Bennett Sisters Mystery, Volumes 1-2, page 9
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 Twelve
1949
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 Thirteen
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 the 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.”
“Like the musketeers?”
He laughed. “Nothing so fancy. No feather in the big hat! I teach some local boys, a few girls but mostly boys. At one time I was the fencing, how do you say — teacher?”
“Coach?”
“Yes, fencing coach at a boys’ school in the Savoie. It is good skill, very ancient. It teaches quickness in mind and body, to be light on your feet.”
Merle felt the weight of her legs. Ah, to be light of foot. The bed at her hotel was calling. But this third cup of coffee was keeping her going. She only had four days to get this thing done. She thought about what Annie would say: why not have a real vacation? She wanted to be in Paris with Tristan and Stasia. Not mucking around here with weird old women. She sighed.
“We should go see if we can catch the gendarme,” she said, wiping her mouth with the tiny embroidered napkin.
“But what about Sister Evangeline?”
“First, the gendarme.”
* * *
The village of Malcouziac, with its thick defensive walls and narrow streets, was like a miniature New York, an island barely connected to the outside world where walking was the preferred mode of transportation. There was nowhere to park a car. Either you had a garage or you parked outside the city walls. She liked that. Everything you needed was a seven-minute walk away.
At one of the arched gates into the city a small bus was loading a line of tourists. Albert explained. “They go to the shrine. Many tourists, and pilgrims, come for miles.”
“Where is it?”
Albert turned back in the direction they’d come. He pointed to a rocky cliff across the narrow valley to the east. “There, on top of the rocks. See the chapel?”
The domed rooftop stuck out from the forest surrounding it. “How do they get up there?”
“The road goes in that direction.” He pointed north. “Then back again, like a snake. But you can walk up the steps. You can see just the top of them.”
A flight of steps was carved directly into the stone face of the cliff. Bushes and the tops of trees obscured their lower reaches at least a hundred feet below.
“They look dangerous. And tiring,” she said.
“Oh, yes. Take the bus,” he laughed.
“What is the shrine called? I’ll look it up in my guidebook.”
“The Shrine of Lucrezia. Not a saint but revered by the faithful. A beautiful little chapel there.” He stopped in front of the building where the mayor officiated. “Here we are. Around the back.”
The office of the gendarme was small and gray, a post-war addition to the traditional stone hotel de ville in front. Utilitarian would be the kind term. She had hopes that meant the gendarme would be a logical, literal man who would see the justice of her claim.
A gray counter ran across the room, with two desks behind it. At one desk sat a woman, plump-faced with dyed blond hair. She stood as they entered but stayed behind her desk.
“Bonjour, Madame Cluzet,” Albert said, pulling off his beret politely. He spoke rapidly. She replied in clipped tones.
“The gendarme is away, having his coffee,” Albert explained.
“Let’s go see him there then,” Merle proposed. Albert held up a hand as the clerk spoke again. “She will call him to return. That is her job.”
They sat on the hard chairs beside the counter. Albert was quiet, and with the woman obviously listening at her desk, Merle sat silently too. The clock ticked. Forty-five minutes later, the gendarme, who from his expression had forgotten about them completely, stepped in the door.
Hatless, he wore the dark blue uniform well with his broad chest. He was younger than she expected, around thirty, tall with thick light brown hair parted carefully on one side, olive skin, and an air of authority that she’d seen on policeman before. Before they were introduced she disliked him. Be nice, she told herself as she shook his hand.
His name was Jean-Pierre Redier, but Albert called him Monsieur le Gendarme. Redier stepped around the counter and leaned on his elbows, waiting for their pitch. Albert translated.
“These papers show I have full claim to the property. Here is the original registry from 1949, and the transfer upon death of his parents. Here is the new transfer registry, the certificate of inheritance tax paid. . ..” She pointed out each document that proved her claim. “The woman living in the house has no right to live there. However, I wish to be fair. I do not want to make anyone homeless. So I would like to speak to you, or whoever is the social welfare authority here, about finding a residence for Madame LaBelle.”
The gendarme listened then shot a look at Madame Cluzet, his lip curled in a half-sneer.
“You will buy a house for Madame LaBelle, he asks,” Albert said.
“No. Non,” she said to Redier. “I want to help find her a place to live. There must be some place for the elderly who have no homes.”
“Not here, he says.”
“How about in a larger city, Bergerac or Toulouse or Bordeaux?”
“You would send her away to Toulouse, he says.” Albert frowned at her. “There is the general perception that Toulouse — and Bordeaux — are, um, full of the vices.”
“Tell him I just want her to have a safe old age somewhere. Besides my house.”
“This is where she comes from, he says.”
What the hell did that have to do with anything? She could see why French lawyers got angry. Everything went in circles. “What about my house?”
“He says, there is another claim on the property, from Madame LaBelle. You can sue her, then the courts will decide who is right.”
“I don’t want to sue her. I want Monsieur le Gendarme to do his duty. Protect my property rights.”
“He says you are not a citizen of the Republic so you have no rights here.”
In dizzying circles, the gendarme wore her down with his glib, nonsensical answers to every parry she made. He could have been a lawyer, she thought, for all his dissembling. He never broke a sweat. Supreme confidence could be very aggravating, especially from someone in uniform. She felt like taking Harry’s old advice and throttling him while he wasn’t expecting it.
She gathered up her papers, stuffed them into the envelope and backpack, and stepped away from the counter before she lost her temper.
“Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Redier. We will meet again.” He gave her a little bow as they turned away. “Isn’t there someone else here, like a welfare officer, who can help Madame LaBelle?” Merle asked outside, walking so fast through the square that Albert had to jump a little to keep up. “Is there a state office here?”
“Just the hotel de ville. Everything goes through the mayor.”
“How convenient.”
“You will come to see Sister Evangeline now?” Albert asked, taking her arm at the corner to halt her. “Pardon, Madame.” He was out of breath and red in the face.
“I’m sorry, Albert. Are you all right?” He was struggling with his breath but nodding. “I’ll get you some water.”
At the grocery she bought him a bottle of water and made him sit in the shade while they both cooled off. “Are you all right?” she asked him again.
“Yes. Thank you for the water.”
“Thank you for the translating. What a jerk that policeman is.”
Albert smiled weakly. “But he is the gendarme. You must respect that.”
“I know. I was just angry with the way he never gave me a straight answer. Or the answer I wanted to hear.”
“I do not think he will help you.”
Stymied by authority, abandoned by her lawyer: she had to get into that house, make nice with the squatter, and figure out a suitable housing arrangement for her. She’d hoped to get the house cleaned out, at least, and workmen hired to repair the roof, to secure it from the elements. Her lists so dutifully made before she came lay unused.
Her only hope was Sister Evangeline.
“It is her custom to leave between noon and one in the afternoon,” Albert said as he stepped up the tall ladder into the arms of his plum tree. They sat in his garden again, this time with his gate to the alley propped open with a large rock. Opposite was the gate to the Strachie house where, with luck, they would intercept Sister Evangeline.
Merle had gone back to the hotel after the meeting with the gendarme, to take a quick shower and gather some lunch items for the vigil. On the dusty iron table she’d laid out grapes of two colors, red and green, cheese of two kinds: known and unknown, and a sliced baguette. One thing she could get used to, the food of France.
“I will just check from up here,” Albert called from the plum tree.
“Be careful,” Merle said, watching him disappear into the leaves. She steadied the ladder. “What do you see?”
“Plums,” he whispered back. “Wait, someone left the back door. I think the Sister. Wearing a hat, it’s hard to tell. I wouldn’t know Madame LaBelle without her orange hair.”
Her hair must be an amazing color for everyone to keep commenting on it. “Anything now?”
“Can’t tell.”
With a creak the gate to the Strachie garden opened and quickly closed again behind a short woman wearing gray cotton pants, hiking boots, and small-brimmed sun hat. She had a walking stick and a small backpack as if she was ready for a hike. Gray hair, not orange. Merle jumped up. “Madame! Soeur Evangeline!”
The woman paused, looking over her shoulder. “Oui?”
Albert was halfway down the ladder. She asked the sister to wait. But she had taken a few more steps toward the street. “Pére Albert, il est ici!” As she hoped the invocation of Father Albert’s name made her stop.
He appeared with a leaf in his hair, smiling. “Ah, Soeur Evangeline.” He spoke to her quickly, asking for a moment to chat in his garden. He pleaded, it was very important. Five minutes was all she had, she declared.
Despite the gray hair she was a fit woman, energetic with those well-used hiking boots. Her face was round under the hat, with a sunburned nose and large teeth. She wore no makeup and her hair was cut like a young boy’s, all one length mid-ear. Her chambray shirt was clean but frayed, and the same could be said for her hands and nails.
Albert sat opposite Evangeline in the shade and offered her food which she declined. He spoke to her with a slight irritation for that. She replied with the same tone.
“She says Madame LaBelle has no intention of moving out of the house. That it is legally her home from an inheritance.”
“An inheritance? Who gave it to her?”
More words flew. “She says a relative years ago, Marie-Emilie Chevalier, who was her mother. C’est vrai, Madame?” he asked the nun again.
Sister Evangeline shot a look at Merle and mumbled more French.
“Not her true birth mother, she admits. At first the sister thought it was a blood relation. But Madame LaBelle says she was her spiritual mother, her godmother as you say.”
“Does she have proof of any of this?”
“A letter from Madame Chevalier that proves their strong feeling, their close relationship.”
Letters. “Her name was Strachie. Marie-Emilie was married to my husband’s father. Can we see this letter?”
The sister disappeared back into her garden and returned, giving Albert strict instructions before she would hand over the letter.
“She says she has the original in a safe place.” With that the sister turned on her heel, swinging her walking stick.
“Just a second, Albert.” Merle trotted to the street and looked in the direction the nun had gone. She was a block away, walking purposefully, swinging her stick and taking un-elderly strides. At the far corner she turned right and went through the city gate into the countryside. Merle returned to the garden where Albert was reading the letter.
“What does it say?” she asked, looking over his shoulder.
“It appears to be a letter to the convent — I shall read it? ‘There is so much I wish to say to her, so much I wish I could say. Someday I will return and make my feelings known. But for now let her know she will always have a home with me, wherever I am. She will never be without someone looking over her, someone who cares. I have not abandoned her. I never will.’ It’s signed: Marie-Emilie Chevalier.”
