French Lessons Read Online Free PDF Page A

have had the same idea. The church doors
were not yet open, but the small
place
in front of the steps was
packed with truffle worshipers, some more official than others. Moving through
the crowd like visitors from another century were senior members of the truffle
brotherhood, the Confrérie du Diamant Noir, in full and formal regalia:
black cloaks to midcalf, medals suspended from their necks on yellow-
and-black-striped ribbons, wide-brimmed black hats. I watched two of them who
had found a space at the edge of the crowd and were comparing truffles taken
from hiding places beneath their cloaks. Each showed the other his truffle,
cupped in both hands and partly concealed, presumably to prevent curious eyes
from catching a glimpse of it. Their heads were tilted, close enough for their
hat brims to touch as they whispered to each other. They might have been
conspirators exchanging state secrets.
    I’d been told to bring a
truffle with me, and I checked to make sure that the precious foil-wrapped lump
was safe in my pocket. Suddenly, there was the sound of iron grating against
iron, followed by the regular hollow clang of the bell, causing alarm and
temporary deafness among a flock of pigeons that erupted from the belfry. I
felt the pressure of the crowd, like a huge animal, pushing me closer to the
steps of the church. Then the doors were opened. With as much decorum as they
could manage while jockeying for positions with a good view close to the altar,
the members of the congregation nudged and jostled their way inside. The French
have never taken to the Anglo-Saxon habit of the orderly queue, which they
consider far too inconvenient for everyday use.
    The church was warm and
bright and in noticeably good condition—the pale stone arches unmarked
and smooth, the woodwork polished, fresh flowers arranged around the altar. The
choir rustled its hymn sheets and discreetly cleared its throat. A current of
air brought a distinctive smell to the nose: not incense, not dust, not even
sanctity, but an earthy hint of the reason we were all gathered here. On the
lace-trimmed pulpit, set out like a row of arthritic black fists, were six of
the largest truffles I’d ever seen, each one a quarter-pounder at least,
brushed clean of every speck of mud. It was a sight to warm the cockles of a
gourmet’s heart.
    There was none of the hush you would expect to
find before the start of a religious service. Some of my fellow worshipers
might have been keeping their conversations to a whisper, but they were
outnumbered by others who were in full voice—calling out to friends,
commenting on the flowers, the satisfying magnificence of the truffles, and the
size of the crowd, which by now had spilled onto the steps outside the church.
I could hear the clack of camera shutters and the pop of flashbulbs above the
buzz of talk as press photographers jostled with the television crew for the
best angles.
    The arrival of the presiding priest, Père Gleize,
brought a semblance of calm. He looked as every man of the church should
look—a halo of silver hair, the face of a mature cherub, an expression of
good-humored tranquillity. With a smile of great sweetness, he made us welcome,
and the service began.
    As the mixture of prayer and singing filled the
church with words and music that had hardly changed in a thousand years, the
modern world seemed far, far away—that is, as long as you kept your eyes
closed. Open them, and there was no doubt that you were in the twenty-first
century, although the television crew was trying its hardest to be unobtrusive.
Another contemporary touch was displayed by the altar boy, well scrubbed,
fair-haired, and altogether angelic, with the pneumatic snouts of his
Sunday-best sneakers poking out from the bottom of his traditional white
vestments.
    The sermon began. Père Gleize had chosen to deliver
it in
lengo nostro,
“our tongue,” or Provençal, and
to my ignorant ear very little was familiar. It is said there are