with the same unease that Adam must have looked at Eve when she handed him the forbidden fruit.
‘Aren’t you going to eat that?’ I said. Anouk and Rosette had finished theirs in greedy, luscious mouthfuls. It occurred to me that I had only once seen Reynaud eat – to him, food is a complicated business, as much to be feared as savoured.
‘Listen, Mademoiselle Rocher—’
‘Please,’ I said. ‘Just call me Vianne.’
He cleared his throat. ‘I appreciate your not asking me the obvious question,’ he said. ‘But I think you should know that, until further notice, I have been relieved of my duties as priest of Lansquenet, pending an inquiry into the fire at the old chocolaterie .’ He took a deep breath and went on. ‘Of course, I need not tell you,’ he said, ‘that I am in no way responsible. I was not arrested. I have never been accused. The police simply came to ask questions. But for a man in my position—’
I could well imagine the scene, viewed from behind the shutters. All of Lansquenet’s gossips must have been out in force that day. The shop, half burnt and derelict. The fire truck, an hour too late. The police car parked outside the church. Or even worse – outside Reynaud’s house, his little cottage on the Rue des Francs Bourgeois, with its neat beds of marigolds.
The Church owns the cottage, of course. The marigolds are Reynaud’s responsibility. So like dandelions, in their way, and yet, to him, there is a world of difference between those sly, invasive weeds and the pretty little yellow blooms that grow with such military straightness.
‘You didn’t need to tell me that. I know you didn’t light the fire.’
His mouth twitched. ‘If only everyone were as certain. Caro Clairmont has been spreading the word like mad, while continuing to pretend sympathy, and hanging on to every word that my successor utters.’
‘Your successor?’
‘Père Henri Lemaître. The Bishop’s new pet. An upstart with too many teeth and a passion for PowerPoint.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s only a matter of time now. You know what they’re like in Lansquenet.’
Oh yes, I do. I’ve been the subject of gossip myself, and I know how fast it spreads. I also know that, in the current climate, any hint of a scandal concerning a member of the priesthood must be seen to be dealt with. The Catholic Church has had too many scandals recently; and even if the police have no evidence to accuse him, Reynaud may end up being condemned by the court of public opinion.
He took another deep breath. ‘Perhaps, Mademoiselle Rocher, if you are going to stay awhile, you might convey your – doubts to any of your friends among the community who seem to take amusement from the situation. Joséphine, Narcisse—’
He broke off sharply and looked away. I stared at him in growing astonishment. The icy precision of his speech was still as apparent as ever, but there was no doubting the look on his face. In his oblique and diffident way, Francis Reynaud was asking for help.
I can barely imagine how difficult it must have been for him to ask. After everything that has happened here, to admit to himself that he needs someone – especially someone like me—
Reynaud’s world is black and white. He thinks this makes things simple. In fact, all his black-and-white thinking does is harden hearts, fix prejudice and blind good folk to the harm they do. And if something happens to challenge the way in which they see the world, when black-and-white thinking at last dissolves into a million shades of grey, men like Reynaud are left floundering, grasping at straws in a hurricane.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘What can you do? Forget I even asked.’
I smiled. ‘Of course I’ll help you if I can. But only on one condition—’
He looked at me bleakly. ‘What’s that?’ he said.
‘For pity’s sake, will you eat that peach?’
CHAPTER ONE
Monday, 16th August
LUC CALLED ROUND this morning. Reynaud told him we were
‘Aren’t you going to eat that?’ I said. Anouk and Rosette had finished theirs in greedy, luscious mouthfuls. It occurred to me that I had only once seen Reynaud eat – to him, food is a complicated business, as much to be feared as savoured.
‘Listen, Mademoiselle Rocher—’
‘Please,’ I said. ‘Just call me Vianne.’
He cleared his throat. ‘I appreciate your not asking me the obvious question,’ he said. ‘But I think you should know that, until further notice, I have been relieved of my duties as priest of Lansquenet, pending an inquiry into the fire at the old chocolaterie .’ He took a deep breath and went on. ‘Of course, I need not tell you,’ he said, ‘that I am in no way responsible. I was not arrested. I have never been accused. The police simply came to ask questions. But for a man in my position—’
I could well imagine the scene, viewed from behind the shutters. All of Lansquenet’s gossips must have been out in force that day. The shop, half burnt and derelict. The fire truck, an hour too late. The police car parked outside the church. Or even worse – outside Reynaud’s house, his little cottage on the Rue des Francs Bourgeois, with its neat beds of marigolds.
The Church owns the cottage, of course. The marigolds are Reynaud’s responsibility. So like dandelions, in their way, and yet, to him, there is a world of difference between those sly, invasive weeds and the pretty little yellow blooms that grow with such military straightness.
‘You didn’t need to tell me that. I know you didn’t light the fire.’
His mouth twitched. ‘If only everyone were as certain. Caro Clairmont has been spreading the word like mad, while continuing to pretend sympathy, and hanging on to every word that my successor utters.’
‘Your successor?’
‘Père Henri Lemaître. The Bishop’s new pet. An upstart with too many teeth and a passion for PowerPoint.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s only a matter of time now. You know what they’re like in Lansquenet.’
Oh yes, I do. I’ve been the subject of gossip myself, and I know how fast it spreads. I also know that, in the current climate, any hint of a scandal concerning a member of the priesthood must be seen to be dealt with. The Catholic Church has had too many scandals recently; and even if the police have no evidence to accuse him, Reynaud may end up being condemned by the court of public opinion.
He took another deep breath. ‘Perhaps, Mademoiselle Rocher, if you are going to stay awhile, you might convey your – doubts to any of your friends among the community who seem to take amusement from the situation. Joséphine, Narcisse—’
He broke off sharply and looked away. I stared at him in growing astonishment. The icy precision of his speech was still as apparent as ever, but there was no doubting the look on his face. In his oblique and diffident way, Francis Reynaud was asking for help.
I can barely imagine how difficult it must have been for him to ask. After everything that has happened here, to admit to himself that he needs someone – especially someone like me—
Reynaud’s world is black and white. He thinks this makes things simple. In fact, all his black-and-white thinking does is harden hearts, fix prejudice and blind good folk to the harm they do. And if something happens to challenge the way in which they see the world, when black-and-white thinking at last dissolves into a million shades of grey, men like Reynaud are left floundering, grasping at straws in a hurricane.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘What can you do? Forget I even asked.’
I smiled. ‘Of course I’ll help you if I can. But only on one condition—’
He looked at me bleakly. ‘What’s that?’ he said.
‘For pity’s sake, will you eat that peach?’
CHAPTER ONE
Monday, 16th August
LUC CALLED ROUND this morning. Reynaud told him we were
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