The Wine Widow

by Tessa Barclay

  She ran down, little soft slippers slapping the stone steps. The sentry outside heard her come, and looked into the doorway.

  She pushed him aside and ran out. There was no carriage for her. For a moment she looked about, at a loss.

  ‘Mademoiselle!’ shouted Colonel von Jarburg. ‘I beg you, come back ‒ we must talk!’

  The sentry heard his colonel shouting after her in French, which he himself scarcely knew. He was a country boy, only recently called to the colours. All he could make out was that his colonel ‒ who to him was the Voice of God ‒ was angry, because the young lady was running away.

  And Josef had said she was a spy!

  ‘Stop!’ cried the sentry. ‘Stop at my command!’

  Delphine didn’t hear him, or if she did couldn’t believe he was addressing her. She ran towards the side of the building, hoping to see the groom who had led away the carriage.

  ‘Sentry,’ shouted the colonel from above, in German, ‘stop that young woman!’

  ‘Stop!’ cried the sentry to Delphine. ‘Halt or I fire!’

  Still it never occurred to Delphine that he could mean it for her. She was at the corner, saw the carriage with the shafts resting on the roadway, knew there was no conveyance ready for her. She glanced back to the high street, hoping to see a passing cart.

  The sentry raised his long rifle, sighted, and fired.

  Delphine was aware of something slamming into her between the shoulder-blades. She was thrown forward, on her face on the cobbles of Calmady’s main street.

  The colonel had reached the doorway. ‘What was that?’ he cried. ‘Who fired?’

  ‘I did, Herr Oberst,’ said the sentry, and pointed.

  Delphine was lying face down on the stones. Von Jarburg gave a terrible cry and raced to her. He knelt on the muddy cobbles, heedless of his fine white trousers. He stretched out a hand to touch the stain that was making Delphine’s dark green jacket darker yet.

  ‘My God,’ groaned the colonel to the white-faced sentry, ‘you’ve killed Delphine de Tramont!’

  Chapter 24

  General Stiemendorf descended stiffly from his carriage. His escort had stayed respectfully the far side of the porte cochère, but he regretted their presence. It was months since a German officer had needed an escort for his safety in the occupation zone.

  His adjutant was already raising the crepe- wrapped knocker. Menecque the butler had heard their approach. He opened the door at once, presenting the silver salver for the card of condolence.

  ‘The general would like to speak with The Widow Tramont.’

  ‘Madame de Tramont is unable to receive visitors.’

  The general waved his aide aside. ‘Pray tell Madame de Tramont that it is very important I see her. I want to prevent bloodshed.’

  Menecque blenched, backed off, bowed, and went off down a passage without inviting the visitors further into the hall. After some delay a black-clad figure appeared from the same direction.

  General Stiemendorf, in his bright uniform, felt gaudy and disrespectful beside this sombre dignity. Madame de Tramont wore a crinoline gown of stiff black silk unrelieved by any touch of colour. The soft white cap trimmed with ribbons which she normally wore had been replaced by a scarf of black veiling tying back her rich brown hair.

  She indicated her drawing-room, without speaking. The general followed her in, with his adjutant at his heels. Both men now regretted the decision to come in summer uniform of light blue tunic and white trousers. But it had been deemed essential to appear as representatives of the military authority.

  ‘What do you wish to say to me?’ Madame de Tramont asked, without inviting them to sit down.

  ‘Madame, first I must express the bitter regret of the German High Command over this terrible accident ‒’

  ‘Accident!’

  ‘It was an accident. The infantryman who fired was under a complete misunderstanding ‒’

  ‘And will go scot free!’

  ‘No, madame, there will be a court martial. I assure you, everything will be done to show our respect for your tragic bereavement. Colonel von Jarburg will be removed from his post. He has received official censure for meddling in the private affairs of the civilian population. Lieutenant von Kravensfeldt will be sent to serve elsewhere; his promotion has been deferred.’

  ‘None of this will bring my daughter back,’ Nicole said in a low voice.

  ‘Madame, we are only too bitterly aware of that. For the past, we can only express our regret. But for the future there is something we must do ‒ and in this we need your help.’

  ‘You ask me to help you?’

  ‘You are the only person who can prevent unrest in the district. Already our intelligence officers are reporting arms being smuggled in from elsewhere. The villagers of Calmady and nearby have got hold of some garbled account of what occurred. They intend to take reprisals.’

  She looked at him, eyes heavy with tears long shed. ‘Well?’

  ‘Is this what you want, madame? Do you think it will achieve anything except the death or wounding of some dozen or so angry country folk? My men are fully trained and armed ‒ and my orders are to prevent any kind of uprising. I shall see those orders carried out with efficiency, but it will mean casualties.’

  It seemed to him that some gleam of concern showed in her expression. He went on quickly, his tone serious: ‘I have the greatest respect for the French fighting man. I believe this war was lost by France through ineptitude in the leadership. So if your villagers begin a campaign of revenge, I expect them to do it with vigour. But it only means more deaths. Surely, madame, there have been enough deaths.’

  She moved to the window and stood looking out at the courtyard, so as to have time to compose herself. She was easily overset now. Since her daughter’s murder four days ago, her hold on her emotions had become tenuous. Tears, never easy with her, would rush to her eyes. Her vision would blur, she would find herself growing cold and faint. And the slightest thing could bring it about ‒ it needed only a mention of some flower that Delphine had loved, or a muted question about the funeral arrangements, and she would find herself losing control.

  When she turned back, she had herself in hand. ‘Please sit down, gentlemen.’

  Thankfully they did so. It was a warm July day. Their uniforms were stifling them. An old war wound of the general’s was throbbing painfully.

  ‘You said that you needed my help.’

  ‘Yes, madame. I am here to ask you to make a gesture of … of forgiveness.’

  She made a faint sound, threw up a hand in protest.

  ‘Hear me out! I don’t ask you to forgive ‒ if such a thing had happened to a child of mine I should want the perpetrator strung up!’

  The adjutant coughed respectfully. His superior must really not damage the prospect of reconciliation by uttering phrases like that. Taking the hint, General Stiemendorf drew a deep breath and began again. He was angry with the men to whom he’d entrusted Calmady: by their stupidity and carelessness they had put the German High Command in the position of having to ask favours from the civilians. He was angry, too, at the waste: a young life extinguished, two good careers brought to a standstill.

  ‘Madame de Tramont, I ask you to let the German troops take part in the funeral service ‒’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Please!’ He held up a white-gloved hand. ‘Listen to what I have to suggest. The men stationed here on your estate have become friendly with the local people. They tell me they want to show their respect and distress by taking part. We have considered the request at Rheims HQ and we feel it would be a good way to demonstrate the fact that you do not hold us responsible for your daughter’s death.’

  ‘Her murder, you mean.’

  He shook his head. ‘That is too harsh a name. The boy who fired the shot is overcome with grief. Whether or not he is exonerated at the court martial, we shall have to muster him out ‒ he’s quite unfit for service now. You must surely know, mada
me, that a nineteen-year-old boy newly arrived from Feilburg could never wish any harm to Mademoiselle de Tramont.’

  ‘I have spoken to the boy myself, madame,’ the adjutant put in. ‘I can tell you, he has had a severe breakdown. It’s useless to tell him he did what he thought was his duty ‒ all he does is weep and cry out that he is a murderer.’

  Nicole closed her eyes and tried to withdraw herself from the pain of his words. But she could see the young soldier in her mind’s eye ‒ a bent figure in a prison cell, rocking to and fro, keening his despair.

  The general felt they had scored a point. He pressed on. ‘I assure you that our participation in the funeral service would be dignified. The Badish infantry company beg you to let their choir sing at the service. We would like to supply a military band ‒’

  ‘A band!’ she protested.

  ‘To play the Funeral March in the procession to the family vault. The instruments would be draped with crepe, the bandsmen would have black armbands.’

  ‘Oh, for the love of God! What kind of comedy do you want to stage here?’

  ‘It’s no comedy, it’s in deadly earnest. We hope by showing our wholehearted grief in this way, it will mollify the understandable anger of the menfolk. And if you could bring yourself, madame, to allow a party of officers to walk behind you to the grave ‒’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I won’t urge it further at the moment. I only beg you to consider what we are trying to achieve. So far, during our occupation of the north, there has been very little unrest. I think the population were weary of war. But a little time has gone by since the peace treaty and there are hotheads who might seize an opportunity to raise a standard. Who knows what spark might ignite a further conflagration?’

  ‘The Herr General would also like to mention that a heavy compensation will be ‒’

  ‘Richdal!’ snapped the general. ‘This isn’t the time!’

  ‘I regret, Herr General. But,’ went on the adjutant, greatly daring, ‘times have been hard for the champagne industry these last two years or more. Madame de Tramont is a business woman. I thought it only right to mention that the German authorities will take account of the injury her family has endured.’

  ‘Blood money?’ Nicole said coldly.

  ‘Let us leave that,’ Stiemendorf said. ‘It’s more important to preserve lives than to pay compensation for those that have been lost. I hope you agree with me there, madame.’

  ‘Yes, I agree with you. I shouldn’t want another drop of blood shed over Delphine.’

  The old general felt a surge of pleasure. He knew he had won. She would agree to his plans. She would modify them, of course ‒ that was her right. But she would allow the demonstration of regret by the German troops stationed in and around Calmady. The villagers would be appeased. He had solved his problem.

  They stayed only moments more. He knew when it was time to beat a retreat ‒ it was what had made him a good field general in his younger years. As he was helped into his waiting carriage by Richdal he said through gritted teeth: ‘Damned shame! If the daughter was anything like as pretty as the mother ‒ what a waste!’

  Nicole sat in silence long after they had gone. The butler came in at last to ask if there was anything she needed. The whole household was very attentive and gentle with her.

  ‘No, thank you Menecque. I’m just … letting time go by. How long before we can expect Madame Fournier?’

  He glanced at the elegant gilt clock. ‘Any moment now, madame. Shall I have refreshments prepared against her arrival?’

  ‘You may as well.’

  They heard the carriage trundle into the courtyard about half an hour later. It had been sent to Rheims that morning to await Paulette’s train. She heard the servants hurry into the hall to open the front door, fetch in the luggage, do anything at all to show their eagerness to serve.

  Slowly she got up. She went to the drawing-room door, to wait for Paulette to appear in the hall. But there was some delay. She crossed the shadowy floor towards the brightness shining in from the big entrance.

  Two of the menservants were lifting something down from the carriage with infinite care. Paulette stood by, holding a small lap-rug.

  Tears welled in Nicole’s eyes at the sight of her sister. Yet she saw clearly enough still to understand what was being lifted out of the carriage.

  A wheelchair.

  ‘Robert …?’

  It was a croak of inquiry. Her throat seemed to have seized up. But the sound brought her sister whirling round. Paulette ran to her, threw her arms about her, embraced her with savage love, and whispered: ‘Oh, my poor Nicole! Oh, my poor sister!’

  When at last they turned to the bustle at the doorway, the invalid chair was set down on the polished floor, but hidden by the two men stooping over it, arranging the lap rug.

  ‘He insisted on coming, Nicole,’ whispered Paulette. ‘I told him he wasn’t fit for the journey but he wouldn’t listen.’

  Nicole detached herself from her sister’s grasp and moved slowly to the front of the hall. The two footmen, hearing her approach, removed themselves.

  Sitting in the chair was a scarecrow figure ‒ very thin, with his suit jacket and soft shirt loose about his torso. The bones of his face were prominent. The dark eyes seemed huge, the dark brows seemed to sit like slashes of pitch on his white forehead.

  And he was still so like Jean-Baptiste …

  ‘Robert,’ Nicole said, kneeling by the chair. ‘I’m so glad you came.’

  He took her hand in both of his. It was like having a skeleton cradle her fingers.

  ‘I had to come, Aunt Nicci. You understand?’

  ‘Of course.’

  A male nurse appeared from outside bearing a valise of medicines. He urged that his charge should be taken to his room to rest after the rigours of the journey.

  ‘He’s a treasure,’ Paulette told Nicole, ‘very strict, far stricter than I should be if I were in charge of Robert alone.’

  ‘Paulette, he looks wasted away to nothing.’

  ‘Darchier says he’s sure that can be changed. Darchier says he thinks Robert should have been trying to walk ‒ he thinks the surgeons were wrong to keep him abed so long. I half think Darchier knows more about it than some of the doctors. He’s worked with about four other disabled men and achieved a great improvement.’

  It was quite clear that Paulette felt she’d been lucky to find this male nurse to help her bring her son to Calmady. Alone, she could never have done it. She was full enough of this story to help them over the first hour or two after their meeting.

  Nicole had dreaded her sister’s arrival. Paulette’s ready tears, she felt, would encourage her own. But it wasn’t so. Paulette seemed less ready to weep than in days gone by. Moreover, the mere fact that Robert had made this great effort, had insisted on travelling from Paris to the Villa Tramont, was a good omen. And that next morning he seemed little the worse for the journey cheered her even more.

  Robert insisted on attending the funeral, though both women counselled against it.

  ‘Darling,’ urged Paulette, ‘it will only distress you ‒’

  ‘I didn’t come here just to sit at home while Delphine is laid to rest on the other side of the village. I want to go to the funeral.’

  Nicole took Darchier aside to ask what he thought. The nurse, a burly middle-aged man with arms like a wrestler, merely shrugged. ‘I think the patient should be encouraged to do whatever he feels he can do.’

  ‘But if it’s too much for him?’

  ‘Then he’ll have to recover from it next day.’

  ‘You don’t think it would harm him?’

  ‘No doubt it will harm him. He may be exhausted physically and mentally. But what would you prefer ‒ that he lives out the rest of his life like a peaceful cabbage?’

  She was shocked at his bluntness, and looked it. He grinned. ‘Sorry, madame, but I’ve dealt with so many anxious relatives in my time! The worst enemy of a wheelcha
ir patient is the protectiveness of his relations.’

  Nicole had faith in his judgement, as had Paulette. On the day of the funeral they had Robert’s wheelchair lifted into the carriage that was to take them to Ste Anne’s behind the black-plumed hearse.

  The de Tramonts had always charged themselves with the upkeep of the village church, but Nicole hadn’t been able to supply funds for its complete repair after the damage of the war. It would have been unable to shade its usual congregation under its patched roof, but today there was no question of containing the mass of people who had come.

  Every villager from the surrounding countryside seemed to be there. They stood in black rows under the July sun. As the carriage drew up there was a rustling murmur of sympathy.

  Nicole descended, then Paulette. Then the footman and Darchier set the wheelchair on the church forecourt. A whisper of puzzlement arose. Darchier went into the carriage; to emerge with Robert in his arms. As he set the young man in the chair, a faint cry seemed to lift in the air, of pity and admiration.

  ‘It’s Monsieur Robert … It’s the cousin … It’s Madame Fournier’s son …’

  Behind their carriage in its slow progress to the village had marched the troop of Badish infantry quartered on the de Tramont estate. A growl was heard as they appeared.

  Nicole, mindful of the reason for their participation, turned to make a little gesture of welcome to the sergeant martialling them. He saluted smartly, then gave low-toned orders to his men. They filed in under the scarred porch of the church.

  Inside, every bench was full. The priest had been overwhelmed with offers of flowers and expensive candles. The local gentry were there in force. At the back, as inconspicuous as possible, a row of officers sat.

  The funeral mass was longer than usual, enriched with the singing of the infantry choir. Even the local people who had come determined to hate the soldiers were touched by the simplicity of their music. They sang two old German hymns and a folksong whose last verse asked: ‘Oh what is contentment, what is peace? Listen only to the voice of God to learn that secret, and having learnt it, take it to the grave.’