from Meaux and d’Esperey was attacking the army of von Kluck. The Germans were being driven back to the River Grand Morin.

  Now there was joy in Paris ‒ not the foolish dancing in the streets, but the thankfulness of deliverance. People stood at street corners, tears streaming down their cheeks. Women hurried to church to give thanks. For twenty-four hours the tension was released.

  But of course they had been over-optimistic. They watched as troops were rushed out of Paris to help the counter-attack, cheering but without the delighted patriotism of the early days. News varied: the British had driven the Germans across the Grand Morin and taken Coulommier, and Maunoury had smashed the centre of the orderly German retreat. No, on the contrary, d’Esperey was in trouble, the counter-attack had stopped.

  Special editions of the papers contained little real news ‒ nothing could be revealed, the situation was too desperate. Every morsel of information was seized on and turned into an epic. Rumours flew ‒ the Germans were flying back to their frontier, they had turned and rent the French attack to pieces, von Hausen was advancing against Foch ‒ confusion reigned.

  But on the 11th September came a firm announcement. The Germans were in retreat. Paris was no longer in danger. How far they would retrace their steps remained to be seen. It depended on the energy of the French and British counter-attack, one could see ‒ and that expended itself because of the difficulty in bringing up artillery and supplies.

  The Germans took up a line running from the Oise beyond Compiègne to the Aisne, along that river to Berry-au-Bac, and across Champagne in a wandering front to Verdun. There they stayed for the next four years, sometimes giving a few hundred yards or as much as a mile, sometimes gaining the same territory or a few yards either side.

  They had been driven north from Épernay.
They had settled just beyond Rheims. Their guns were trained on the city and the surrounding villages. Calmady was precisely in their range.

  In a word, the House of Tramont was in No Man’s Land.

  Gaby pulled strings to get passes to go with the first civilian party to Rheims. The railway had been destroyed, partly by the battle and partly by demolition detachments to prevent it from being any use to the enemy. There were long delays, train travellers had to alight and take to such wagons and carriages as they could find. At Soissons Gaby was lucky enough to fall in with a party of staff officers in a closed automobile who gallantly offered her a lift.

  She came in through the shattered suburbs of Rheims on the evening of 22nd September. She had been en route for three days. She was handed out of the staff car by a stout major who had decided to take a fatherly interest in her. She was tired, she had a headache from the jolting of the car over shell-holes, she longed more than anything else to get rid of her escort and run in search of a carriage or cart to get her to Calmady.

  But there was something strange about the city. She stood on the pavement in front of the hotel where they had drawn up, and raised her head. There was a strange smell.

  Burning!

  Now she saw, now she understood. The strange glow she’d only been able to glimpse past her companions in the car, through the misty celluloid windows, was Rheims in flames. ‘Oh, dear God!’ she gasped.

  ‘Mademoiselle, mademoiselle ‒ pray come inside ‒ this is an unsuitable sight for you!’ The fat major hurried her indoors.

  The manager of the hotel recognised her at once. ‘Mademoiselle Tramont! We understood you were in England?’

  ‘Lebel, where is my father? Have you any idea?’

  He shook his head. ‘Marie! Marie!’ he was calling. ‘Take Mademoiselle Tramont upstairs. There’s a room on the second floor.’

  The cage-like lift didn’t work. She was led upstairs, protesting, asking questions. ‘Sit down, mademoiselle. Wine and food will be here in a moment. I’ll tell you what I know when you’ve eaten. There, there … Sit down, be calm.’