Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé Read Online Free PDF Page A

laughed again at my awkwardness. I never did quite understand what provokes her laughter. Vianne Rocher is one of those people who seem to laugh at everything – as if life were some kind of perpetual joke, and people endlessly charming and good, instead of being mostly stupid and dull, if not downright poisonous.
    Cordially: ‘What brings you here?’
    She shrugged. ‘Nothing special. Just catching up.’
    ‘Oh.’ She hadn’t heard, then. Or maybe she had, and was toying with me. We’d parted on uncertain terms, and it may be that she still bears a grudge. Perhaps I deserve it, after all. She has the right to despise me.
    ‘Where are you staying?’
    She gave a shrug. ‘I’m not sure if I’m staying at all.’ She looked at me, and I felt those eyes again, like fingers on my face. ‘You look well.’
    ‘You look the same.’
    That concluded the pleasantries. I decided that she knew nothing of my circumstances, and that her arrival – today, of all days – was nothing but coincidence. Very well, I told myself. Perhaps it was better to keep it that way. What could she do, one woman, alone, especially on the eve of a war?
    ‘Is my chocolate shop still there?’
    The question I was dreading. ‘Of course it’s there.’ I looked away.
    ‘Really? Who runs it?’
    ‘A foreigner.’
    She laughed. ‘A foreigner from Pont-le-Saôul?’ The closeness of our communities has always been a joke to her. All our neighbouring villages are fiercely independent. Once, they were bastides , fortress towns in a fretwork of tiny dominions, and even now they tend to be somewhat wary of strangers.
    ‘You’ll be wanting to find somewhere to stay,’ I said, avoiding the question. ‘Agen has some good hotels. Or you could drive to Montauban—’
    ‘We don’t have a car. We hired a cab.’
    ‘Oh.’
    The carnival was nearing its end. I could see the final char , decked with flowers from stem to stern, staggering down the main road like a drunken bishop in full regalia.
    ‘I thought we might stay at Joséphine’s,’ said Vianne. ‘Assuming the café still has rooms.’
    I pulled a face. ‘I suppose you might.’ I knew I was being ungracious. But to have her here at this sensitive time was to subject myself to unnecessary anxiety. And besides, she has always had the knack of arriving at just the wrong moment—
    ‘Excuse me, but is something wrong?’
    ‘Not at all.’ I tried to assume a festive air. ‘But this is Sainte-Marie’s festival, and it’s Mass in half an hour—’
    ‘Mass. Well, I’ll come with you, then.’
    I stared. ‘You never go to Mass.’
    ‘I thought I might look in at the shop. Just for old times’ sake,’ she said.
    I could see there was no stopping her. I prepared myself for the inevitable. ‘It isn’t a chocolate shop any more.’
    ‘I didn’t think it would be,’ she said. ‘What is it now, a bakery?’
    ‘Not exactly,’ I said.
    ‘Maybe the owner will show me around.’
    I tried to suppress a grimace.
    ‘What?’
    ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
    ‘Why not?’ Her eyes were inquisitive. At her feet, the red-haired child was squatting in the dusty road. The trumpet had become a doll, and she was marching it to and fro, making little sounds to herself. I wondered if she was entirely normal, but then children seldom make much sense to me.
    ‘The people aren’t very friendly,’ I said.
    She laughed at that. ‘I think I can cope.’
    I threw down my last card. ‘They’re foreigners.’
    ‘So am I,’ said Vianne Rocher. ‘I’m sure we’ll get on like a house on fire.’
    And that was how, on the festival of Sainte-Marie, Vianne Rocher blew back into town, bringing with her her usual gift of mayhem, dreams and chocolate.

CHAPTER EIGHT

    Sunday, 15th August
    THE PROCESSION WAS over. Sainte-Marie in her festival Robes was on her way back to her plinth in the church, her crown put away for another year, her wreath already fading. August is hot in Lansquenet,