“Bonjour,” she announced at the sound of the bell, like the Pavlov’s dog of greetings: conditioned rather than truly welcoming. She never even looked up from the ornate display she was arranging.
“Bonjour, Madame.” I walked toward the counter, trying not to be distracted by the exotic orchids, lilies, and dahlias of all different colors placed to contrast one another in the most artistic way. “We were wondering if you have a moment to speak with us.”
“Ah oui, what kind of arrangement are you looking for? We are very busy preparing for a wedding on Sunday, so if it is anything compliqué, you will have to go to Avignon.”
“No, we’re not here for flowers,” Elliott said.
Madame Archambeau set down her shears and furrowed her brows. “Not here for flowers?”
“We understand your family has been an integral part of this community for centuries. We would love to share that sort of personalized history with viewers for a show we’re filming here in town. Would you be willing to talk with us?” he asked.
She pinched her face into a prune-like expression. “Are you part of the film crew I’ve seen over at Château Mirabelle?”
“Yes, we are,” I answered. “We’re restoring the house, but also trying to learn more about the people who lived there. Your family’s name has come up quite a few times.”
She had been distracted as she finished wrapping the floral arrangement on the counter in front of her, but at the mention of her family’s prominence in the historical fabric of the town, she lifted her head and beamed with pride. “Oui, oh well, in that case, I think I can find some time to speak with you,” she said, conveniently forgetting about the Sunday wedding excuse. “Let’s go across the street and sit. Maybe Monsieur Grenouille will be able to join us for a little while. He owns the patisserie, and his family has been here for a very long time as well. Not as long as mine, but still, he may be able to offer some insight. Just give me dix minutes.” She held up both of her hands in five gestures.
“Very good. Merci!” I led the way out the door and across the street. I slowed my pace to allow Elliott, saddled with his camera bag, to catch up. When he did, we paused at the corner and stared in the direction of the bakery. Monsieur Grenouille was clearing a few plates from the outside tables and wiping them down with a rag. “Doesn’t ‘grenouille’ mean frog in French?” I asked.
Elliott shrugged. “I’m not sure. Why?”
“It just suits him and his weirdly wide, sinking jawline. I think you should do the talking on this one, though, I’ve gotten the impression he doesn’t like me all that much,” I said.
“You’ve met him before?”
“We’ve crossed paths a few times. I don’t think he’s overjoyed that a film crew’s taken over his town.”
“Well then, you’ll just have to change his mind. I have a feeling you’re good at that,” Elliott said in such an assured tone that I wasn’t sure if he meant it as a biting insult or the highest possible compliment.
“Why don’t you secure that larger table in the back, and I’ll order something so Monsieur Grenouille stops staring at us,” Elliott offered and headed to the back of the line.
A few minutes later he came back balancing two pains au chocolat and two cafés au lait. Monsieur Grenouille’s eyes were still locked on me like a laser, forcing me to wonder what was really behind his intense gaze. Could he really be this upset that we were filming a TV show about Château Mirabelle? Didn’t he realize it would bring tourism and attention to Maubec? Something they desperately needed by the looks of the quiet and crumbling streets. No, Monsieur Grenouille’s disdain felt more personal somehow. There had to be something I was missing.
When Madame Archambeau shuffled in a few minutes later, she hurried to the counter speaking in lightning-speed French to Monsieur Grenouille, who after a few seconds of her chatter started to wave his hands at her to stress his “Non! Non! Non!”s.
The two of them began to bicker back and forth until their tittering came to a sudden halt and they turned to look at Elliott and me sitting at the table. At the abrupt silence, time seemed to pause for a moment while the four of us just looked at one another in a painfully tense will he / won’t he limbo. We readjusted our attention back to our cafés au lait, unsure if we’d be joined by Madame and Monsieur, or only Madame, or if we’d all be tossed out on our asses and charged for the foot out the door.
But after we took a few more sips of our coffees—pretending not to listen to Madame Archambeau coerce Monsieur Grenouille to join us—he finally relented and plopped down at the farthest end of the table, as if he was going to try to make a run for it as soon as he was out of Madame Archambeau’s arm’s reach. She shuffled behind Monsieur Grenouille, and when he was finally settled into a seat, she scurried quickly behind the bakery counter, our eyes trailing her as she returned with a half-full bottle of wine.
“You don’t mind, I’m sure, Remy, non?” she asked as she was already uncorking and pouring the golden liquid into a glass she’d grabbed from the counter.
Elliott looked at me as if to say, Take it away, cowboy, but all of a sudden I felt the weight of all the words I didn’t know how to say in French and realized I couldn’t even offer pleasantries. How embarrassing. Every time I opened my mouth to start to say something, I paused, wondering if he would understand me or even care what I had to say. But thankfully, Madame Archambeau saved the day, delighted to hold court and lead our conversation, so long as her wine was kept full to the brim. Thank goodness, because Monsieur Grenouille remained locked up tighter than Fort Knox.
“Mais oui, you see, there wasn’t much of anything left of Maubec after the war,” she explained. “Once the winery had been destroyed, it was just a matter of time . . . the Bordeaux region would take care of the last of what little the Nazis left behind.” She accentuated her sentences with her wineglass, sending golden droplets sloshing about. “My family managed to remain here during the Huguenots’ mass exodus from France during the 17e siècle, and then we had to fight like mad to stay yet again during the Second World War. But what can I say? We are a resilient lot.”
Madame Archambeau lifted the glass to her lips once again, and I noticed that she’d almost polished off the rest of the bottle. Aside from a tinge of rosiness in her cheeks, she barely missed a beat and didn’t stumble over any words. She scooped the bottle off the table and waggled it in our direction as a sign of offering, but at our refusal, she went on to pour herself what was left of the wine.
“What exactly are you looking for, Mademoiselle Everly? Because these walls have a lot of history and a lot of dark secrets hidden behind them. If you were looking for a nice fluffy story to tell your friends, I am afraid this will be a short conversation.” She cast her eyes out the window dismissively, as if she knew she’d already intrigued us enough that we’d ask her to continue.
“I’m not sure I understand,” I admitted as a way to coax her to keep talking. I eyed Elliott to see if he was any more in the know, but he shook his head, affirming that he too had no idea what she was talking about. And lastly I looked over to Monsieur Grenouille, who was seeming to ignore us entirely as he mindlessly continued to use a spoon far too tiny for his large hands to stir sugar into his espresso.
Madame Archambeau took another sip and leaned in a little closer. “The history of this town is one of resilience and integrity, but it is not a pretty story. It’s full of betrayal, and I’m not just talking about the Nazis. I’m not sure your superficiel little television program is the right platform to tell it.”
“With all due respect, Madame,” Elliott interrupted before I could respond, “that is precisely why we feel it is such an important story to tell.”
Madame Archambeau bit her bottom lip and gnawed on it as she thought. I took the opportunity to glance over at Monsieur Grenouille to gauge his thoughts, but his face was as blank as it had been when we first began.
I had one last trick up my sleeve to try to get her to talk. I set my mug down, slung my purse over my shoulder, and pushed up from the table. “C’mon, Elliott, we’ve overstayed our welcome as it is. Maybe it’s time to get going.”
“You know, that is the first intelligent thing you’ve said all day,” Monsieur Grenouille mumbled.
I whipped my head around at him. “Excuse me?”
Elliott tugged on the arm of my shirt. “Leave it, Plum.”
“No! He doesn’t get to just insult me like that.” I turned to face Monsieur Grenouille. “Sir, you don’t even know me.”
Monsieur Grenouille humphed with annoyance, clearly devoid of any remorse. “I’ve seen the things you’re willing to put your name on, Mademoiselle Everly. And if our little town’s going to be dragged through the mud, I’d rather it not be on one of your sleazy television programs. We have been through enough.”
Elliott zeroed in on his last sentence. “What do you mean by that?”
Monsieur Grenouille folded his arms over his chest. “Why don’t you ask Monsieur Munier?”
“Bastien? What could he possibly have to do with any of this?” I asked.
Madame Archambeau touched Monsieur Grenouille gently on the forearm. “Remy, leave it. The boy’s not to blame for the sins of the past.”
Monsieur Grenouille pounded his fists into the table. “They are all to blame! Monsieur Munier most of all.” He reached for his cane. “C’est ridicule. Pourquoi remuer le passé? Ces Americains . . . pfft,” he mumbled and spat as he ambled back behind the counter.
