There's Something About St. Tropez by Elizabeth Adler Page A

later. He said, “Sunny, we need to talk. Alone.” He walked toward the house but Sunny did not go with him. This was definitely not good. Still, he thought he’d better take a look inside, check things out for himself.
    A quick tour of Chez La Violette revealed more of the truth. Guilt overwhelmed him. He was the one who had rented the place from Madame Lariot without, for God’s sake, even checking her credentials. This was his fault. He would take care of the rental agent later, but right now, since everyone was still standing around, gazing listlessly at the desolation, he guessed it was up to him to find them all a place to stay.
    He remembered passing a hotel, a small place set back behind umbrella pines and bougainvillea. The simple wooden sign had said HÔTEL DES RÊVES , with three golden stars after the name. Mac liked the three stars, which in France meant a comfortable family hotel of good quality, though definitely not luxury. And he loved the name: Hotel of Dreams. He thought it appropriate under the circumstances. It seemed to him that right now they could all use a few “dreams.”
9:15 A.M.
    An old man on an ancient bicycle wobbled slowly up the drive of Chez La Violette. His wide face was weathered by sun and wind and his long nose had the ruby hue of good wine. He wore a very old Panama hat and the bright blue overalls of the French laborer. Blissfully unaware of the group on the terrace, he pedaled slowly on, whistling untunefully under his breath. That is, until Tesoro ran at him, aiming little snaps at his feet.
    The old man flung his legs sideways into the air, the bicycle wobbled, his hat fell off and was snatched up by Tesoro, who ran wagging back to Sunny. Pirate, sitting at Mac’s feet, watched warily, one ear up, one down, He knew never to trust Tesoro.
    â€œMerde.”
The old man ground to a trembling halt, staring astonished at the raggle-taggle group.
“Mais vous êtes qui? Et qu’est-ce que vous faites ici?
Who are you? And what are you doing here?”
    â€œNous sommes les locataires.”
It was Little Laureen who spoke—
and in French
—telling him they were the renters.
    Astonished, they turned as one to look at her. Billy beamed proudly. “I had a tutor give Little Laureen French lessons for a couple of months,” he said. “She’s an awful quick learner, and see, the old guy understood what she said.”
    The old man was waving his hands in the air, yelling at the dog, galloping in the mud, the Panama hat still clasped between its jaws.
    â€œMerde alors, quelle sauvage,”
the man yelled at the top of his squeaky lungs.
“Et vous, madame.”
He pointed angrily at Sunny.
“C’est votre responsibilité. Calmez votre chien, et alors, donnez-moi mon chapeau.”
    Mac caught Tesoro in midleap and wrestled the hat from between its teeth. The dog gazed innocently up at him. He could have sworn there was a smile on its face. He gave the hat back to the old man who inspected it carefully, pointing out the dog spittle and smeary teeth marks on the brim, the mud and the damage, tut-tutting and
merde alorsing
under his breath.
    In hesitant French and with much pantomime, Mac finally made him understand that he would replace the hat.
    â€œMais ce n’est pas la meme chose,”
the old boy muttered, shaking his head.
“Ce chapeau! Ah, il y a longtemps ce chapeau appartenait à Violette. C’est irremplaçable
. It is not the same. Long ago this hat belonged to Violette. It’s irreplaceable.”
    Sunny offered to shake his hand and apologize but he scowled and waved her away. Then Nate went over to try to help, and finally, with the occasional surprising French interjection from Little Laureen, they made him understand their position.
    â€œMais moi?”
The old boy was beginning to enjoy being the center of attention. “
Je suis seulement le concierge
, I am only the janitor.