Chateau of Secrets: A Novel (17 page)

Gisèle thought back to some of the bitter reflections she’d read in
Mein Kampf
, to the deep loathing in the author’s heart. “I don’t understand why Hitler hates the Jews—”

“It isn’t just Hitler,” Sister Beatrice said. “He is only unifying all those in Europe who think the Jewish people flaunt their wealth.”

The only Jewish people she knew well weren’t wealthy, nor could she imagine Nadine or her parents flaunting the little they did have, but Gisèle understood the misperception. Since childhood, she had borne the brunt of meanness from people who’d thought the Duchants needed a good dose of humility. “But there aren’t many wealthy Jews in France . . .”

Sister Beatrice folded one of her hands over the crucifix that hung from her neck. “Others hate the Jewish people because they claim to be God’s chosen people and then others, I’m told, have hatred in their hearts because Jews were responsible for the crucifixion of Jesus.”

Gisèle leaned back against the wall. “It’s strange to think that an event that happened almost two thousand years ago could breed such hatred today.”

This time a whisper of a smile crept up on Sister Beatrice’s lips. “Almost as strange as an event that happened almost two thousand years ago healing lives today.”

Gisèle rubbed her hands together. “Can I leave this boy with you?”

Sister Beatrice glanced back at the children.

“I will bring you food and—”

Sister Beatrice interrupted her. “You mustn’t bring us any food. In fact, you mustn’t come here anymore, at all. Someone may follow you.”

“You will take him?’

“We will take him,” Sister Beatrice replied. “But we aren’t able to care for any more children.”

A little girl with blond pigtails stepped up beside her, a bowl of stew in her hands. She held it out to Gisèle.

“Thank you,” Gisèle said, smiling at the child. She ate rapidly, the broth warming her, the vegetables giving her strength. She would need it to pedal back to André and Nadine’s.

Before Gisèle left, Sister Beatrice took both her hands, and the nun prayed with fervency, pleading with Jesus to protect Saint-Lô’s children from the evil in their midst.

But Gisèle feared the Spirit of God had already fled Saint-Lô.

A
breakfast tray fit for the queen of England arrived at my door, a few minutes before eight. This time I heard the knock, and I would have answered it except I was in the midst of trying to wash my long hair under the bathtub’s finicky spigot. The water did indeed work, and for that I was grateful, but it fluctuated from cold to hot as quickly as the polls in Virginia swung between Austin and his opponent.

With my wet hair wrapped in a towel, I retrieved the tray of food, placed it on the coffee table, and breathed in the aromas of dark espresso and apple butter. Piled onto the tray was a basket of warm croissants, prosciutto sliced so thin it looked like pink tissue paper, slices of honeydew melon, and little white tubs with butter and jam and soft cheese.

As I cut open a croissant, its breath warmed my face, and I slathered it with the butter and then the strawberry jam. While in France, I would not count a single calorie. It was Austin himself who had told me to enjoy the food. Immerse myself in the past. He and Olivia could sweat the future.

When I finished my breakfast, I took the tray down to the kitchen. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I fell asleep last night.”

Marguerite waved her hand. “Please don’t worry. I had an urgent call and brought it up late.”

“I didn’t even hear you knock.”

“Riley Holtz is scheduled to arrive in Carentan this afternoon,” she said as she piled the dishes in the sink. “Do you want to ride to the train station with me?”

I declined. Instead I would search for Mémé’s lake.

I found a path on each side of the house—a wide path that appeared to go down to the river and a sliver of a path that slipped back into the forest to the west of the house. I took the path west.

I’d only walked a few yards when I discovered an iron gate, its base anchored in mud. I lifted and pushed until there was finally enough space for me to squeeze through. The trail zigzagged down the hill, and I saw a glint of water at the bottom.

Several trees dipped low over the banks of the lake, while others had tumbled into the water. Sunlight streaked through the leaves above and glistened on the coats of moss below. Magnificent greens and yellows ornamented the browns.

I sat on a flat stone and curled my knees up against my chest. A turtle peeked its head out of the water and then glided along the surface.

I could almost imagine Mémé as a child, skipping along the stones, balancing herself on the slippery trunks that rested in the lake, splashing water at her brother, or sneaking down here to enjoy the solace. Cell phone reception had been sketchy in my room, but down here, there was none at all. I relished the sunlight that snuck through the trees, the simplicity of the warm breeze tickling my neck.

I wished I could paddle around this lake in a kayak or even a canoe, but for the moment, I would simply savor the quiet.

Closing my eyes, I remembered Mémé’s laughter when she used to take me to the stables in Virginia where she boarded her
two horses. We would ride through the forest outside Fairfax, and she would tell me the stories of Normandy and the hours she would ride her horse along the river Vire.

Grandpa had been the vice president at a local bank and Mémé taught French literature at George Mason University. Every June, when school ended, I would spend two weeks at their house, riding horses, cooking comfort food like coq au vin and bouillabaisse alongside Mémé, paddling on the river nearby. Every Sunday, she took Grandpa and me to Mass, and before I went to bed, she quoted Scripture along with wisdom from her writing heroes.

You’ve never lived until you’ve almost died.

—GUY DE MAUPASSANT

I have learnt that all men live not by care for themselves but by love.

—LEO TOLSTOY

For there are many great deeds done in the small struggles of life
.

—VICTOR HUGO

And her other favorite quote from Victor Hugo:
France is great because she is France.

I wished I could call her now and tell her that I was at the château. That I’d broken my engagement and didn’t know what my future held. I could almost hear her say, “
Ma chérie
, your life is not over. It has only begun.”

And then she would say something brilliant, influenced by all the writers she loved. Something like, “But don’t live to bring happiness to yourself, Chloe. Live to bring joy to all those around you.”

In the distance I heard the chiming of church bells. And I opened my eyes.

Had Mémé lost herself here when she was a girl?

Or perhaps she hadn’t lost herself at all. Perhaps she’d found herself by the water.

Perhaps here she’d learned to give her life for others.

I slowly rose to my feet, my sweet memories fading. Riley Holtz would be here in two hours, but we weren’t scheduled to meet until tomorrow morning at nine. This afternoon I would explore the property and read Olivia’s notes about the war.

A second path meandered up the cliff and I followed it to the south of the house. It ended at a brick wall with another iron gate, but this gate was padlocked shut. I trailed the wall until I reached a portion that had collapsed. Heaving myself up, I climbed over it and began to wade through the tall grass.

On the other side of the field was another brick wall, and behind that the stone chapel with a small cemetery to its side. A girl skipped past the church, her ponytail bouncing behind her. Then I saw an elderly man with denim overalls perched against the brick wall, about thirty yards away.

When I was about halfway across the field, the older man called out to me in French. “You’d best take care where you step.”

I froze, lifting my eyes again to meet his gaze. “Why should I be careful?”

When he grinned, I saw a chipped tooth under his dried lips. “You’re walking across an old minefield.”

What was wrong with this man, smiling at me like that? And why wasn’t the minefield surrounded by an electrical fence? Or marked by a giant, flashing Danger sign?

Perhaps there was a sign along the road. Probably no one else ever came up the back way from the lake.

Should I follow my footsteps back to the wall or continue forward?

Before I decided, the girl called out to me. “Don’t mind Monsieur Lavigne. He likes to scare people.”

I eyed the man again and then the girl, farther down the wall. She couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven, but between the two of them, I decided to trust the child.

I quizzed her. “It’s not a minefield?”

“It was, a long time ago, but the mines were taken out after the war. There is no need for worry—you won’t lose a leg or anything now.”

I wasn’t sure if that was supposed to comfort me. I didn’t want to lose a toe or a foot or any other body part either.

“Come this way,” the girl instructed in French, waving me forward.

I took a small step as if to test the ground. “Are you certain the mines are gone?”

She nodded. “Unless you have tremendously bad luck.”

I grimaced. “I’m afraid bad luck is chasing me.”

She laughed. “You’re funny.”

I proceeded cautiously until I came to a muddy rut in the field, not ten feet from where she stood. I glanced back up at her before I walked through it.

“A bomb made that hole a long time ago,” she said in English. “Nothing will grow on it.”

I thought back to the crumbling wall by the gate and recalled Marguerite’s words about the bombing of the west hall. “Are there a lot of these holes left?”

The girl shrugged. “My great-grandmother says that one is too many.”

“Your great-grandmother is a smart woman.”

When I reached the other side of the field, I took a deep breath and settled with my back against the wall. The elderly man had wandered away, but the girl remained, sitting on a log to tie her black shoes. The light brown hair in her ponytail curled down her back, and she wore a short plaid skirt with tights and a red blouse.

“Are you from Saint-Lô?” I asked.

“My great-grandmother lives down near the river.” She pointed east. “I stay with her in the summers.”

“I used to spend part of the summer with my grandmother.” I brushed off my jeans. “Your English is perfect.”

She smiled. “What is your name?”

“Chloe—Chloe Sauver. My grandmother lived here as a child.”

She popped up from the log. “In Agneaux?”

“In the château. Her name was Gisèle Duchant before she married.”

“Grand-mère said she used to be friends with the woman who lived here.”

My heart quickened. Perhaps her great-grandmother could tell me more about Mémé’s story. Perhaps she even knew Adeline.

“My name is Isabelle,” the girl volunteered.

“That’s a beautiful name.” I stuck my hands into my pockets. “How old are you?”

“Almost eleven.”

“It’s good that you’re learning English.”

She twisted the hem of her skirt. “Grand-mère says I don’t have a choice.”

It was a bit strange to think this girl’s great-grandmother and my grandmother were the same age, but since my father was older than most dads, I was used to the gap.

“What is your great-grandmother’s name?” I asked.

“Madame Calvez.”

“I would like to meet your great-grandmother.”

Isabelle checked the watch on her wrist. “She’ll sleep for another hour.”

“Where were you going now?”

She nodded up the lane, toward the village at the top. “Up to Agneaux to buy bread.” She paused. “When I get back, I could take you to meet her.”

I wondered what Madame Calvez remembered about my grandmother.

Chapter 23

G
isèle turned onto the empty rue de la Vire and then pedaled toward the river as fast as she could, the words of the baker and then Sister Beatrice ominous in her mind. Leaning her bicycle against the Batiers’ garage door, she glanced over at the lacy white curtains that concealed the living room. Nadine usually waved at her through the window, but this time she didn’t see her friend.