The Matchmaker of Perigord

by Julia Stuart

  ‘Hello, Lisette,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, Stéphane,’ she replied.

  They kissed each other on each cheek.

  ‘Guillaume said that…’ started the baker, but stopped.

  ‘That we’d be spending the afternoon together?’ asked Lisette Robert.

  ‘Yes, if that’s OK with you.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Lisette, I just want to say before we start. About the frogs. It wasn’t me.’

  ‘I know,’ she replied.

  ‘You know?’

  ‘I never thought it was. It wasn’t me who started the rumours.’

  The baker looked confused. ‘So why haven’t we been speaking for all these years?’ he asked, his eyes hunting the grass in front of him for the answer. But he failed to find it and nor did Lisette Robert provide one.

  Eventually he smiled, his eyebrows soaring like two startled blackbirds. ‘Well, it seems like it was all just a silly misunderstanding,’ he concluded. ‘Never mind. These things happen. Now, I thought we would go to Les Tilleuls for lunch and then visit the château. How does that suit you?’

  ‘I’d love to, I haven’t been here for ages,’ she replied. But Stéphane Jollis was only half listening because he was trying to work out which of the midwife’s curls had brushed his cheek when they kissed.

  As they walked over the Gothic bridge, they stopped to admire the seventeenth-century ivy-clad mill house in the shape of a boat in the middle of the river, with its painted staircase leading down to an elegant garden. After taking a moment to watch the shaggy green river weeds being combed flat by the current, they continued up the road, past the tabac where the baker would have stopped for cigarettes if he hadn’t forgotten that he smoked. Arriving at Les Tilleuls with its awnings and shutters a fresh shade of lichen, they were immediately shown to a table under the lime trees. The matchmaker had had the foresight to make a reservation as the baker, on hearing that Lisette Robert was available that day, had been too preoccupied with chasing the customers from his shop, much to their fury, and ridding his shoes of several decades of flour.

  It wasn’t long before the waitress brought a basket of bread and took their order for a bottle of rosé, which Stéphane Jollis automatically chose because he had been studying the colour of Lisette Robert’s lips. The waitress then returned with the menus, which thrilled them both, but the baker took so long to decide, such was his befuddlement, that she had to come back three times.

  When Lisette Robert’s Périgourdine salad arrived, the baker complimented her on her choice. And when Stéphane Jollis’s salad of three warmed Cabécous arrived, the midwife complimented him on his choice. After offering her the breadbasket, he helped himself to a piece, tore it in half and put it into his mouth. But so caught up was he with the sight of a duck’s gizzard slipping into Lisette Robert’s mouth that for the first time in his career he failed to evaluate the work of a fellow artisan. He then brought a mouthful of goat’s cheese to his lips, but they were still echoing with the touch of Lisette Robert’s cheek, and he put down his fork to prolong the heavenly sensation.

  When Lisette Robert’s pot-roasted pigeon stuffed with figs arrived, the baker complimented her on her choice. And when Stéphane Jollis’s pikeperch in Pécharmant sauce arrived, the midwife complimented him on his choice. As they continued chatting, so taken was the baker with the sound of her voice that he was unable to hear a tourist sitting behind him ordering frog’s legs. And when he asked the waitress for a bottle of mineral water, he instinctively chose the saltier brand because of the tears of desire he wanted to weep.

  After being offered the dessert menu, the baker was in such a state of delirium that he kept forgetting to choose. Lisette Robert, who could wait no longer for her delight, had to tap the menu to get him to concentrate and he instinctively opted for the dish graced by her touch as he could see nothing else.

  When Lisette Robert’s warm chocolate pudding with vanilla ice cream arrived, the baker complimented her on her choice. And when Stéphane Jollis’s pear sorbet arrived, the midwife complimented him on his choice. But so struck was he by the fit of her periwinkle-blue dress that he forgot a woman’s wholly natural desire to try all the desserts on the table, and when she asked: ‘Can I have a lick of yours?’ he turned a shade of burgundy. When, finally, he understood her true meaning, his hand was trembling to such an extent that he didn’t think himself capable of the task. He loaded up his spoon and, clenching up his feet in his shoes that had been cleaned twenty-seven times, he held his breath and started its journey towards her mouth. But when the spoon was finally between her lips, the baker was in such a state of rhapsody that he forgot to pull it out again and the midwife had to recoil her head to disengage it. When Lisette Robert eventually swallowed, her face was such a picture of ecstasy that the overcome baker summoned the waitress and, when he eventually found his voice again, ordered another bowlful.

  Once the baker had recovered from the spectacle, he asked for coffee. But when it arrived, so lost was he in Lisette Robert’s eyes, which shone like freshly opened chestnuts above the rim of her cup, that he forgot to give her the little chocolate that the waitress had placed in his saucer along with the cubes of sugar. After having unwrapped and eaten hers, Lisette Robert waited patiently for what was the duty of a gentleman. But it never came. When she finally asked him whether he wanted his chocolate, the baker berated himself for having forgotten the natural order of life and immediately offered it to her. And when she returned from the lavatory, she found a further fifty-seven on her place mat as a result of the bribe he had slipped the waitress.

  After Stéphane Jollis had paid the bill, they heaved themselves up from their seats and, such was the weight of their delighted stomachs, could only ease their way slowly up the hill towards the château. At the ticket office, the midwife insisted on paying the entrance fees, in gratitude for the fifty-seven tiny chocolates which she had swiftly scooped into her bag. When the ticket-seller handed the baker a guide to what was in fact two châteaux standing next to each other, he immediately passed it to Lisette Robert to hide the fact that he had suddenly lost his ability to read. After admiring the gingko tree, they made their way up the path to the medieval fortress. As they entered the cobbled courtyard, Lisette Robert read out the history of the thirteenth-century château, including its flits between French and English owners during the Hundred Years War. But Stéphane Jollis wasn’t listening, such was the racket of his thundering loins. Clueless as to his surroundings, he followed Lisette Robert up the wooden steps to the splendid banqueting hall with its vast inglenook fireplaces. When the midwife went to sit on one of the stone window seats and peered down at the Dronne below, the baker followed her, his shoes squeaking violently on the polished wooden floor as his knees were no longer his own. And when she remarked that the room still smelt of musty old hearths, Stéphane Jollis couldn’t reply as flames of desire had singed his voice box.

  As the midwife headed to the stone staircase encrusted with pigeon droppings which spiralled up the magnificent octagonal keep over 30 metres high, the baker trotted after her. Pointing to the round wooden trapdoor on the ground, she remarked that the dungeon underneath was thought to have once held members of the Order of the Knights Templar when it was destroyed by the King of France. But Stéphane Jollis didn’t look, so imprisoned was he by the sight of the periwinkle-blue bottom swaying up the stone steps in front of him. And when they got up to the roof with its wondrous view of the town and surrounding fields, and Lisette Robert leant up against the crenellations to take it in, the baker had to stop himself throwing himself over them, such was the grip of his mania.

  After climbing back down again, they walked the short distance to the Renaissance château, and before they went inside, Lisette Robert read out loud its history. But Stéphane Jollis was unable to hear that its foundations had been laid in the sixteenth century by Jacquette de Montbron, widow of André de Bourdeilles, the ruler of Périgord, where
she had hoped to receive Queen Catherine de’ Medici in suitable splendour, because such was the commotion of his heart, he had turned stone deaf. They then walked down the hallway admiring the ancient oak chests covered in iron rivets fashioned in the shape of flowers. And when Lisette Robert pointed to the sign stating they were marriage chests, the baker suddenly regained his hearing, which was even more acute than when he had lost it.

  As they entered a vaulted room to their left, Lisette Robert consulted her guide and announced that it had once served as a kitchen, but had since been converted into a chapel. And while the midwife was studying the scene of Jonah and the Whale carved on the base of the sixteenth-century Gothic and Renaissance tomb, Stéphane Jollis turned to the crucifix on the wall over the door and uttered the first prayer he had offered in decades. Wandering out, he then found himself in the armoury. The baker was just about to take down the impressive eighteenth-century German sword mounted on the wall to put an end to the unbearable ache in his loins when Lisette Robert walked in and her incredible beauty momentarily shocked him back to his senses.

  After climbing the elegant steps to the first floor, Stéphane Jollis gazed at the bizarre wooden cupboards on the landing which were used to store food that was waiting to be checked for poisons by the taster before it was served. But Lisette Robert had disappeared into one of the rooms, and, with no explanation for the furniture’s grotesque carvings, half human/half animal, half man/half woman, the baker assumed that desire had driven him mad, when in fact it was the only brief moment during that afternoon that he was in full charge of his faculties.

  He then wandered into the ravishing Golden Drawing Room, where he found Lisette Robert. The midwife marvelled at the beams lavishly painted with intoxicating bouquets, sphinxes, family initials and fantastical animals, which continued along the edge of the room. She pointed out the splendid panels on all four walls painted with landscapes, ruins, parks and châteaux. She led him to the oil paintings of the goddesses Abundance and Flora hanging above the fireplaces at either end of the room, which were thought to have been clothed when modesty came into fashion. She took him to gaze at the five French and English tapestries from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, including a glorious hunting scene depicting a mounted François I with his falconers and dogs. But Stéphane Jollis saw none of it as her beauty had distorted his vision.

  When they reached the second floor, the baker guided by the musical sound of Lisette Robert’s footsteps up the elegant stone staircase, they both turned right into the first room. But neither of them saw the exotic seventeenth-century Spanish strongboxes with their multitude of locked drawers intricately inlaid with ivory, gold leaf and tortoiseshell. Nor did they see the Parisian seventeenth-century tapestry of Renaud and Armide. Nor did they note the large metal Spanish braziers into which hot charcoals were tipped as an additional source of heating. Instead, they both stared, the baker’s vision instantly restored, at Charles V’s bed on the left-hand side of the room. It wasn’t its sumptuous gilding that held their gaze. Nor was it the fact that it had come from the Palace of Saragossa, or indeed that it was called the Bed of Paradise. The reason for their arrest was that they were both suddenly confronted with the memory of the tumultuous night they had spent in bed together during the mini-tornado, which Lisette Robert had hoped would evaporate, but in which Stéphane Jollis had bathed every night since.

  Later that afternoon, Guillaume Ladoucette was still staring at his gift from the postman, which hadn’t been moved from the corner of the room, when the door opened. It was Lisette Robert.

  ‘Lisette! Come in, come in. Sit down. Glass of wine?’ asked the matchmaker, hoping for some good news to raise his spirits, which had slumped to his ankles.

  ‘That would be lovely, thank you,’ she replied, sitting on the cushion with the hand-embroidered radish. The matchmaker opened his bottom left-hand drawer, poured out a couple of glasses and handed one to the midwife.

  ‘Walnut?’ he asked, offering her a bowlful.

  ‘No thanks,’ replied the midwife, who had her own to get through.

  ‘Now tell me, Lisette. How did it go in Bourdeilles?’

  Lisette Robert told him about their delightful stroll across the Gothic bridge with its view of the little mill house in the shape of a boat in the middle of a river. She told him about their most enjoyable lunch at Les Tilleuls, including the fifty-seven tiny chocolates she had left with in her handbag. She told him about the impressive gingko tree near the kiosk where they had bought the tickets. She told him about the marvellous tour they had taken of the medieval fortress, including their climb up the magnificent octagonal keep over 30 metres high. She told him about the wondrous treasures they had marvelled at in the Renaissance château, including the marriage chests, the tapestry of François I hunting, and the scene from Jonah and the Whale carved on the base of the sixteenth-century tomb. She told him of the ravishing Golden Drawing Room that had thrilled them both with its sumptuous ceiling, and how Jacquette de Montbron had wanted a room of great size and splendour with which to impress Catherine de’ Medici, but the queen had never come. She told him how they had stopped on the Gothic bridge on the way back to admire yet again the little mill house in the shape of a boat. And she told him how they had said goodbye to each other in the car park opposite the town hall, both agreeing that they were delighted to be talking to one another once again. But what Lisette Robert didn’t tell Guillaume Ladoucette about was the tumultuous night they had spent together during the mini-tornado, brought back with such vividness when they had been confronted by Charles V’s bed.

  The residents of Amour-sur-Belle had grown so used to the perpetual breeze that few noticed when the wind was up that afternoon in 1999, and by the time it was remarked upon it was blowing with considerable force. Most took it as a novelty and crowded at their windows hoping to see it blow off Marcel Coussy’s wig. But no such spectacle ever took place because that morning the old farmer had noticed that, instead of lying down as they did when rain threatened, his cows had suddenly started to walk backwards. A phenomenon that his grandfather had talked about but never witnessed, it frightened the farmer to such an extent that, not trusting his decrepit barn, he locked himself in his house with all his cows. When the crops became uprooted and turnips started to come crashing through their windows, the horrified residents tried to close their shutters. But for some it was too late. The gusts simply got hold of the panels, wrenched them from their brackets and hurled them into the air like playing cards. Lisette Robert had opened her windows hoping that the wind would blow round the house and spare her the job of dusting. It wasn’t until she tried to shut them that she realized something much stronger than her was pushing in the opposite direction. As her collection of old foie gras pots left their shelf and came smashing down on to the kitchen floor, and the furniture was shunted from one corner of the house to the other, her immediate thought was for her son, and she thanked God that he had gone away for the weekend. Her second thought was for the only possession that meant something to her: the family piano. At first she sat on top of it, keeping the lid down with her feet. When she travelled with it down the side of the sitting room and the curved salmon roof tiles started rattling like pan lids, Lisette Robert thought she wouldn’t be long for this world, and decided she couldn’t possibly die having mastered only one tune.

  It was her elephantine attempts at learning another that alerted Stéphane Jollis to her plight. He had just closed his shutters, called his parents to bid them farewell, and was sitting in his kitchen drinking a bottle of champagne. The baker recognized the poisonous sound the minute it came down the chimney accompanied by a roar of wind which was perfectly in tune. He had suffered the bothersome noise often enough, but it was an irritation too far in his final hours. Getting to his feet, he put on his jacket and opened the front door.

  After more than two decades of utmost dedication to his craft, if anyone in Amour-sur-Belle was sure to remain on their feet in such a
trocious conditions it was Stéphane Jollis. Gripping the window ledges and drainpipes, he followed the snatches of music transported by the murderous wind, which tipped near lethal doses of it into his ears. When he saw Lisette Robert through the open window of her sitting room squinting at a musical score, he climbed in, put her over his shoulder and carried her out without a word. Clutching on to the drainpipes and window ledges, he made his way back to his house, her red skirt flapping like a sail above them. After standing Lisette Robert up in his kitchen, he started on the monumental task of heaving the front door shut. Once it was closed, he disappeared into the sitting room, returned dragging the sofa, and pushed it up against the front door as an extra precaution. He then calmly got out another glass, filled it with champagne, offered it to Lisette Robert and sat down.

  By the time they had finished the second bottle, the baker had decided it was much more pleasant to die in company, and, grateful for his guest, suggested that they had their final meal together. The midwife thought it a splendid idea and only regretted not having brought a few nibbles with her. Suspecting that they didn’t have enough time to cook, the baker emptied the fridge and cupboards, descended into the cellar, then spread his delicacies on the kitchen table, including a confit of goose, several game and rabbit pâtés, a partridge terrine, four wild boar saucissons and three cheeses rolled in cinders. They picnicked on the sofa with a couple of baguettes from the bakery, retrieved through the adjoining door, as the wind screamed through the keyhole behind them and a goat somersaulted past the window.

  While they were on their seventh bottle of champagne the baker suddenly remembered his manners and announced: ‘A woman cannot die without pudding!’

  Lisette Robert, who was already well aware of the fact, followed him into the bakery and stood next to him by the counter filled with little cakes. Given first choice, and fearing that time was short, she automatically picked her favourite, a chocolate religieuse. First she pulled off the nun’s head, bit into it and licked out the chocolate crème pâtissière. Once the head was gone, she then started on her plump choux pastry body and sucked out her chocolate innards. When the nun was dispatched, she then turned her attention to a coffee religieuse which she put to a similar death. Meanwhile, Stéphane Jollis was enjoying a couple of apricot tartlets.