White Truffles in Winter by N. M. Kelby Page B

You cannot run an army or a country on luck and nonsense.”
    Escoffier knew where talk like this could lead. After the fall of France, the new ruling body, the radical Paris Commune, took possession of the city and began to arrest priests and prominent members of their congregations. A few days later, the Martyrs of Paris, as they had come to be known, were executed within the prison of La Roquette, shot down at the Barriere d’Italie and massacred at Belleville. Escoffier himself barely escaped.
    Publicly Gambetta opposed these actions and ordered members of the Commune executed for their actions. And yet here he was.
    â€œThe Catholics must be dealt with,” he said.
    Obviously, this was some sort of a political chess game. Escoffier looked at the cuts on his hands, the stain of the wine.
    â€œIt was grace,” Escoffier said. His voice sounded small, unsteady. His hands were throbbing. “We had been told that the day of Our Lady was chosen as a way to appeal to her mercy. We had hoped for grace.”
    Escoffier felt trapped like a small kitchen mouse.
    Gambetta smiled. “And what you received was stupidity,” he said. “Twenty thousand Prussians died—but no one secured the win. That fool, Marshal Bazaine, believed God was on his side and granted him grace, as you say, and so assumed victory and retreated. It was an act of treason.”
    â€œI have often said that he was a traitor to his country.”
    â€œBecause he was a Catholic.”
    â€œBecause he was a fool.”
    â€œWhich is the same. He held God above France. That should never be. You of all people know that. How many days at Metz were you without food?”
    â€œIt is not important, I served my France.”
    â€œHow many?”
    â€œI ate better than most.”
    â€œHow many days?” Gambetta shouted. The two men were standing face to face under the gaslight. Escoffier knew how he looked to Gambetta, who was after all a great man, a hero. To him, the chef was insignificant. Not brave, not bold, just a small man, an ungrown simple child.
    Gambetta stepped back into the darkness. Unreadable.
    â€œI am a patriot,” Escoffier said. “If you need my secrecy for France, it is yours.”
    The Minister began walking deeper and deeper into the wine cellar, deeper into the darkness. His footsteps echoed on the cobblestone floor. He started raving. “This is not another uprising against the Catholics—do not be mistaken.”
    His voice boomed as if he were giving an address to a crowd of thousands. Practice, perhaps.
    â€œWe as a government no longer desire to share our influence with the Church. We desire simply to have liberty—true, lawful and noble liberty—both for the Church and for ourselves.”
    â€œI am here to serve my France,” Escoffier said and felt as if he were shouting prayers into storm clouds.
    From deep in the dark cellar, Gambetta laughed. “And your God? You see, I had been told that you are a Catholic. I am now trying to determine what kind of a Catholic you are.
    â€œWho was the apostle who betrayed Jesus? Judas? Are you a Catholic like that? Or are you Thomas the Doubter? Or Paul the Loyalist?”
    The words echoed. Escoffier felt his face go hot. If Gambetta could not trust him, all he’d worked for and suffered for would be gone. He’d be like Xavier—adrift.
    â€œThere is no place for God in my kitchen,” Escoffier shouted and as soon as he did he felt ashamed. He turned away, raised his bloodied hands to his face. Tears burned his wounds.
    For a moment, everything was silent. Then there was the sound of heavy footsteps on the cobblestones; this time they were coming toward Escoffier. Exhaustion overwhelmed him. Suddenly, Gambetta, still in the shadows, stopped. He was so close, Escoffier could smell him: tobacco and wet leather.
    â€œThe Prince of Wales claims that you can be trusted with matters of the