by Julia Stuart
After pouring them both another glass, Stéphane Jollis announced that he wanted to sign up for the Unrivalled Silver Service.
‘What a marvellous idea!’ replied Guillaume Ladoucette. ‘Nothing like getting back on that horse, eh? And don’t worry about Lisette Robert. Everyone wants to go out with her. That’s just the way of the world.’
The matchmaker opened the file of customers on his desk. ‘Now, let’s see,’ he muttered. ‘Who have we got here? Not her. Not her. Good God, not her. No. Can’t see you two together. Not her. Her! There we are, Stéphane! Oh, maybe not.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘She’s looking for someone tall and slim.’
‘I’m not that short,’ protested the baker.
‘No, but there’s the other matter.’
‘Guillaume, a baker of distinction cannot be skinny. As you always said when you were a barber, you have to be a Living Example. What would it say about my bread and little cakes if I were able to resist them?’
‘You’re quite right, of course. But I’m not prepared to take the risk.’
The matchmaker carried on looking through his file. ‘No. Too old. No. Now what about her? Let’s see…Yes, that’s a very good match indeed. You two should get on splendidly. Why didn’t I think of her before? Now, I expect you want to get moving right away. Would you like me to call her now?’
Stéphane Jollis nodded enthusiastically. The matchmaker dialled the number and indicated that the woman had picked up the phone by pointing at the receiver and raising his eyebrows at the baker, who was watching him closely. Guillaume Ladoucette introduced himself, exchanged several pleasantries and then announced that he had found her a most favourable match. The man in question, he said, was a dark-haired artisan who liked to seize the day by rising early, and then went into considerable detail about his splendid haircut. And when the woman enquired as to whether he was athletic, the matchmaker replied that he was a very keen fisherman and, suddenly remembering his historic fall into the Belle, added that he enjoyed swimming.
Guillaume Ladoucette put down the receiver. ‘She’s very keen to meet you,’ he said triumphantly. ‘However, there’s one minor problem. She’s going away after the weekend for a short holiday and the only time she can meet you is Sunday morning.’
‘I’ll be at work,’ replied the baker.
‘Can’t you take the day off ?’
‘My customers would knife me. It’s one of the busiest days of the week,’ said Stéphane Jollis, suddenly looking fearful. ‘And I’ve got problems this Sunday as it is. There’s no one coming in to help serve.’
‘I see your point.’
The two men sat in silence.
‘I know!’ said Guillaume Ladoucette. ‘I’ll look after the bakery while you’re gone. You could get up really early and prepare everything so all I’d have to do is serve.’
‘But, Guillaume, you can’t add up.’
‘I can.’
The baker raised his eyebrows.
‘OK, so maybe I can’t,’ said the matchmaker. ‘But I could work it out on the till. It can’t be that hard. I had one in the barber’s, remember. Come on, Stéphane! She sounds right up your street.’
With great reluctance, the baker finally agreed, but not before laying down certain conditions. Guillaume Ladoucette was not to do any sums in his head, nor was he to take advantage of the trays of little cakes. There were a number of customers who came in at the same time every week for the same order and he had to make sure that he didn’t sell out before they came in. He then went through each one of them by name indicating their requirements. ‘Whatever you do, make sure there are enough little cakes left for the women,’ he added. ‘They’ll skin you alive otherwise. Hide them from the men if you have to. Oh yes, and Émilie Fraisse always comes in on a Sunday morning for a mille-feuille.’
‘Émilie Fraisse always comes in on a Sunday morning for a mille-feuille?’ repeated the matchmaker.
‘Yes. And don’t forget Madame Serre and her rum baba. She’s the worst.’
But Guillaume Ladoucette couldn’t think about Madame Serre and her rum baba because he was still thinking about Émilie Fraisse and her mille-feuille. And, as he imagined her eating it, he found himself wondering what dessert she had served Gilbert Dubuisson, and within moments he had fallen down the familiar shaft of misery. Again he saw the postman arriving at the door of the château with a bunch of flowers, no doubt from his garden. Again he saw them together in the dining room with the pisé floor eating eel, which would undoubtedly have been exquisite. And again he saw the kiss on the lips that he was convinced that Gilbert Dubuisson would have given her, along with the snake of his arm around her waist.
The baker then left, muttering something about being hunted down if he didn’t get back to his shop. In no mood to face Émilie Fraisse coming in to tell him about her splendid evening with Gilbert Dubuisson, the matchmaker stood up, turned the sign over behind the shop door, and went to look for the man from the council.
He found Jean-François Lafforest at the municipal shower in his unfortunate trousers, which were now starting to fit, talking to two workmen. When the matchmaker approached and asked whether he could buy him a drink at the Bar Saint-Jus, the man from the council immediately became suspicious and politely refused. Undeterred, Guillaume Ladoucette hung around. Certain of a trap, Jean-François Lafforest could stand the suspense no longer and approached the villager asking whether he could help him. When the matchmaker suggested that they went for a little walk together instead, he willingly agreed, believing that the agony of what lay in store for him could not be as torturous as waiting for it to befall him.
Guillaume Ladoucette first took him to the bench by the fountain said to cure gout, but when he prodded Monsieur Moreau, he found that the old man was still alive, so he took Jean-François Lafforest to the Romanesque church for some privacy. But when they arrived, he looked inside and found several villagers lying flat on their backs on top of the marble tombs trying to cool down. Unsure of where to try next, he then took him along the banks of the Belle. They walked through the patches of wild mint until they came to the old public washing place. After inviting the man from the council to sit next to him on a stone slab underneath the pitched roof, Guillaume Ladoucette then told him all about Heart’s Desire, the Unrivalled Gold Service and the very special woman who wanted to be introduced to him.
Clutching his briefcase to his stomach, his eyes on the shallow square of green water, Jean-François Lafforest listened to what the man had to say. And he was impressed. He had been aware of the existence of the Clandestine Committee against the Municipal Shower since its inception, as details about its first meeting had been posted on the village noticeboard. And he was in no doubt as to what lengths its members would go to, having discovered that a sabotaged pipe was the cause of the lack of hot water. But while he knew that the group was capable of direct action, he had no idea that their dastardly attempts to get rid of the shower would involve such connivance as inventing mystery suitors to torment him.
When the matchmaker had finished his speech, the man from the council told him that while it was very nice to know that a woman held him in such high regard, he couldn’t possibly entertain the idea of meeting her. Guillaume Ladoucette was taken aback.
‘Monsieur Lafforest, I must impress upon you that the woman in question is no ordinary one,’ he insisted.
‘I’m sure she’s not,’ Jean-François Lafforest agreed.
‘Forgive me, but I don’t think you quite understand. I’m talking about a woman of exceptional beauty.’
‘I’m certain she’s extraordinary.’
‘I don’t wish to give away her identity, but I would wager she’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen.’
‘No doubt, Monsieur Ladoucette. But I’m afraid I am not interested.’
The matchmaker then plundered the depths of his considerable sales skills. He first tried to appeal to the man’s nobili
ty, describing her caring nature, generosity and discretion. When that failed to work he talked of the woman’s figure that was widely known to curve more graciously than the Belle, her eyes that shone like two freshly opened horse chestnuts, and her hair that coursed down her shoulders like a waterfall. When there was still no sign of interest, he resorted to gross exaggeration and praised her musical and housekeeping skills. But the man from the council was having none of it. He simply thanked Guillaume Ladoucette for his interest, bid him good day and left.
The matchmaker walked back along the banks of the Belle alone and dumbfounded. As the scent of wild mint threaded through his ankles, he ran through his sales pitch and couldn’t for the life of him see where he had gone wrong. How could a man refuse such a woman? It was unthinkable. And how on earth was he going to break the news to poor Lisette Robert?
Over an hour later, back on his swivel chair, the matchmaker was still trying to work out how he was going to tell the midwife when the door opened. He looked up to see an elderly man looking in hesitantly. Guillaume Ladoucette immediately scuttled his hairy toes back into his supermarket leather sandals and got up to greet him. After ushering him to the chair with the peeling marquetry, he offered him a drink, which was politely refused. Once back behind the desk with the ink stain, Guillaume Ladoucette introduced himself.
‘I know who you are, you nit, it’s me, Pierre Rouzeau,’ said the man. ‘I must say, what on earth’s happened to your moustache?’
It was only then that the matchmaker recognized his old boss. He got back on to his feet, hurried round to the other side of the desk and kissed him on both cheeks. As he went to sit back down again, Guillaume Ladoucette said that he thought the retired barber had left the Périgord Vert, which was why he hadn’t be in touch for so long. Resting his brown spotted hands on the arms of the chair, the old man told his former apprentice what had become of him during the years when they hadn’t seen each other. The business had continued to do well, helped by his sideline of selling the hair that was swept up off the floor to the mattress-maker, along with the trimmings he found in the turn-ups of his trousers. He thought that his marriage to Francine Rouzeau was going equally well until one evening over supper she told him that now all the children had left home, she too was on her way. He was astounded, as she had never given any indication that her life had not turned out as she had hoped. She then told him that the only times he had ever told her that he loved her were the morning they had got engaged, the afternoon they were married and the night they conceived their first child. Pierre Rouzeau then put down his knife and fork and told her for the first time that she had given him the sort of happiness that he had never known. But it was too late. She finished off her stuffed cabbage, reminded him that they had run out of bin liners, and left with her bags, which were already packed.
Every day for the following year he expected her to walk back through the door. He learnt how to clean the house and kept it spotless for her return. The fridge was always filled with her delights and the radio tuned to her favourite station. Every evening he ran her a bath, and then placed a fresh glass of water on her bedside table. He even filled her wardrobe with pretty summer dresses. But his wife never returned. Exhausted from his heart wheeling each time the door opened only to plummet again when it was someone else, he retired and moved away from Nontron. But part of him still hoped that she would track him down and he always kept the doors unlocked just in case. After a succession of burglaries, he was forced to lock them. To distract himself from worrying about how she would get in, he finally entered the World Barbering Championships in Illinois. And, despite the fact that he won the Gold Medal for Outstanding Achievement in the short-back-and-sides category, the victory meant nothing as he had already lost life’s biggest prize.
When he finished, Pierre Rouzeau then asked Guillaume Ladoucette how many children he and Émilie Fraisse had.
‘We never got married,’ replied the matchmaker.
‘Never got married? So whom did you marry?’
‘No one,’ replied Guillaume Ladoucette.
The two men sat looking at the floor in silence.
Eventually, the matchmaker lifted his eyes and asked his old boss what had brought him to Amour-sur-Belle.
‘I’ve just moved back to Nontron as I missed the place, and someone told me that you had set yourself up as a matchmaker. So I thought I’d not only pay my favourite apprentice a visit, but take advantage of his services. I’m not too old, am I?’
After signing up for the Unrivalled Silver Service and reminding the matchmaker to do something about his moustache, Pierre Rouzeau opened the door with his arthritic fingers and left. Guillaume Ladoucette watched him walk past the window and then sat staring ahead of him, the pleasure of having seen his old boss tempered by the reminder that he had never married Émilie Fraisse. Even more reluctant to face the châtelaine if she came in, the matchmaker decided to close Heart’s Desire early. But he was too late. Just as he was putting his pen back into the narrow drawer with the compartments, the door suddenly opened. It was Émilie Fraisse wearing an almond antique silk dress which appeared to have been shorn off at the knees. The matchmaker, exhausted by his night of seafaring, forgot to crawl his toes back into his supermarket leather sandals before getting up to greet her and it wasn’t until he felt quiche pastry between his toes that he realized he was still barefoot. After ushering her to the cushion with the hand-embroidered radish, he quickly sat down again. Just as he was preparing himself for the torment of listening to the details he couldn’t bear to hear, he took a closer look at Émilie Fraisse and asked whether she was all right.
‘I didn’t get much sleep last night,’ she replied. Guillaume Ladoucette tried to catch his heart as it sank, but missed.
After the postman had wished her goodnight, Émilie Fraisse didn’t wait to hear him crunch his way across the drawbridge and immediately closed the door. Slipping off her ridiculous seventeenth-century shoes, she sat on the bottom step of the spiral staircase with the lamentable repairs, her cheeks resting on her fists. How could she possibly ever love a man who was unable to see the beauty of the moulds that decorated the château walls like priceless works of art? And as she thought about her wasted efforts–the roses she had picked, the eel she had skinned and the tour she had given him–the familiar flints of disappointment thudded down on to her, more painful this time because of the weeping sores left by her husband.
When, finally, she found the will to stand up, she climbed the cold stairs, walked along the corridor with the rough, faded tapestries and turned the enormous handle on her bedroom door. In front of the mirror dappled with age, she slipped off her cinnamon-coloured dress that she had cut off at the knees in a panic only hours ago. She then took out the pin that was holding up her hair, which dropped like cinders down her naked back. And as she looked at her body which hadn’t been touched for years, she scolded herself for having thought that she had finally found the man who would love her until it had caught up with her aged hair.
After pulling back the white heavy cotton sheet on her four-poster Renaissance bed, she lay on her back, piles of ashes covering the pillow. As she looked up at the tapestry canopy, she thought how foolish she had been to think that one day Gilbert Dubuisson might have joined her in it as her husband. She then thought of the only man with whom she had shared a bed, and of the time when he had started turning his back on her until eventually he no longer reached for her foot with his. And when her mind returned to the man she should have married, but who had never replied to her letter, so many flints of disappointment dropped on to her she was unable to move for the weight of them.
She soon lost consciousness, but woke again in the early hours when the pain returned. Down the spiral steps with the lamentable repairs she crept and made her way straight to the vaulted kitchen. The copper pans, lit up by the moonlight, flickered like flames. She opened the fridge door, made herself a steak sandwich and brought it back to her desolate shee
ts. For a moment she felt relief. But the flints immediately fell again and she ran back down the cold stairs with the lamentable repairs. By then so much moonlight had flooded the kitchen, the room blazed like an inferno, and she fled back to bed again in terror.
When Émilie Fraisse woke the following morning, she immediately had an urge to feel the sun on her skin. She passed along the corridor with the faded tapestries and climbed the tower to the scandalous ramparts. Sitting on one of the crenellation stones that had tumbled from the wall, she failed to spot the buzzards soaring with their enormous floppy feet hanging below them, and when she looked down at the dry moat below she saw to her despair that the yellow irises had died.
After showering with the garden hosepipe, she went into the dining room to close the lattice windows against the house martins that kept flying in and carving desperate circles around the room unable to find their way out. Yet she looked in dismay at the remains of the eel, the vases of apricot rambling roses which had started to shed their petals, the candles scorched to stumps, the two stained serviettes on the floor, and the flints descended again.
Deciding after all to leave the windows open to get rid of the smell, she ran back and forth to the vaulted kitchen until the table was cleared. After washing up, she went to wipe the dining-room table which had been stolen from a monastery. But before long, she found that she had got out her beeswax and was rubbing it furiously. She then turned her attention to the side table on which the spoils of hunting were once displayed, and before long was buffing its legs. Once the dining room was completed, she opened the door to the grand salon with its huge stone fireplace and gleaming reversible floor. On to her knees she descended and started polishing the walnut boards which were uppermost. And even though they were not due to be turned for another two hundred years, once she had finished, she heaved them over and started again.
She then went up the spiral staircase with the lamentable repairs and cleaned the whole of the first floor. When she had cleaned the whole of the first floor, she cleaned all of the attic rooms. And when she had cleaned all of the attic rooms, she then proceeded to sweep the scandalous ramparts.