Hoffmeister didn’t dignify either man with a response. Instead, he went on as though he had never been interrupted, “All weapons will be surrendered immediately. The penalty for concealing a weapon is death. That, Monsieur le Comte, includes you.”
“Would you like the shepherd boy’s slingshot?” the count inquired politely. “The kitchen knives, perhaps.”
“All weapons,” Hoffmeister snapped. “You will surrender your swords, and your rifles, and your slingshots. A full list will be provided to you to be posted in your villages. You will also receive lists of goods to be delivered to the castle. You will provide the required amount of cheese, wine, and wheat. Do not think you can fool us by holding anything back. All homes will be searched.”
Aurélie didn’t miss the uneasy looks being exchanged. It was rumored that the mayor of Hargival had quite a cache of wine stored in his cellar. But it wasn’t the wine that concerned her. Absently, she rubbed the calluses on her palms, picturing the bales of wheat, the wheat she had worked so hard and so clumsily to harvest, so that her people might not starve come winter. The people of the village had given all they could spare to the French soldiers that had come through, first in August, then again in September.
She could see the rustles and murmurings, but none of the men would speak out, not with the major’s soldiers standing along the walls and all the might of Germany behind them.
“If you take their wheat, these men will starve.” Aurélie was still holding the carafe and felt like a baroque rendering of Plenty, or something equally absurd. But someone had to speak out, and it seemed it must be she. “The people of this village cannot live without bread.”
“Let them eat cake, then. That is what your people say, isn’t it?”
“Marie Antoinette,” retorted Aurélie, “was an Austrian.”
The local men liked that. The major didn’t. “You aristocrats,” he said slowly, “you are not known for tender sympathy for your people. Would you give your bread so they might not starve, Mademoiselle de Courcelles?”
“If it comes to that. Yes.”
For a moment, she thought the major meant to strike her. But he caught himself in time. “I forgot. You Catholics revel in martyrdom. All of your saints shot full of arrows—or burned at the stake.”
In the back of the room, Monsieur le Curé looked nervous. He had always been more interested in his collection of curios than in martyrdom.
The major grasped the crucifix Suzanne had hung about Aurélie’s neck, pulling it forward so that Aurélie was forced to come with it, or allow the chain to snap. “What bauble is this? Is this the notorious talisman of Courcelles?”
He gave the chain a tug and the thin links snapped, leaving him holding the crucifix in his hand.
“Well?” Hoffmeister demanded. “Is this it?”
Aurélie took a rapid step back, resisting the urge to rub her neck, where a thin, red welt had begun to form.
“The talisman,” said the count, “is with the lady countess. In Paris.”
Or, at least, it was meant to be. Aurélie was very glad she had never told her father otherwise.
“That is what you would say, isn’t it?” said the major, and thrust Suzanne’s silver-gilt cross deep in his pocket. To Aurélie, he said, “Well, what are you doing standing there? Dreier’s glass is empty.”
Expressionless, Aurélie took up the carafe. As she passed the major, on the way to the man on his left, the shorter, rounder one, the major, without turning around, without looking at her, deliberately jerked his elbow back, joggling her arm so that the carafe overturned, the dregs of the wine spilling like blood down the front of her dress, turning the pink silk crimson, and drowning the light of the gems.
“Clumsy, clumsy,” said the red-haired one, Kraus.
There was an uneasy silence in the room, the men shuffling from foot to foot, looking at one another, all feeling they ought to do something, but no one brave enough to speak out. Aurélie’s father’s hands tightened on the arms of his chair, but he stayed where he was, exercising the control learned long ago on the field of honor.
“Well?” The major made a brusque gesture. “What are you all doing still standing here? You are dismissed. You report here tomorrow for further orders. Go!”
The men shuffled uneasily toward the door, glancing back over their shoulders, speaking in low voices among themselves. The major plunked back down in his seat.
Stone-faced, Aurélie lifted the empty carafe. “I shall see this refilled.”
Lieutenant von Sternburg jumped to his feet. “Allow me to carry that for you.”
“I can carry my own burdens,” said Aurélie. “Thank you all the same.”
He followed her out into the passage regardless. It was a dark and narrow corridor, joining the old keep with the newer portions of the castle. It smelled of damp and rodent droppings.
Aurélie stopped, and Von Sternburg stopped, too. “It’s all of a piece, isn’t it?” she said bitterly. Now that she was out of the hall, away from the major, away from the villagers, she felt her mask of calm crumbling. “I cannot refuse your aid any more than I can refuse your demands. Will you requisition my good will as you requisition wheat? I warn you, I haven’t any left to give.”
Her voice was beginning to crack. She forced herself to stop, painfully aware that she was still clutching the carafe. She was beginning to hate that carafe. She would have flung it, just to see it crack, but for the fact that she couldn’t give them that satisfaction. And, besides, Major Hoffmeister had probably already added it to his requisition list. That was what the Germans did when they came through, wasn’t it? They took and took and took.
“Mademoiselle de Courcelles.” Von Sternburg took a cautious step forward. “The last thing I wish is to add to your burdens.”
Aurélie couldn’t help it; she began to laugh, and if her laugh was a little wild, Von Sternburg was tactful enough not to comment on it. “Oh, a regular angel of mercy, that’s what you are. Did you and your commanding officer plan this together? He threatens and you soothe and together you get what you want?”
Lieutenant von Sternburg stared at her, looking as though she had struck him. “Is that really what you think of me?”
Paris. Daisies and cakes and the gentle patter of rain.
Aurélie turned her shoulder. “You serve him.”
“I serve my country. Please, whatever you think of me, know that. I serve my country, not Major Hoffmeister. He is—he is a bully.” She could feel his presence, close behind her. His soap smelled faintly of violets. He was, she realized, staring at the nape of her neck, where Hoffmeister’s summary disposal of Suzanne’s chain had left a thin, red welt along her skin. “This—this is inexcusable.”
His fingers barely grazed the bruise, but Aurélie jerked away, covering the spot with her hand. “Should you be saying that of your commanding officer?”
“No.” He looked down at her. Aurélie looked away, away from the appeal in his eyes, but it was impossible to ignore him entirely, not when his very presence vibrated like a bell, driving away everything else. “I shouldn’t. But I wouldn’t want you to think that I approve of his methods.”