The French House by Helen Fripp (english readers TXT) 📗

knows you look like you need it.’ She turned to Xavier when they’d left. ‘What did it say? You might as well tell me what was there, Xavier. You know I won’t give up.’

‘Wine whore. Help yourself. We tried to get rid of it, I didn’t want you to see…’

‘Who did this?’

‘The lads said they saw that dog-turd Fournier, Moët’s foreman, with red paint on his hands. Fucking idiot.’

‘Wait here.’

She squeezed through the bricked-up hole and ran down the cellar stairs, hundreds of them, kept going until she reached the cool crayeres. Her heart stilled. The cellars were always her refuge, but even down here she couldn’t get the word out of her mind. Whore.

It was completely dark, but she knew exactly where to find a lamp and she felt her way along the wall to the place, found the matches and lit it. The flame leapt. Her neat stacks were overturned, the racks plundered, her precious babies ravaged and looted. Vintage, young, white, red, rosé, it didn’t matter. Never mind the financial ruin, the thought of her vintages lining the stomach of some unthinking drunkard…

She snaked further into the cellars in eerie silence, not a single cellar worker to be seen. Just let a soldier dare jump out on her; she’d cut him with a broken bottle if she had to – she knew the place like the back of her hand and she could outrun any bunch of ragged mercenaries.

Finally, she arrived at the place where the 1811 vintage was stored and her heart sank. Empty, only the outlines of the bottles left, voids in the dust. They’d taken her starry comet wines, her best. They couldn’t have just happened upon them, not this deep in the cellars, and she suspected Moët’s red-handed Fournier had his part in this, too. She felt on her belt for the keys to the secret door concealed behind the racks and hesitated. Light seeped out through the keyhole and around the edges of the door. Someone was in there. A chair scraped.

She picked up a magnum of burgundy and shrank against the wall, holding her breath. Think. If she turned the handle and it was locked, the person inside had a key and she probably knew them. She forced herself to grasp the handle, then turned. Locked. She used her own key to open it and came face to face with a gun. The bottle exploded as she dropped it, scattering wine and glass everywhere.

‘Jesus, sauvage! Don’t creep up on me like that!’

‘Louis! What the hell are you doing here?’

‘What the hell are you doing down here on your own? The place is infested!’

‘There’s no one here. And let them try. My comet wines, all gone!’

He pulled her roughly to him. ‘Christ, I could have shot you.’

‘Did they get in here?’

‘No, they’re safe,’ he said, gesturing to the riddling tables stretching off into the distance as far as the lamp could illuminate.

Honey-coloured Cuvée de la Comète champagnes, neat row upon neat row. A fortune in golden heaven, the entire stock she had laid down, all intact.

‘Crystal-clear as a mountain stream.’ Louis smiled. ‘Your invention is still genius.’

‘Thank God. If they want this, they can pay me what it’s worth.’

‘Then you’re a better salesman than I. All I’ve been able to do is stop them from stealing it, so far.’

‘I’ll find a way. Have you and Xavier single-handedly saved what’s left down here?’

‘Every field hand and anyone who’s ever worked for you has defended this place. Madame Olivier is running intelligence for us. It could have been a lot worse. Other cellars have suffered more than these and it’s bad enough here. The men are coming back in the morning to brick the door back up. Xavier insisted on keeping guard and it was my intention to sleep with these beauties all night.’

‘You love them as much as I do.’

‘I was prepared to die for them in Russia. Go and get some sleep and leave this to me. You’ve just come from Paris with Mentine? You must have been travelling for hours.’

‘Thank you, my faithful Louis. I’ll be back first thing in the morning, with breakfast. I’ll bring my mother’s apricot jam. You try to get some rest, too.’

Back outside, the night had turned chilly and damp. Xavier was standing sentry, rigid in his post.

‘I’ll get some of the lads to replace you. You look exhausted.’

‘No one’s stepping foot inside on my watch. I’m staying put until every brick is replaced and they need a cannon to blast it open again.’

A man appeared out of the dark, bringing with him the stink of a soldier who’d been camping out for months.

‘That’s a promise you’re not going to keep, peasant. Stand aside.’

Xavier and Nicole both blocked the entrance. More joined him. Cossacks, judging by the uniform, at least ten. But the uniform couldn’t disguise the thugs that they were.

‘We’re not open,’ said Nicole.

‘There’s a nice big hole behind you, milochka. Looks open to me.’ He lifted the butt of his rifle. ‘Stand aside if you don’t want this in your face.’

A scar oozed on his forehead. Menace spread across the men’s faces, one by one, as if someone had lit a fire.

‘Fuck off, the lot of you!’ roared Xavier, stepping in front of her.

The rifle butt smashed into Xavier’s face. His nose exploded with blood and he fell, curled into a foetal shape, arms up to protect his head. They took turns to stamp on him.

‘You’re coming with me,’ the scar-face growled as he dragged her to the cellar door. She bit him; he jumped back, clutching his hand. ‘Bitch!’

‘You will not take anything from me!’

He shoved her against the bricks and she smacked her head. The pain was sickening. His filthy hand fumbled under her dress. Her heel found his crotch and she kicked as hard as she could.

A gunshot cracked through the chaos and the men scattered like cockroaches. Xavier staggered to his feet.

‘Bring me the woman. Help that man.’ Two Russian