yokelry has been notoriously cavalier with firearms since our suckling days. Where else on earth but Saint-Nicolas would you see someone shooting across a frozen lake in the direction of a large crowd with absolutely no one thinking that might be a dangerous thing to do?”
“What’s in that bottle? I’m hoping it’s not really bleach,” Alexandre asked, loyal as ever to his guiding sense of priorities.
“This, très cher cousin, is one of the château’s great treasures. Just before the war there was a gardener here who was very fond of making alcool de poire —pear liqueur. He would take his pear juice to the copper alembic owned by the canton and distill pure nectar.
“This good man was clever enough to guess what those Boche Nazis would get up to when they reached here, so he put up all his stock of poire in bleach bottles and hid them in the commons. Decades later Capucine and I—when we were taking a short break from our childish pursuits,” he said, leering and elbowing Alexandre in the ribs theatrically—“found the stash.”
“You’re right, of course,” Capucine said. “But it’s just become too much. I’m going to need to investigate.”
“I thought you were already,” Alexandre said. “Spirits are not supposed to age, but this stuff certainly has. There’s not even a hint of pear, but there is a definite note of bleach. I wonder how scrupulous your gardener was in cleaning out his bottles.”
“Sweetheart, there’s a whole world of difference between a little poking around and a proper investigation. For starters, I’m going to pay a formal visit to the good capitaine de gendarmerie and find out what actual work has been done on these cases.”
“You might have a hard time with that one,” Alexandre said. It was no longer clear if the subject was alcool de poire or gendarmes.
Capucine plopped down on her husband’s lap and sipped the water-clear, slightly toxic liquid from a delicately stemmed crystal liqueur glass with a chipped base. It might taste of bleach, but it was certainly effective. “I thought I saw you doing an inordinate amount of gossiping at the rendezvous. What did you find out? Come on, out with it,” she said, rubbing the tumescence of her husband’s stomach.
“Le Capitaine de Gendarmerie Départementale Augustin Dallemagne would appear to be a very frustrated man. It seems his ambition was to become an army officer, but he was neither smart enough nor from a good enough family to get into Saint-Cyr. He was also frustrated in his other great ambition, to marry well—an aristocrat or a grande bourgeoise at the very least. He settled for the gendarmerie and for a woman who is attractive enough and who has a good bit of money since her father owns a large Mercedes distributorship in Lyon.”
“My dear, the things you can learn in so little time!”
“It’s my training as a journalist. And there’s a good deal more,” Alexandre said with studied modesty. “The good capitaine tried very hard to become introduced into the society of Saint-Nicolas when he arrived two years ago. But, naturally, the harder he tried, the more he was rejected. In the end he gave up and is just counting the days until his next posting, which will be in eight and a half months.”
“My heart bleeds,” Jacques said, pouring everyone more alcool de poire .
“The irony is that the village adores Madame Dallemagne, who bakes delicious pastry and is a paragon among mothers. She’s become a welcome addition to all the village teas and bridge afternoons.”
“That must drive her husband wild,” Capucine said.
“It does. And here’s the best part. It seems that the capitaine is particularly jealous of you, not only because of your social position in the village and—I blush to even mention it—your title, but also because of the brilliant success of your career in the Police Judiciaire. I hardly think he’s going to welcome you with open arms as a colleague when you
“What’s in that bottle? I’m hoping it’s not really bleach,” Alexandre asked, loyal as ever to his guiding sense of priorities.
“This, très cher cousin, is one of the château’s great treasures. Just before the war there was a gardener here who was very fond of making alcool de poire —pear liqueur. He would take his pear juice to the copper alembic owned by the canton and distill pure nectar.
“This good man was clever enough to guess what those Boche Nazis would get up to when they reached here, so he put up all his stock of poire in bleach bottles and hid them in the commons. Decades later Capucine and I—when we were taking a short break from our childish pursuits,” he said, leering and elbowing Alexandre in the ribs theatrically—“found the stash.”
“You’re right, of course,” Capucine said. “But it’s just become too much. I’m going to need to investigate.”
“I thought you were already,” Alexandre said. “Spirits are not supposed to age, but this stuff certainly has. There’s not even a hint of pear, but there is a definite note of bleach. I wonder how scrupulous your gardener was in cleaning out his bottles.”
“Sweetheart, there’s a whole world of difference between a little poking around and a proper investigation. For starters, I’m going to pay a formal visit to the good capitaine de gendarmerie and find out what actual work has been done on these cases.”
“You might have a hard time with that one,” Alexandre said. It was no longer clear if the subject was alcool de poire or gendarmes.
Capucine plopped down on her husband’s lap and sipped the water-clear, slightly toxic liquid from a delicately stemmed crystal liqueur glass with a chipped base. It might taste of bleach, but it was certainly effective. “I thought I saw you doing an inordinate amount of gossiping at the rendezvous. What did you find out? Come on, out with it,” she said, rubbing the tumescence of her husband’s stomach.
“Le Capitaine de Gendarmerie Départementale Augustin Dallemagne would appear to be a very frustrated man. It seems his ambition was to become an army officer, but he was neither smart enough nor from a good enough family to get into Saint-Cyr. He was also frustrated in his other great ambition, to marry well—an aristocrat or a grande bourgeoise at the very least. He settled for the gendarmerie and for a woman who is attractive enough and who has a good bit of money since her father owns a large Mercedes distributorship in Lyon.”
“My dear, the things you can learn in so little time!”
“It’s my training as a journalist. And there’s a good deal more,” Alexandre said with studied modesty. “The good capitaine tried very hard to become introduced into the society of Saint-Nicolas when he arrived two years ago. But, naturally, the harder he tried, the more he was rejected. In the end he gave up and is just counting the days until his next posting, which will be in eight and a half months.”
“My heart bleeds,” Jacques said, pouring everyone more alcool de poire .
“The irony is that the village adores Madame Dallemagne, who bakes delicious pastry and is a paragon among mothers. She’s become a welcome addition to all the village teas and bridge afternoons.”
“That must drive her husband wild,” Capucine said.
“It does. And here’s the best part. It seems that the capitaine is particularly jealous of you, not only because of your social position in the village and—I blush to even mention it—your title, but also because of the brilliant success of your career in the Police Judiciaire. I hardly think he’s going to welcome you with open arms as a colleague when you
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