“Who, dear?”
“The American. I saw her and her trained dog of Hell.”
“Did you speak to them?”
“I called on St. Joseph to curse them for their greed.”
Sister Evangeline paused, a piece of broken pink plastic in her hands. “We use the church for good, Justine. It is up to God to judge, not we humans.”
“But I prayed to St. Joseph to find me a home and he brought me here. So he must curse them.” Justine sat down on the low terrace beside the hydrangea bush. “He must.”
Sister Evangeline laid her hand on Justine’s shoulder again. “You must have faith.”
Justine looked at the bottle of pills in her hand. She wanted to have faith, really she did. But everyone wanted something from her, that was too obvious. Even Sister E. She wanted her to sleep. Why? So she could ransack Eden, steal her belongings? Was she in league with the dogs of Hell?
While Sister E was bent over the pink plastic chards, Justine poured the pills into the watering can. She smiled sweetly at the old nun.
So plain. Such a plain woman. Poor old thing.
Arnaud stood an inch taller than Merle, with longish dark hair. His olive green summer suit and starched white shirt, immaculate yet casual, set off his deep tan. His Mercedes sedan was equally well-groomed; he had carefully wiped out the leather passenger seat for her. He was well-versed in the twists and tangles of French estate law, and had given her a tutorial on the drive from Toulouse.
Outside the café under an umbrella they drank iced coffee while he smoked and made phone calls. They had an appointment with the mayor in an hour. The stone plaza was large and square, empty except for café tables. Curved arcades ringed three sides for covered market stalls in medieval days and perhaps today. A few tourists rested on benches in midday shade. The village was sleepy, almost deserted at this hour. As they drove up from the south she could see it perched on the side of the hill, surrounded by vineyards, looking like Cinderella’s ruined castle with its crenellated towers and sloping defensive walls.
Merle looked over the notes she’d made in the car. French law was confusing and yet precise. Interesting too, as it reflected a completely different set of values than American law. She'd always thought of the French libertine ways, the keeping of mistresses, the lack of matrimonial rites, as a little too loose and leaning toward men's rights over women's. But now she wasn't sure. Marriage or not, the law was clear. Maybe that was why the ceremonial was deemed unnecessary. Keeping property in the family was valued — one couldn’t cut one’s children out of a will here — it was also excruciatingly complicated. And therefore, expensive. Lawyers like Arnaud did not lack for work.
He would only be here today. She couldn’t expect him to stay and hold her hand. He had found her a small hotel that was stuffy and cramped but would do for the week she planned to stay. Tristan, Stasia, and Oliver would be enjoying their first day in Paris. They'd gone to the airport together but Merle flew alone to Toulouse. By Saturday she hoped to have her business wrapped up and join them. She had debated about bringing Tristan here, showing him his grandparents’ home, giving him a little history. But Paris beckoned. The countryside had no chance.
Arnaud set his phone on the table. “Pardon, madame. Business never stops. You should feel lucky you are not that woman I am speaking with. Her husband had two mistresses over the years, and three other children besides their own. Now that he is dead she must share the family villa with five children.” He held up all fingers of his manicured hand. “And the kids don’t even know each other. Can you imagine the troubles?”
“Will she buy out the children?”
“Possibly. She will try. But as you know, money in hand is not the same as stone walls.”
“Yes, well, there is one more child, as Ramon must have told you.”
He nodded and had the grace not to comment. Merle had tossed the subject around in her mind. She had to tell Courtney, for Sophie's sake. It would be dishonest not to. She would tell her when they sold the house for lots of money. Courtney, who had called once and been given ten minutes to complain, had enough on her plate. She didn’t need these headaches now.
“American law is much different,” Merle said. “You can leave whatever you want to anyone you want. Even leave your house to your cat.”
He laughed and stubbed out his Gauloise. “A cat would be easier to deal with than Justine LaBelle.”
The hotel de ville, city hall, was an unpretentious, tidy stone building, recently scrubbed, with geraniums blooming on the windowsills. The French flag flew over the door.
As Monsieur Rancard introduced them and the clerk went to fetch the mayor, he took Merle aside. “I will speak for you. ”
“But I can speak for myself. I’m prepared,” Merle protested. She had taken several years of French. Awhile back.
“In French?” Now he raised an eyebrow. He said something fast and complicated in his native tongue.
“All right,” she said. “But you must tell me exactly what he says.”
The mayor came through the swinging gate. He was a tall, thin man, with thick gray hair and an imperial manner. His eyebrows were large and wiry, his clothes timeless and elegant. His slender hand was cool to the touch and he did not smile at her. He invited them back into his office, holding the gate for them both. His office was large and sunny with flowering plants on the sills and maps everywhere.
The mayor's name was Michel Redier. He and Arnaud talked in clipped tones to each other, with Arnaud gesturing to Merle passionately. The lawyer’s voice rose as he got shakes of the head from the mayor. Suddenly Arnaud stood and leaned against the desk to get closer to the stony-faced mayor. Merle was impressed but wondered if this was for her benefit alone. The mayor didn’t seem to care. He sat back and crossed his arms.
After ten minutes of this, Arnaud returned to his chair and was silent. Was this a cue for her to speak? The mayor leaned forward and spoke in low tones.
Arnaud listened silently, his eyes narrowed. When the mayor finished Arnaud jumped to his feet, shouted, and stomped out of the office. Merle looked at M. Redier who finally was beginning to smile. She shook his hand and said goodbye.
Outside, Arnaud paced back and forth on the sidewalk, flinging his arms around, talking to himself. Merle waited in a spot of shade by a rose bush that grew out of an impossibly small square of earth by a downspout. Eventually Arnaud ran out of steam and looked at her. “Pauvre con! If he thinks that is common behavior — ” He threw his hands up, disgusted.
“What did he say?”
“Stupid peasant. He thinks you should pay him to evict your squatter!”
Merle thought about that. “How much?”
Arnaud’s face was red. He stuck his neck out. “You will not pay him! It is your house, legally. And that means he is your mayor. The gendarme is your gendarme. What have you been paying taxes for all these years?”
“My husband, you mean.”
“You, your husband — it is your money already paying their salaries. It is bribery, plain and simple. And there are principles at stake. You will not pay him one centime, Madame. Not one franc!” He held up one finger.
“Not one Euro?” she said, smiling.
He waved his hands again. “If he thinks I am so low, so ineffective as to have to bribe village mayors, he does not know who I am — Vous ne savez pas qui je sais, monsieur!”
People looked at him curiously, waving and mumbling to himself, this well-dressed man so obviously from out of town. But they looked at her the same way, with bright-eyed curiosity and whispering. It was a small village; they had probably all heard about the dispute over the house. She smiled at a few old women who looked stunned and scurried away. Across the street she saw a man staring openly at them. As Arnaud calmed down, the man, an elderly fellow in a blue jumpsuit and black beret, came toward them.
“Monsieur Rancard, bonjour encore!”
The attorney looked up, still frowning. He gave the old
man a nod. “Pére Albert.” The old man looked at Merle expectantly. “Oh, yes, this is one of your neighbors. Father Albert from across the alley.”
The old man had a round face and a double chin, with black eyes and a near-constant smile. He asked her to call him Albert as he was no longer a priest. She smiled at his jowly, pleasant face. After all she had heard about French formality these two men didn’t fit that mold.
“How did it go with the mayor?” he said in heavily-accented English.
“Not well, I take it,” Merle said. “You speak English.”
“He is a buffoon, this mayor,” Arnaud grumbled. He shot Merle a look as if to say, don’t repeat that. “Are elections due soon?” He laughed nervously.
“I’m afraid he was reelected in the autumn,” Albert said. “And you know the gendarme too? His nephew?”
Arnaud burst into another string of expletives. “Conspiracy of dunces! Idiots!” He suddenly looked at his watch and said in a normal voice, “I must go, Madame. I have business in Cahors very soon. You will excuse me?”
“I’ll speak to you tomorrow?”
“Mais oui. I will call your hotel in the morning.” He hurried off toward his car. Merle suddenly felt the weight of the trip, all the plans and airplanes and time zones, crash in on her. Without Arnaud the likelihood of getting anything accomplished here seemed hopeless. Maybe even with Arnaud.
The old man was still at her side. “A coffee, madame?” he said, indicating tables outside a tobacco store, le tabac. A ten-hour nap was what she really wanted but a chat with the old priest might glean some information. Besides, it couldn’t hurt to have friends here, especially English-speaking ones. She sat in a small wooden chair while he went inside to order. He bounced back across the terrace and sat at the round table graced with a dirty ashtray.
“You have a long trip, madame,” he said, seeing her stifle a yawn.
“Yes, sorry. A very long day.”
A young woman brought out two small espressos on saucers with lumps of sugar on the side. She took a long look at Merle then went inside.
“Does everyone know who I am?” Merle asked.
The priest shrugged. “It is a small town.”
“And they’re all related, like the mayor and policeman?”
“Oh, no,” he laughed. “But they all talk. There is not much else to do.”
“Have you lived here long?”
“As a child, yes, then I went away to school, to the church. I only moved back two years ago, when I retired. I live behind your house,” he added.
“And what do you see going on over at my house?”
He leaned in, over his coffee. “I only see a little from my upper window. The old woman with the orange hair, she lives on the grounds, inside and in the garden.”
“Who is she, this Justine LaBelle?”
“Ah, you know her name. She was living there when I arrived. I see in the village sometimes. Not often.”
“She’s not friendly?”
He shook his head. “I do not believe she has friends in the village.”
“Arnaud told me that she was being protected by a nun, and some of the older people in town.”
“The nun, yes. She arrives last week. Calls herself Sister Evangeline but she does not dress like a member of an order.”
“What does she want?”
“To help Madame LaBelle. Who plainly needs help, poor woman.”
“Is she unbalanced?”
Albert sighed. “She is old, and clearly had a difficult life.”
“What did she do?”
Another shrug. “I think she has no family. So I am glad that the nun has come to help her because Madame LaBelle seems to accept her. She has given her the key to the gate so she can come and go. She comes bringing the food and the clothing.”
“Maybe the sister will take her back to the convent.”
“Peut-être. Maybe.”
“Do you think this Sister Evangeline will talk to me?”
“Perhaps. If you can catch her.”
“Would you help me set up a meeting with her? I would be so grateful, Père Albert.”
“Just Albert, please.” He drained his cup. “I will try, madame. I will try.”
A group of young men burst out of the tabac in soccer shirts and baggy pants. They smoked cigarettes; one had a beer bottle. They stopped laughing and stared at Albert and Merle. Albert looked away, ignoring them. A cocky, short-haired one called, “Vous êtes le Merle?”
The other boys began to crow like roosters and flap their arms like wings. They danced raucously around the table then nearly collapsed in laughter before Albert stood and shouted at them. “Allez! Allez!”
They ran down the side street laughing. Albert shook his head. “Pardon, madame. Boys.”
“I’m staying at the Hotel Quimet. Please call if you have any news about the house or Sister Evangeline.”
Chapter 12
Cher Marie-Emilie,
What you are telling me in your last letter is — if true — a grievous sin. You must be sure, absolutely positive, before you say anything to anyone in the village. Think of the family — of both families. Your own reputation, at the very least.
Have you spoken to your husband about this? Please do not be so timid as to hide from him, hide your knowledge, your feelings. This is too important. He must be ashamed. Accept his forgiveness. That is your duty as a wife.
How I wish I could come to you. Your dear mother, may she rest in peace, would have wanted it so. But things are not easy here either. Jacques and I must be present for the birth of the lambs belonging to the Grand-Duc as well as preparing the fields for spring crops. You are surprised I call M. LeGrand such? His family was stripped of their title centuries ago but to himself he remains the Grand-Duc. He keeps us in many ways.
So, you see, we all have our troubles. We all struggle to live after the horrible war. Be glad you are married and settled. It will get better. Already I see signs.
Be brave, my darling niece—
Josephine.
She folds the letter and tucks it into her bodice. Be brave, yes, she needs those words. Wiping her tears she ties the scarf around her head and picks up the basket. She will walk to the next town, maybe find something growing along the creek. Anything to leave this village.
Chapter 13
Arnaud Rancard called before Merle had gotten out of bed the next morning. She woke up at three a.m. then coaxed herself back to sleep on the lumpy mattress.
“I cannot come to the village today, or even tomorrow, it appears. Too much driving, and now that you are there you should be able to have some success with the locals.”
“Like who, for instance?”
“The gendarme, for one. It appears Pére Albert is correct. He is the nephew of the mayor. But he is sworn to uphold the law and the law says that the house is yours. Show him your papers, the registry. And take Albert with you, for the translating. Á bientôt, madame.”
After a breakfast in the outside terrace with the other guests — croissants, yogurt, orange juice, and coffee — Merle put on her running shoes and a pair of loose pants. She soon found the light sweater too warm and tied it around her waist as she walked through the streets of the village. Exercise, she told herself, and god knew she needed it both mentally and physically. She tried not to think much. That is what walking did for her. She stared at the houses and cobblestones, their jeweled shutters and tidy stoops, the rich golden stone of their walls traced with centuries of war, children, heartache, joy, death, and rain showers. The stones had a thousand stories. She headed through a massive arched gate into the countryside, down a hill to a creek overgrown with wild shrubs. Past a farm, some cows, more vineyards.
When she returned to Hotel Quimet, a staid, yellow-trimmed building a bit out of character with the medieval village with its greasy brass fixtures and excess bric-a-brac, a message from Albert waited at the front desk. He had written out his address and told her to come by in t
he morning if she wanted to try to talk to Sister Evangeline today. He had seen her early, going to the grocery. “Often,” he wrote, “she is gone for most of the afternoon.”
Not that he is spying on his neighbors, Merle mused as she stuffed her wallet, a bottle of water, and the manila envelope with papers, documents, and photos from the deposit box into her backpack. The plaza was a little busier here this morning with a few farmers selling eggs and jars of preserves even though it wasn’t market day. That, she’d discovered, was Thursday. By then she would have this house secured — or not. She would not be bullied into doing something insensitive to the strange and elderly, orange-haired Justine LaBelle.
Albert’s house was like many others in the village, an ancient stone village house among a block of similar townhouses. His front door was wider and a little more ornate than most, with his green shutters pushed open. Over his door an iron scroll held up a fan of clear plastic as an awning. He came to the door, smiling, in what she would find his usual cheerful mood.
Inside the rooms were small and tidy as befitting a priest, full of books and little pretense, the old paint faded and gray. Before she sat down she told him about Arnaud’s early phone call. Albert promised to talk to the gendarme with her then insisted she sit in the garden for a moment first for coffee and something called quatre quart, a pound cake.
He said he had rarely seen Justine LaBelle, but with her orange hair and odd dress she was easy to spot. They sat in the morning sun in his small back garden, dominated by a large plum tree and a tomato patch.
“Odd dress?”
He grimaced. “I should not say.”
“She dresses differently than other women? How?”
“Well, like a younger woman.”
Scantily, she guessed. Was she hawking her wares on the streets of Malcouziac? That might make her unpopular. “What do you do here, then, Albert? For fun.”
“I have my plums,” he said, bright eyes looking for the developing fruit. “I will make the eau de vie from them. And the fencing.”
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