Read Online Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé by Joanne Harris - Free Book Online

here. He found us over breakfast – peaches and hot chocolate, served in Armande’s mismatched crockery; ancient china translucent as skin, chipped at the gilded edges and hand-painted with the traditional designs of the Sous-Tannes; that tiny oblong of the Gers cut off from the rest by the river Tannes before it joins the larger Garonne. Anouk’s bowl had a painted rabbit; Rosette’s a clutch of chickens. Mine had flowers, and a name – Sylvie-Anne – painted on in curly script.
    A relative, perhaps? It looked old. A sister, a cousin, a daughter, an aunt. I wondered what it would be like to have a bowl with my own name on it; given to me by my mother, perhaps, or handed down from my grandmother. But which name would it be, Armande? Which one of my many names?
    ‘Vianne!’
    A call from the open door jolted me from my reverie. Luc’s voice has deepened, and he has lost his childhood stammer. But otherwise he looks the same: brown hair falling over his eyes, a smile that is at the same time open and mischievous.
    He hugged me first, and then Anouk, and stared in frank curiosity at Rosette, who greeted him with bared teeth and a pert little monkeyish sound – cak-cakk! – that first startled him, then made him laugh.
    ‘I brought you some supplies,’ he said, ‘but it looks like you’ve finished breakfast.’
    ‘Don’t you believe it,’ I said with a smile. ‘The air gives us an appetite.’
    Luc grinned and handed out fresh croissants and pains au chocolat . ‘Since it’s my fault you’re here,’ he said, ‘feel free to stay as long as you want. Grand-mère would have liked that.’
    I asked him what he meant to do with the house, now that he owned it outright.
    He shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. Maybe live in it. That is, if my parents—’ He bit off the phrase. ‘You heard about the fire, of course.’
    I nodded.
    ‘Accidents happen,’ he said. ‘But Maman thinks there’s more to it than that. She thinks Reynaud lit the fire.’
    ‘Does she?’ I said. ‘And what do you think?’
    I remember Caro Clairmont; one of Lansquenet’s most fervent gossips, she has always taken sustenance from the scandals and dramas of village life. I could imagine the covert glee with which she had welcomed Reynaud’s disgrace; tempering those rumours with extravagant shows of sympathy.
    Luc shrugged. ‘Well, I’ve never liked him much. But I don’t think he did it. I mean, he’s cold and kind of stiff-necked, but he wouldn’t do a thing like that.’
    Luc was in a minority. We heard the rumour a dozen times more before the day was over. From Narcisse, bringing vegetables from his shop; from Poitou, the baker; from Joline Drou, the schoolteacher, who called by to see us with her son. In fact, most of Lansquenet seemed to be passing through Les Marauds today – with one surprising exception – as word of our arrival spread like dandelion seeds on the wind.
    Vianne Rocher is back , they said. Vianne Rocher is home at last —
    But that’s absurd. I have a home. It’s moored on the Quai de l’Elysée. I don’t belong here any more than I did eight years ago, when Anouk and I first arrived. And yet—
    ‘It would be so easy,’ Guillaume said. ‘You could fix up the old chocolaterie . A lick of paint, we could all lend a hand—’
    I caught a flash from Anouk’s eyes.
    ‘You should see our houseboat in Paris,’ I said. ‘Right underneath the Pont des Arts, and in the mornings the river’s all covered in mist, just like the Tannes.’
    The flash subsided, veiled under long eyelashes.
    ‘You ought to come and see us, Guillaume.’
    ‘Oh, I’m too old for Paris.’ He smiled. ‘And Patch is used to first-class travel.’
    Guillaume Duplessis is one of the few who do not believe in Reynaud’s guilt. ‘It’s just a malicious rumour,’ he says. ‘Why would Reynaud burn down a school?’
    Joline Drou was certain she knew. ‘Because of her , that’s why,’ she said. ‘That burqa woman. The woman in