inevitably spotted, weighed up and rejected or accepted. In Normandy, like everywhere else, and possibly a bit more so than anywhere else.
âWhat makes you so sure Iâm a Parisian?â Adamsberg asked calmly.
The old man jerked his chin at the book on the commissaireâs table, next to his glass of beer.
âThe metro ticket,â he said. âYouâve marked your page with a Paris metro ticket. Easy to spot.â
âBut Iâm not a Parisian.â
âNot from Haroncourt, though, are you?â
âNo, Iâm from the Pyrenees, from the mountains.â
Robert raised one hand and let it fall heavily on the table.
âA Gascon!â he concluded as if a sheet of lead had fallen on the table.
âIâm from the Béarn,â Adamsberg said pointedly.
The weighing-up process began.
âPeople from the mountains, theyâve been trouble,â said Hilaire, a balding but slightly less old elder statesman, at the other end of the table.
âWhen was that?â asked the not-so-fair one.
âDonât you bother asking, Oswald, it was way back.â
âWell, what about the Bretons? Man from the Pyrenees, at least heâs not going to try and take the Mont Saint Michel away from us.â
âThatâs true enough,â said Anglebert, nodding.
âWell,â hazarded Robert, looking at the newcomer, âyou donât look to me like youâre descended from the Vikings. So where do people in the Béarn come from, then?â
âStraight out of the mountain,â Adamsberg replied. âStream of lava came down the mountainside and when it hardened, it turned into us.â
âStands to reason,â said the one who punctuated every stage in the conversation.
The men sat waiting, silently asking to be told what had brought this stranger to Haroncourt.
âIâm looking for the chateau.â
âThatâs easy. Thereâs a concert on there tonight.â
âIâm with one of the musicians.â
Oswald brought out the local paper from his inside pocket and unfolded it carefully. âHereâs a picture of the orchestra,â he said.
That constituted an invitation to approach their table. Adamsberg crossed the room, holding his beer in his hand, and observed the page that Oswald held out to him.
âHere,â he said, pointing. âThat one, the viola player.â
âThe pretty girl?â
âThatâs her.â
Robert served another round of drinks, as much to mark the significance of the pause as to absorb more alcohol. An archaic problem now tormented the gathering. What was this woman to the intruder? Mistress? Wife? Sister? Girlfriend? Cousin?
âAnd youâre with her?â Hilaire asked.
Adamsberg nodded. He had been told that Normans never ask a direct question, a myth, as he had thought, but in front of him he had a clear example of their proud silence. If you ask too many questions you reveal yourself, and if you reveal yourself youâre less of a man. Ill at ease, the group turned to the elder statesman. Angelbert tilted his unshaven chin, scratching it with his fingers.
âBecause sheâs your wife,â he asserted.
âWas,â said Adamsberg.
âBut youâre still coming along with her.â
âA question of consideration.â
âStands to reason,â said the punctuator.
âWomen,â Anglebert said in a low voice. âHere one day, gone the next.â
âYou donât want âem when you got âem,â commented Robert. âThen when theyâve gone, you do.â
âYou lose them,â Adamsberg agreed.
âDunno how it is,â said Oswald.
âLack of consideration,â Adamsberg explained. âOr at least it was that in my case.â
Here was someone who didnât make a secret of things, and whoâd had woman trouble, which chalked up two good points in this male
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