The Secrets of the Bastide Blanche

by M. L. Longworth

  I rubbed my eyes, walked over to the espresso machine, and switched it on. “I finally fell asleep early this morning,” I said.

  Erwan looked up. “So it kept you up too?”

  “What kept me up?” I asked. “I first fell asleep after three, but had a terrible dream.”

  “Did you hear crying in your dream?” Michèle asked.

  I nodded, my mouth dry.

  “That wasn’t a dream,” Erwan said. “We heard the crying too. A woman crying.”

  “It sounded like more than one to me,” Michèle countered.

  Erwan said, “Possibly—”

  “The howling wind.” I suggested.

  Michèle laughed. “I’m almost seventy years of age, and I think I know the difference.”

  My cell phone began to ring. I walked over to where I’d set it down, next to the espresso machine, and picked it up. It was Guillaume Matton.

  “Matton,” I said, taking the phone into the larger salon. “I’ve been trying to call you.”

  “I thought you may have,” he replied. “Yesterday I took the Métro for the first time in years, and got pickpocketed. They stole my cell phone, but not my wallet, thankfully. That was in my briefcase.”

  “Bad luck,” I said. I almost added that I didn’t miss the hustle, bustle, and violence of the city, but more things had been happening down here than I imagined happened in Matton’s secure and boring 8th arrondissement.

  “I thought I should let you know that I now have a new phone, same number,” Matton said. “And if you could pass the news on to Sandrine; she may have been trying to call me as well.”

  “I wanted to talk to you about her,” I said.

  “About Hervé Pioger?” Matton asked. “I told the judge that as far as I know, they don’t see each other anymore. But she may still be sweet on him.”

  “Well, they can’t see each other as he’s in detention right now,” I replied. “Kidnapping.” Matton whistled, and I told him about Erwan’s capture and rescue. “The problem is,” I went on, “I can’t find Sandrine. She seemed upset, or out of sorts, and has been gone for two days. Do you suppose she’s with Josy? Could you give me Josy’s phone number?”

  Matton was silent for a few seconds, long enough for me to become nervous. He finally said, “Josy’s dead. She died in a car accident three years ago.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Paris and Aix-en-Provence,

  Monday, July 12, 2010

  Marine looked out the train’s window, thinking about Sylvie and Charlotte and the new person in their lives. Charlotte had taken the news calmly, but when Marine had hugged her afterward she could almost feel the girl’s heart pounding. Earlier, when Marine asked Sylvie how Wolfgang had taken the news that he had an eleven-year-old daughter, Sylvie bit her upper lip and quickly lit a cigarette. “Other than throwing a glass across the room, and yelling at me for about ten minutes, I think he took it rather well.”

  Marine had arranged to meet Sylvie at the hotel where Wolfgang was staying, to go tell Charlotte the news. Verlaque had walked her over there, after they’d picked up some groceries, and by chance they ran into Sylvie and Wolfgang on their way back to the hotel, where the latter was planning to wait out Charlotte’s briefing. They made small talk, as locals and tourists walked past them chatting and laughing and taking photographs of Aix’s buildings, enjoying the summer dusk and mild evening temperature. Wolfgang was staying at a newly built hotel attached to Aix’s Roman springs. “There’s parking. It’s downtown. There’s a swimming pool,” he had dryly answered, in perfect French with a thick German accent, when Marine had asked if he liked it. “But the spa—it doesn’t interest me. I can think of nothing more boring.”

  Verlaque had laughed, and agreed, and spontaneously invited Wolfgang over for a drink while the women spoke to Charlotte. Wolfgang shook Verlaque’s hand, saying he would gladly accept. Marine and Sylvie beamed, both grateful for Antoine’s thoughtfulness.

  When Marine returned from Sylvie’s, the men were sitting upstairs on the candlelit terrace, a bottle of wine between them on the table. Another bottle, empty, sat on the floor. They both got up and greeted Marine, waiting to sit down again until she was seated. Verlaque poured her a glass of honey-colored wine, and she took a sip before speaking. “It went well, I think,” she said. “Charlotte was quiet, a bit overcome by emotions, but when I left she was happy and laughing, excited even.”

  “I can’t imagine how she’s feeling,” Wolfgang said. “She and Sylvie have been a team for eleven years, and now I come along—”

  “Hey, dude, it will be fine,” Verlaque said, reaching over and squeezing Wolfgang’s shoulder.

  Marine looked at her husband and squeezed her hands together to stop herself from laughing; the words “hey, dude” had never before come out of his mouth. She assumed he was a bit drunk.

  Wolfgang sipped some wine. “Eleven is such an important age,” he began, watching the wine swirl in his glass. “Carl Jung said he became conscious at eleven. He compared it to walking out of a fog. ‘I knew who I was,’ he said of that moment.” At that instant Marine liked, even loved, Wolfgang, and she knew that not only would everything be fine but that he would now be permanently in their lives.

  She saw the water-treatment plant from the train’s window. One of the round tanks had a gigantic eye painted on its side. This was Marine’s cue that they would soon be in Paris. She was thankful for France’s high-speed trains and their wonderful efficiency, as this was her second trip to Paris in a week. She began to gather her things. Pulling out her map for one last look, she studied her route: take the RER A train to the end of the line, west of Paris at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, then a taxi to the town’s ancient forest where the private girls’ school Les Loges was located.

  * * *

  “If I remember correctly,” Marine said, walking along Les Loges’ covered arcade, “Napoléon founded this school, and the one in Saint-Denis.”

  “Exactly,” replied her old friend Nathalie Garcia. “In 1810—for girls whose fathers, officers and knights of the Legion of Honor, were killed while fighting. Nowadays, descendants of those men are welcome at Les Loges, provided they have the grades, mind you.” Nathalie Garcia had studied law with Marine in Paris and, like her, had forsaken a life in the courts for one in education. She was now assistant director of the school.

  “It’s an idyllic spot,” Marine said, looking around the vast Cour d’honneur.

  Nathalie nodded. “This courtyard is normally noisy—full of laughing girls in blue uniforms. They’ll be back at the end of August. I’m around for another two weeks, organizing the new media room, and then I’ll take a short vacation myself. Now, tell me, what is it, exactly, you’re looking for? Your e-mail intrigued me.”

  “The records for Agathe Barbier,” Marine replied. “Née Le Flahec. She was a student here in the early 1960s.”

  “I know,” Nathalie said. “Are you researching the history of French ceramics these days?”

  Marine laughed. “Not exactly.”

  “Well, you are the second person to ask to look at Agathe Barbier’s records this month. But I suppose that’s not unusual, given how well known she became.”

  “Who was the other person?”

  “An art history scholar,” Nathalie replied. “The head librarian assisted her.”

  Nathalie opened a door and motioned for Marine to go ahead. “The archives are up here,” Nathalie said, following Marine. “Turn left at the top of the stairs. We’ve just renovated.” To Marine’s relief, Nathalie, always discreet, didn’t ask any more questions about her research.

  They walked through a large room lined with bookshelves. Marine pictured girls reading at the long tables that ran down its center.

  Nathalie used a key to open yet another door. “This is it,” she said, motioning Marine into a much smaller room, full o
f filing cabinets and glass-fronted bookcases. “The director would like to know more precisely why you’re here,” Nathalie said, once she’d closed the door behind her.

  Marine tried not to grimace. So she wasn’t off the hook.

  Nathalie continued, “Our records concerning former students are not normally open to the public, as you can imagine.”

  Marine set her purse down on a wooden desk and took a letter from it. “The inquest into the death of Agathe Barbier has been reopened by the examining magistrate in Cannes,” she said. “This is a letter from her colleague in Aix.”

  “Our directrice was a classmate of Agathe Barbier’s,” Nathalie said. She read the letter and handed it back to Marine, pointing at Verlaque’s signature. “You’re married to him.”

  Marine felt herself blushing. “Yes, for a year now.”

  “I read the announcement in Le Monde. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll get the dossier and let you get to work. I’ll be in the media room across the hall when you’re finished. I won’t ask what you’re looking for.”

  “It’s only a hunch,” Marine said. “I’m not sure myself. What will you say?” She knew that Nathalie would have to immediately report to the directrice.

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Could you tell the directrice that I’m writing a biography of Mme Barbier?”

  * * *

  Marine had been reading the young Agathe Le Flahec’s file for over an hour when she came upon something interesting. She sat up in her chair and retied her ponytail, something she always did when excited. She then leaned forward, holding the document in her trembling hands.

  When she had read through Agathe’s correspondence at the Musée de Sèvres, Marine had been impressed, and surprised, by the quality of the artist’s prose. Of course, Agathe Le Flahec had gone to a rigorous school, and had been raised during a time when people still wrote letters, and wrote them well. Agathe died long before the Internet and instant messaging killed the art of letter writing. But her prose was even better than Marine had expected. It was poetry. Marine opened her notebook to where she had jotted down the important dates concerning Agathe and Valère Barbier. Agathe died in the summer of 1988. And two years later Valère Barbier drastically switched his genre from literary fiction to romance. Was it, as he claimed at the time, because he was heartbroken? Or had someone else helped him pen his many award-winning books? Marine thought especially of his short stories published in 1980, in her mother’s favorite volume, Tales from Brittany. Agathe was bretonne, not Valère.

  Marine grabbed her phone and smirked, realizing that she was about to use modern technology—a cell phone and the Internet—to look up facts. She scrolled through the results, looking for articles about Valère Barbier published around 1990, after the release of his first romance, Another Day. She found several, including a lengthy one in Paris Match explaining the writer’s sudden genre switch and gushing over the new book. Most of the articles she came across were of the same ilk, even with the same wording, as if they had been forwarded by Barbier’s publicity team, which they probably were: he was heartbroken, and in his books now wanted to try to explain love, not philosophical or moral issues. After about half an hour she found an article dating from March 1991 in the satirical paper Le Canard enchaîné—a favorite of her father’s, much to her mother’s exasperation. It included a cartoon that depicted Valère Barbier lying on a chaise longue, eating from a box of chocolates, while writing, with a plume pen, what was obviously a romance. Behind him, his framed Prix Goncourt for Red Earth was hanging crookedly on the wall.

  The cartoon was followed by an article by Jean-Yves Bastou that suggested Barbier no longer wrote literary fiction because he couldn’t. The journalist hinted that Barbier may have had help writing his earlier fiction, although he made no reference to Agathe. Marine next looked up Bastou and found a few more articles written by him, more often dealing with rock music than literature. She then came across his obituary. He’d died of a heart attack in May 2002, at sixty-three years of age.

  Surely, Marine thought, she wasn’t the only person to have read Agathe’s lovely prose and seen the connection? She switched off her phone and looked at the document on the desk, a creative writing prize won by Agathe Le Flahec in 1964, her last year at the school. The essay’s title, “A Chance Meeting on the rue du Faubourg,” was also that of Valère Barbier’s first book, published in 1973.

  * * *

  Once again, Marine found herself following Nathalie Garcia through the halls of Les Loges. “I want to thank you, Nathalie,” Marine said.

  “I hope your trip to Saint-Germain wasn’t wasted.”

  “No,” Marine said, hugging her purse. “Although I didn’t find anything earth-shattering,” she lied.

  “The directrice won’t keep you long,” Nathalie went on. “She knows you have a train to catch.” Marine looked around her at the framed photographs of former students, teachers, and directors. A painting of a queen caught her attention, and Nathalie stopped before it. “Anne of Austria,” she said. “She founded the convent here in 1644.”

  Marine nodded, and they walked on through the silent halls. She almost felt like she was going to meet the mother superior, and her hands began to sweat. A door opened and a short, plump woman in her seventies walked toward them, smiling. She had curly white hair and wore round tortoiseshell glasses. A secretary, thought Marine. The woman held out her hand. “Welcome to our school,” she said. “I’m Célestine Parent, the directrice.”

  “How do you do,” Marine said, shaking her hand. “Thank you so much for letting me use the archives.”

  “Please,” she said, gesturing toward the door. “Come into my office. That will be all, Mlle Garcia.”

  Nathalie nodded and turned away, and Marine followed the directrice into her office. She may look harmless, thought Marine, but Mme Parent certainly spoke with authority. “So,” Mme Parent said, walking around her mahogany desk and sitting down. “You’re writing a biography of Agathe Le Flahec?”

  “Yes,” Marine said, lying. “And I have this funny theory that those who excel in making beautiful pots can be wonderful writers. Poets, even.”

  Mme Parent nodded, smiling.

  “I was hoping to include passages of Mme Barbier’s own writing in the book. You know, diary entries and the like.”

  “Interesting,” Mme Parent said, sitting back. Marine saw the directrice’s shoulders fall, relaxed. “I went to school with Agathe.”

  “Ah bon?” Marine said, pretending not to have known.

  “From 1961 to 1964,” Mme Parent continued. “We were good friends. I adored her.”

  “So you must know Valère Barbier,” Marine offered.

  “Barely,” Mme Parent answered.

  Marine smiled and tried to sound chatty. “Oh, I’m only asking because he’s such a celebrity.”

  “You can say that, yes. Valère Barbier is a celebrity.”

  “So I take it you and Mme Barbier didn’t stay in touch after her marriage?” Marine asked. “I’m only asking for research purposes. The biography is in its early stages, and I’m trying to figure out who knew Agathe Barbier, and when.”

  “I wouldn’t be much help,” Mme Parent said. “After 1964, that is.”

  “I saw from the school records that you became directrice in January of 1990,” Marine said. “Did a journalist named Jean-Yves Bastou contact you around that time? I know it was long ago . . .”

  Mme Parent folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t remember that name,” she said. “But you’re not the only one who has asked to check our records. Agathe went on to become renowned in her field, as have many other Les Loges students.”

  “Yes, Nathalie told me that just a few weeks ago someone else asked to see Mme Barbier’s records.”

  Mme Parent nodded. �
��A scholar. I was held up in meetings all day so wasn’t available to greet her.”

  Marine said, “I didn’t find much in the file. I was a bit surprised.” It occurred to Marine that the scholar, whoever she was, may have taken some of the documents.

  Mme Parent flinched, and a look of worry quickly raced across her face. “Agathe may have kept a great deal,” she said, shrugging. “After her death . . . who knows. Her widower may have disposed of everything or given it to her son.”

  “Did you read her essay about the rue du Faubourg?” Marine asked.

  “About a hundred times,” Mme Parent answered, smiling for the first time. “We’d proofread each other’s essays. But mine were never as good.”

  “Don’t you find it odd—”

  “I’ll admit it’s a strange coincidence,” Mme Parent said. “I’ve always assumed that Agathe suggested the title to her husband. I don’t know if you had time to read it, but the story has nothing in common with the book.”

  Marine said, “I couldn’t read it. The story wasn’t in the file. Only a mention of the prize it received.”

  Mme Parent’s face whitened. “You must be mistaken. The story is there. Those files are kept under lock and key in our archives.” Mme Parent stood up, and Marine looked at her watch.

  “I have to catch the TGV soon,” Marine said. “Thank you for your time.” But she saw that the directrice had not heard a word she’d said.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Aix-en-Provence,

  Monday, July 12, 2010

  She’s lying or keeping something back,” Marine said over the sound of running water. Finished brushing her teeth, she tapped her toothbrush on the edge of the sink, walked into their bedroom, and slid into bed beside Verlaque.