“Do you suppose it would be crossing the line to break in?” Emma asked, her dark eyes searching the house’s façade as though she was assessing possible points of entry.
Blondine looked at Emma, alarmed.
“I... do, yes,” said Rosalyn, when it appeared Emma wasn’t kidding. “I think breaking and entering would be crossing a line. I’m not ready for a meet and greet with the local gendarmes at this point.”
“Honestly, Rosalyn,” said Emma. “Here I think we’re on the same wavelength, and then you go and say something like that. But I suppose Gaspard was right after all. These people lived more than a hundred years ago; we can wait a little longer to learn their fate.”
“Right now, it’s time for lunch,” Blondine said, checking her phone. “I know a place. C’est pas mauvais.”
“As you know,pas mauvaismeans ‘not bad,’” Emma explained to Rosalyn as she stubbed out her cigarette and they piled back into the car. “But here’s a helpful hint: The French apply it toeverything, and depending on the inflection, it can mean anything from ‘terrible’ to ‘terrific.’”
“And in this case?” Rosalyn asked. “Terrible or terrific?”
Blondine shrugged.“Pas mauvais.”
They stopped at a corner bistro in the nearby town of Fleury-la-Rivière. The busy bistro was filled with workers in muddy boots and overalls, sipping champagne with theirmenu du jourthe way folks in Napa might have had a beer with their sandwich.
“So, let’s recap,” Emma said as they savored theirentrées, or appetizers, of smoked salmon and duck terrine. “Émile made it through the war alive, which means Lucie wasn’t a widow after all.”
“No, she was the one who died,” Blondine said, dejected.
“And Émile was listed as dead, but must have been in some sort of coma, unable to tell anyone who he was,” said Rosalyn. “Was there any way he would have known Lucie had a child?”
“Not according to the letters,” said Emma.
“He must have come back to search for Lucie, but... ,” Blondine said.
“By then all the people who had been living underground had dispersed,” said Emma. “Either they took part in rebuilding Reims or they left town. André and I have found references to a few Legrands around Reims, but no sign of an Émile Legrand. We’ve checked tax rolls and census reports, but like I keep saying...”
“It was chaos after the war.” Rosalyn finished her thought. “It’s possible we’ll never find out.”
?On their way back to Cochet, Rosalyn noted the unusual traffic and number of people milling about in the villages.
“They are all coming for the festival of Saint Vincent. It’s great fun,” Blondine said. “Wait until you see your costume.”
“Oh, good,” Rosalyn said, trying but failing to stir up much enthusiasm. “Thank you.”
“We should go early,” Blondine continued. “Emma, if André is willing to drive us, we won’t have to worry about parking. But thenhe’llhave to worry about parking.”
“I don’t think that will bother him; festivals aren’t really André’s thing. Should we say we’ll leave at nine?”
“Perfect,” said Blondine.
“Actually, I’m...” Rosalyn blushed. “I sort of made plans to go with Jérôme.”
“Quoi?”Blondine said, staring at her in the rearview mirror.
“With Jérôme?” Emma gaped.
“Jérôme Comtois,” Rosalyn clarified.
“Yes, we’re familiar with Jérôme Comtois,” Emma said with a smile. “Well, well, aren’t you just the scamp? You remind me of Doris with all your secrets.”
“Qu’est-ce que c’est‘scamp’?”Blondine asked.
“Petite coquine, garnemente, chenapane, polissonne... friponne, galopine...”
“Emma, for someone who claims she doesn’t speak French all that well, you sound suspiciously like you swallowed a French thesaurus,” said Rosalyn.
