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Authors: Michelle Wan
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away.
“Madame,” Gaston appealed to the mother, who still barred his path, “I regret to trouble you, but I must have that back. With your signature.”
“Toi.”
Her eyes had never left his face.
“Va t’faire foutre,”
she directed, telling him crudely what he could do with his form and his signature together.
It was not a hot day, but Gaston found as he edgedpast—she left him barely enough room to get by without actually having to brush up against her—that he was perspiring heavily. Defeated, he scrambled into his minivan and drove rapidly away.
•
Les Colombes was also on Gaston’s route. He had no mail for the de Sauvignacs, but after his experience at La Binette, Gaston felt that he owed himself a stop at the château. He needed something to calm his nerves. He was so shaken that he ground his gears twice as he downshifted to take the steep ascent.
The château was, of course, altogether a different matter, for the de Sauvignacs had once been, and for many remained, the first name in the land. Henri de Sauvignac père, now long dead, was still remembered with affection as a dotty old gentleman with a passion for botany. The son, the present Henri de Sauvignac, was a more worldly character, known in his heyday for his elegance, high living, and appetite for women. He had taken his wife, Jeanne Villiers that was, a willowy, compliant creature, from a well-to-do bourgeois family. In the sixties, the couple had made a handsome grouping with their two little boys, driving about grandly in a shiny new Citroën with hydropneumatic suspension, the first of its kind in the area.
Of the two de Sauvignac sons, Alain, the elder, had grown up, studied civil engineering, and gone abroad to work in places like Gabon and Cameroon. Patrice, the younger, had not grown up because hehad drowned in a pond in the woods below Les Colombes when he was seven. It was a terrible tragedy, and some said that Jeanne de Sauvignac had never fully recovered from the loss.
Now in their seventies, the de Sauvignacs lived almost like recluses but still commanded respect. Aristocratic folk, Gaston called them, with an old-fashioned sense of
ce qu’il faut.
Even on days when he had no mail for them, he frequently made the steep drive up just to look in on the old people. In winter Monsieur was often good for a small tot of rum, in summer a refreshing
coup de blanc
, either of which Gaston took standing on the stone floor of the cavernous kitchen.
In return, the
facteur
gave them the latest local gossip and ran the odd commission, rub for Madame’s rheumatism from the pharmacy in Belvès, cigarettes and newspapers for Monsieur from the Chez Nous emporium in Grissac.
The de Sauvignacs still had their Citroën. Like them, it had grown old but retained a certain dusty cachet. From time to time, Monsieur might still be seen puttering sedately along the roads, raising a hand in greeting to the locals, and stopping occasionally to offer, with seigniorial courtesy, directions to lost motorists and rides to bewildered hitchhikers passing through his
territoire.
•
As he neared the top and turned onto the path running up to the rear of the great house, Gastonremembered that he had been meaning in any case to ask the de Sauvignacs about the
pigeonnier.
If nothing else, it would give them something to chat about and be good for his
coup de blanc.
He had shown the photocopy earlier in the week to his fellow
facteurs
(keeping quiet about Mara’s cash incentive), with no luck. Now, standing in the vast, damp stone kitchen of the château, he watched anxiously as Henri de Sauvignac studied the, by now, much-wrinkled photocopy. Before looking at it, the old gentleman had first taken his glasses from his jacket pocket and polished the lenses with care before setting them on his beaklike nose. A once imposing man, he was now stooping and cadaverous, but still meticulous in his habits.
“Hundreds like it in the region, m’boy.” He shook his
“Madame,” Gaston appealed to the mother, who still barred his path, “I regret to trouble you, but I must have that back. With your signature.”
“Toi.”
Her eyes had never left his face.
“Va t’faire foutre,”
she directed, telling him crudely what he could do with his form and his signature together.
It was not a hot day, but Gaston found as he edgedpast—she left him barely enough room to get by without actually having to brush up against her—that he was perspiring heavily. Defeated, he scrambled into his minivan and drove rapidly away.
•
Les Colombes was also on Gaston’s route. He had no mail for the de Sauvignacs, but after his experience at La Binette, Gaston felt that he owed himself a stop at the château. He needed something to calm his nerves. He was so shaken that he ground his gears twice as he downshifted to take the steep ascent.
The château was, of course, altogether a different matter, for the de Sauvignacs had once been, and for many remained, the first name in the land. Henri de Sauvignac père, now long dead, was still remembered with affection as a dotty old gentleman with a passion for botany. The son, the present Henri de Sauvignac, was a more worldly character, known in his heyday for his elegance, high living, and appetite for women. He had taken his wife, Jeanne Villiers that was, a willowy, compliant creature, from a well-to-do bourgeois family. In the sixties, the couple had made a handsome grouping with their two little boys, driving about grandly in a shiny new Citroën with hydropneumatic suspension, the first of its kind in the area.
Of the two de Sauvignac sons, Alain, the elder, had grown up, studied civil engineering, and gone abroad to work in places like Gabon and Cameroon. Patrice, the younger, had not grown up because hehad drowned in a pond in the woods below Les Colombes when he was seven. It was a terrible tragedy, and some said that Jeanne de Sauvignac had never fully recovered from the loss.
Now in their seventies, the de Sauvignacs lived almost like recluses but still commanded respect. Aristocratic folk, Gaston called them, with an old-fashioned sense of
ce qu’il faut.
Even on days when he had no mail for them, he frequently made the steep drive up just to look in on the old people. In winter Monsieur was often good for a small tot of rum, in summer a refreshing
coup de blanc
, either of which Gaston took standing on the stone floor of the cavernous kitchen.
In return, the
facteur
gave them the latest local gossip and ran the odd commission, rub for Madame’s rheumatism from the pharmacy in Belvès, cigarettes and newspapers for Monsieur from the Chez Nous emporium in Grissac.
The de Sauvignacs still had their Citroën. Like them, it had grown old but retained a certain dusty cachet. From time to time, Monsieur might still be seen puttering sedately along the roads, raising a hand in greeting to the locals, and stopping occasionally to offer, with seigniorial courtesy, directions to lost motorists and rides to bewildered hitchhikers passing through his
territoire.
•
As he neared the top and turned onto the path running up to the rear of the great house, Gastonremembered that he had been meaning in any case to ask the de Sauvignacs about the
pigeonnier.
If nothing else, it would give them something to chat about and be good for his
coup de blanc.
He had shown the photocopy earlier in the week to his fellow
facteurs
(keeping quiet about Mara’s cash incentive), with no luck. Now, standing in the vast, damp stone kitchen of the château, he watched anxiously as Henri de Sauvignac studied the, by now, much-wrinkled photocopy. Before looking at it, the old gentleman had first taken his glasses from his jacket pocket and polished the lenses with care before setting them on his beaklike nose. A once imposing man, he was now stooping and cadaverous, but still meticulous in his habits.
“Hundreds like it in the region, m’boy.” He shook his
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