daughter-in-law had contrived to knock his bad foot sharply as she pulled away. He had that afternoon spent an unpleasant hour closeted with Maître Caillaud. The
notaire
had purposely come in advance of the other guests in order to converse seriously with Dominique, man to man. The squire’s way with every willing wench in the valley, and particularly the heavy expenditures constantly required for the upkeep of a changing tableau of mistresses in Bordeaux and Toulouse, were threatening to empty the de Bonfond coffers. Parcels of land had been quietly sold to support his excesses. It had to stop. Dominique was not a man with an easy conscience, and Henriette’s threat had hit him in a vulnerable spot
.
From her post at the other end of the chilly salon, Odile noted the brief but telling exchange between her husband and her daughter-in-law. Odile knew about the mistresses
.
Cécile, Hugo’s youngest sister, also watched Henriette. Cécile despised Henriette because her mother did, but she also envied her sister-in-law with a kind of lugubrious wistfulness born of the knowledgethat, apart from a single dalliance, she had never been and never would be admired by any man. A moment later, Henriette was at her side. Flustered, Cécile turned away: she had been instructed by Maman not to speak to the Parisian trollop. That was when Henriette had said—almost gaily, as if imparting the latest gossip—“Blue doesn’t suit you.” And that was when Cécile’s face had reddened to match the roots of her unfortunate hair
.
“Women with your kind of complexion should stick to brown,” Henriette instructed in a high, clear voice, giving Cécile to understand with no uncertainty that the shimmering, sky-blue shawl made a mockery of her red skin and freckles and that her best dress of drab olive silk would not do. But the shawl was the only pretty thing she had. Trimmed with tassels of darker blue and nicely embroidered, it would have complemented Henriette’s gown admirably
.
“You can’t have it,” Cécile said with childish directness. She was twenty-six, more at home with horses than with people, and unskilled in conversation. Words tumbled out of her like rocks—rough, unformed, and heavy
.
“
Ma chère,”
Henriette replied coolly, “I wish nothing of yours. I say this only for your own good. No doubt, living like savages as you people do, you have no concept of fashion. You look a fright.”
Cécile’s blush was now spreading in ugly splotches down her neck. She stared miserably at Henriette, tears forming in her pale, rather protuberant eyes. “I hate you,” she cried hoarsely, to the consternation of those about her
.
“I know,” Henriette said with a smile
.
6
FRIDAY EVENING, 30 APRIL
A male baby, European type, six to eight weeks old.” Loulou, who had his contacts in forensics, gave them advance information from the
médecin légiste
’s report. “But
how
it died,
mes amis
, that is the interesting part.”
Mara and Julian exchanged glances. They were sitting after hours at the Chez Nous bistro in Grissac with friends and owners, Mado and Paul Brieux. The usual crowd of diners had gone, but the small
resto
, which served some of the best food in the region, still seemed crowded. That was because, in addition to the humans, three dogs were milling about. One of them was Julian’s rangy mutt, Bismuth. The second was Mara’s Jazz, a powerful tan-and-white animal of pit-bull extraction. The third was the local bitch, a handsome black-and-white short-haired pointer named Edith.
“Was it what everyone’s been saying?” Mado, a statuesque redhead with golden eyes, asked. The story on the mummified child had broken with the force of a summer storm. For want of a name, the media had dubbed it Baby Blue, after the color of its wrapping. Another baby, the Brieuxs’ five-month-old offspring, Eddie, gurgled sleepily on his mother’s lap.
“They’re saying,” Paul put in, “the kid was
notaire
had purposely come in advance of the other guests in order to converse seriously with Dominique, man to man. The squire’s way with every willing wench in the valley, and particularly the heavy expenditures constantly required for the upkeep of a changing tableau of mistresses in Bordeaux and Toulouse, were threatening to empty the de Bonfond coffers. Parcels of land had been quietly sold to support his excesses. It had to stop. Dominique was not a man with an easy conscience, and Henriette’s threat had hit him in a vulnerable spot
.
From her post at the other end of the chilly salon, Odile noted the brief but telling exchange between her husband and her daughter-in-law. Odile knew about the mistresses
.
Cécile, Hugo’s youngest sister, also watched Henriette. Cécile despised Henriette because her mother did, but she also envied her sister-in-law with a kind of lugubrious wistfulness born of the knowledgethat, apart from a single dalliance, she had never been and never would be admired by any man. A moment later, Henriette was at her side. Flustered, Cécile turned away: she had been instructed by Maman not to speak to the Parisian trollop. That was when Henriette had said—almost gaily, as if imparting the latest gossip—“Blue doesn’t suit you.” And that was when Cécile’s face had reddened to match the roots of her unfortunate hair
.
“Women with your kind of complexion should stick to brown,” Henriette instructed in a high, clear voice, giving Cécile to understand with no uncertainty that the shimmering, sky-blue shawl made a mockery of her red skin and freckles and that her best dress of drab olive silk would not do. But the shawl was the only pretty thing she had. Trimmed with tassels of darker blue and nicely embroidered, it would have complemented Henriette’s gown admirably
.
“You can’t have it,” Cécile said with childish directness. She was twenty-six, more at home with horses than with people, and unskilled in conversation. Words tumbled out of her like rocks—rough, unformed, and heavy
.
“
Ma chère,”
Henriette replied coolly, “I wish nothing of yours. I say this only for your own good. No doubt, living like savages as you people do, you have no concept of fashion. You look a fright.”
Cécile’s blush was now spreading in ugly splotches down her neck. She stared miserably at Henriette, tears forming in her pale, rather protuberant eyes. “I hate you,” she cried hoarsely, to the consternation of those about her
.
“I know,” Henriette said with a smile
.
6
FRIDAY EVENING, 30 APRIL
A male baby, European type, six to eight weeks old.” Loulou, who had his contacts in forensics, gave them advance information from the
médecin légiste
’s report. “But
how
it died,
mes amis
, that is the interesting part.”
Mara and Julian exchanged glances. They were sitting after hours at the Chez Nous bistro in Grissac with friends and owners, Mado and Paul Brieux. The usual crowd of diners had gone, but the small
resto
, which served some of the best food in the region, still seemed crowded. That was because, in addition to the humans, three dogs were milling about. One of them was Julian’s rangy mutt, Bismuth. The second was Mara’s Jazz, a powerful tan-and-white animal of pit-bull extraction. The third was the local bitch, a handsome black-and-white short-haired pointer named Edith.
“Was it what everyone’s been saying?” Mado, a statuesque redhead with golden eyes, asked. The story on the mummified child had broken with the force of a summer storm. For want of a name, the media had dubbed it Baby Blue, after the color of its wrapping. Another baby, the Brieuxs’ five-month-old offspring, Eddie, gurgled sleepily on his mother’s lap.
“They’re saying,” Paul put in, “the kid was
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