Estelle stilled. “I don’t think that would—”
“We are exchanging favours here, are we not, Mademoiselle Allard?” Meyer put the emeralds on the table in front of her.
Estelle took another tiny sip of champagne that now tasted like poison. She set her glass back down and picked up the necklace. “It would be my honour,” she lied.
“Excellent.” Meyer gestured toward the entrance to the bar. “Shall we?”
Estelle followed the colonel from the bar, through the grand salons, and up to the étage noble. In all of her pampered, monied life, she had never actually been inside the Imperial Suite. There was a guard standing outside the suite’s door, and he stepped smartly aside as the colonel approached. Estelle could feel the guard’s eyes on her, and she turned to meet his stare boldly. He dropped his gaze.
Meyer knocked twice, loudly, and almost immediately the door was opened by another man within. An aide, Estelle guessed, taking in the crisp creases of his uniform, the polished black leather of his boots, and the haughty, smug expression he wore above it all. She’d seen that sort of expression her entire life on the faces of people who believed themselves superior because they were part of an elite inner circle.
“Colonel Meyer to see the Reichsmarschall,” Meyer said loudly, though for whose benefit Estelle wasn’t sure.
“All due respect, it’s rather late, don’t you think, Colonel?” the aide grunted before his eyes slipped to Estelle. “And he certainly did not request a whore this evening, no matter how beautiful she might be.” He was speaking in German.
Estelle adopted a bright, pleasing smile, looking back and forth between the men in uncomprehending question.
“Mademoiselle Allard is favoured for her voice,” Meyer emphasized with biting condescension, “and for the treasures she brings him. You would be wise to remember that in the future, Hesse.”
The aide called Hesse didn’t look convinced. Or cowed. “Hmph.”
“Further, I have a message from the Führer that demands immediate response. But by all means, continue to make imprudent comments about matters you know little about.”
Hesse’s features tightened. “Göring is currently resting, but I will advise him that you are here.” He led them into a grand salon. “Wait in this room,” he said before disappearing through two tall, narrow doors.
Here, in the salon, the ceilings soared overhead, crystal chandeliers spaced throughout. Windows taller than two men reached up and away, framed by elegant draperies caught neatly on each side. Antique chairs and chaises and tables were arranged in intimate groupings, as if waiting for their occupants to return to resume intimate discussions.
Except Estelle only registered all of this distantly. Because filling the space in between, propped up against walls, and resting on chairs and tabletops, was a collection of paintings, drawings, sculptures, and tapestries that would dwarf those of some museums.
“Quite an assortment, isn’t it?” Meyer murmured. “He’s got more at the Jeu de Paume. I don’t understand art much myself but the Reichsmarschall is making great efforts to assemble the finest pieces in all of Europe. Everything you see here will all be moved shortly.”
“To where?” Estelle asked, trying to sound merely curious and not horrified.
“As I understand, the collection is officially destined for the grand Führermuseum that will be a cultural showcase for the Reich. Unofficially, of course, I think the Reichsmarschall may have taken a more personal interest in some of the pieces. He has a weakness for beautiful things.” The colonel winked at Estelle. “You’re a bit of a collector yourself, are you not?”
“I am.” The words seemed to stick in her throat.
“Then you’ll appreciate all this more so than I.”
Slowly, Estelle turned in a circle, trying to control and conceal the emotion that was bubbling up. Fury, hatred, helplessness, horror. This wasn’t a collection, she thought clearly. This was a desecration. The theft and pillaging of history and culture, and, standing in this room, she couldn’t begin to imagine how any of it might be saved. She thought of the art hidden behind her walls at the Wylers’ request, because they had all heard the rumours of Nazis seizing personal collections. But she hadn’t truly appreciated the scope of the devastation and exploitation until this moment.
“Colonel Meyer.”
Estelle’s head snapped around to find the aide standing before them once again.
“The Reichsmarschall will see you now. But only you, Colonel. The mademoiselle is to wait here.”
The colonel grunted and strode toward the doors, yanking them open with little fanfare. Through them, Estelle glimpsed a massive bed, framed and draped like something out of Marie Antoinette’s boudoir. On the bed, a man lay reposing, clad in what looked like a burgundy silk robe, trimmed in fur and belted around his substantial girth. Two lavender-clad legs stuck out from beneath the hem.
The aide turned his attention to Estelle. “The Reichsmarschall is not in the mood to be…entertained this evening.” His French was heavily accented but precise. “He will not grant an audience but he is curious what you have brought him.”
“Of course.” Estelle handed him the emeralds.
The aide took them without comment and followed Meyer into the bedroom. The doors snapped shut behind him.
Estelle stood motionless in the center of the room before she forced herself to move. She circled the art, tipping a few paintings to look for anything that might tell her where they had come from or where they might be going. There were Flemish, French, Italian, and English paintings, some, she was sure, from the years marking the Renaissance. Pieces that were irreplaceable and priceless. She had nothing with which to make a list but maybe she could—
“Looking for something in particular?” Hesse was back, a hard look on his narrow face. He was holding a gauzy mass of lemon-yellow fabric that cascaded over his arm.
“Oh, no,” Estelle breathed. “I’ve just never seen so many lovely pieces in one spot before. It’s like a…like a grand museum. And I do so adore museums.”
“Of course you do.” Clear antipathy made his lips curl unpleasantly. “Here. You’re to put this on.” He thrust his arm and the bundle of yellow fabric in Estelle’s direction.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Reichsmarschall Göring was very pleased with your gift. He would like to extend a thank-you. You are to wear this the next time you…sing.”
His inflection made it clear that he still believed that she was a whore. Estelle didn’t bother to correct him. She stepped toward him and took the garment from his outstretched arm. It was a dress of lightweight crepe, lined with silk, the straps beaded with crystal. The irrational part of her wanted to throw it back at the German. The rational part of her wondered if she would be able to sell it and, if so, for how much.
“He also asked me to give you this.” He handed Estelle a rectangular card.
A postcard, Estelle realized as she took it. The front depicted a long, columned building adorned by a Nazi flag. She turned it over. For the lovely Estelle, With thanks, Hermann Göring. Her stomach churned.
“He would like you to try the dress on now,” Hesse said. “While he sees to Reich business with the colonel.”