The Winemaker's Wife(84)

“I’m so sorry,” Inès groaned, thrown by his cheerfulness. “I shouldn’t have bothered you. I think I interrupted you on a date.”

“Oh well, I would have been furious if not for two things,” he said brightly. “First, the young lady I’ve been seeing is a nitwit, very easily convinced. I was able to explain to her that you were just a Nazi whore, come to deliver a message from the officer you were fucking.”

The vile language made Inès recoil. “Antoine, I—”

He held up a hand, stopping her. “Second, you were very forthcoming last night about the events that have gone on at the Maison Chauveau as of late. And since my German friends have been quite concerned about the whereabouts of a certain Hauptmann Richter, I was very happy to be able to deliver them this morning the answers that they sought.”

“Wh-what?” The room had gone very still.

“The news that such a prominent champagne house owner was involved in his disappearance?” Antoine chuckled. “I thought that Hauptmann Bouhler’s head was going to explode when I gave him the news.”

“Oh my God,” Inès choked out. “Antoine, what have you done?”

“What have I done?” Antoine gave her an amused smile. “I have only done my duty. Can you say the same?”

Inès’s mind crawled back to the previous evening, but her memories were sluggish, covered in sludge, and she couldn’t undredge them. “Whatever I said, I didn’t mean it! Please, take it back. You have to tell the Germans that I was wrong!”

“Oh, but we both know you weren’t.” He took a few steps forward and reached out to stroke her face. She pulled back as if she’d been burned. “Don’t be so dramatic, Inès. Your husband and his mistress will get what they deserve.”

“Oh God, no!” Inès tried to rise from the bed, but Antoine pushed her back down.

“Dear Inès, you had far too much to drink last night,” he purred. “Stay, sleep it off for a little while.”

She tried to shove past him, but he pinned her to the bed. “I have to go,” she whimpered. “I have to warn them. I have to—”

“When I’m done with you,” he said. “Didn’t you come here for comfort?” He was already unzipping his trousers, keeping one hand firmly on Inès as she struggled to pull away.

Inès screamed, but Antoine covered her mouth, his cocky smile replaced instantly by a sneer.

“Think of it this way, Inès,” he said, climbing atop her. “The sooner this is over, the sooner you can run back home to Ville-Dommange.”

As he pulled up her skirt and thrust himself inside her, Inès bit her tongue, so hard that it drew blood. What had she done? Were Germans storming the Maison Chauveau? Were they hauling away Céline, Michel, Theo? Or were they executing them on sight?

When Antoine finally finished and shoved Inès out of bed, she staggered toward the door, clutching her torn clothes around her. As she slipped her shoes back on and ran out into the street, sobbing, she knew with a terrible certainty that she was already too late.





twenty-eight


MARCH 1943





CéLINE


After Inès had stumbled upon them in the cellars, Céline had tried to run after her, to apologize, to explain. But Michel pulled her back, holding her gently by the arms. “What would you say?” he asked miserably.

“But, Michel, how can I just let her go without trying to make her see that this isn’t just a fling? That I love you?”

“My darling, that would only make matters worse.”

And so she had hidden her face in his shoulder and waited in the darkness, feeling the baby swim within her, until they heard an engine start up overhead, growling in the drive before fading into the distance.

Inès was gone, and with her, any chance Céline had of undoing the damage she had done.

They made their way back upstairs in silence, and in the shadows, Michel kissed her gently before they parted ways. “It will be all right,” he promised. But she knew he was lying, for how could he know? How could he see anything but doom in the future?

In her bed, Theo slept soundly, with no clue that their lives had changed forever. Now it was only a matter of time before he knew the truth, too.

Céline tried to sleep, but she couldn’t. Instead she listened to the sound of Theo’s snores, wondering if this would be the last night she would lie beside her husband. Where was Inès right now? Céline imagined she had probably gone into Reims to seek comfort from Edith. But what if Inès’s flight from Ville-Dommange had been fueled more by anger than pain? What if she did something rash? Céline shook the thought away and chided herself. How could she think such a thing? She was the one who had committed the unforgivable sins here, not Inès.

She closed her eyes and touched her right cheek. The wound was dry, jagged, peeling at the edges, an indelible reminder of what had happened only a few days ago. But it wasn’t just Richter’s face Céline saw imprinted on her eyelids when she flashed back to the horror that had passed in the cellars. It was the face of Inès, too. Inès, who had come to her rescue. Inès, who had risked everything to save Céline’s life, the life of Céline’s baby. Inès, whom Céline had so coldly betrayed. How had she managed to justify it to herself? She could hardly remember anymore, but she knew it was inexcusable.