The Marseille Caper by Peter Mayle

the debt. But Leconte refused. It was a matter of honor, he said. Et voilà .”
    “Where is Leconte now?”
    “Oh, he said Marseille was becoming too provincial for him. He sold his business and moved to Morocco.”
    By now, they had left the autoroute linking Marseille and Arles and had turned south on one of the minor roads leading down to the coast. The landscape had changed; it was flat, vast, and empty. The sky, with no silhouettes of buildings, trees, or hills to interrupt it, seemed suddenly bigger. If the sun hadn’t been shining, Sam thought, it would all seem quite sinister.
    “Does Monsieur Reboul come here often?”
    “Once or twice in the spring. Sometimes at Christmas—and usually when one of the mares has little ones. He loves to see his horses when they’re babies.”
    The road was getting narrower, the surface cracked and crumbling. It seemed to be leading directly into the depths of the Camargue swamp when the car swung sharply to the right, past a wooden sign marked PRIVÉ , and down a graveled track. On they drove for perhaps half a mile before they came to a post-and-rail paddock with a range of stabling at one end. A dozen handsome horses, all of them white, gave the car a cursory glance and a flick of the tail as it passed. Another hundred yards and they had reached the ranch.
    It was an example of the haphazard school of architecture—a low, sprawling, L -shaped building made principally of wood, with windows of assorted sizes and a covered veranda running along the southern side. Three dogs interrupted their siestasto come over and sniff the car before returning to loll on the veranda. When Olivier turned off the engine, the silence was almost overwhelming. Sam got out and stretched as he looked around. He could imagine that nothing much had changed in the past hundred years. The only concession to the twenty-first century was the helicopter parked behind the house.
    “Monsieur Reboul must be here already,” said Olivier. “That’s what he calls his Camargue taxi.”
    They were halfway toward the massive front door when it opened and a small figure came out to greet them. He was dressed in black trousers, a black waistcoat, and a white shirt, with a face the color of old mahogany, and slightly bandy legs. Olivier introduced him as Luc.
    “He lives on the property as a guardian, and he’s a genius with horses.” Olivier turned to Luc and clapped him on the shoulder. “Les chevaux sont vos enfants, eh?”
    The little man nodded and smiled, adding yet more wrinkles to a face already pickled and rutted by the sun. He raised a hand to his ear, thumb and little finger extended. “Monsieur Francis parle sur son portable. Venez!” He led the way into the house and what was obviously the main room, dominated by an enormous fireplace. Lining the walls were paintings and black-and-white photographs of horses and flamingos, and overflowing bookshelves. The horns of a huge black bull’s head served as a hat rack. The furniture was wood and rough leather, primitive but comfortable.
    Reboul finished his call and beckoned Sam over. “My dear Sam, welcome to the Camargue. What can I offer you?Coffee? A beer? Something stronger to keep the mosquitoes away? Come and sit down.”
    The two men settled in front of a window overlooking the long, flat view. “Interesting place you’ve got here,” said Sam. “Do you have much land?”
    Reboul shook his head. “Not a lot—about a hundred acres. We grow a little rice, but the land is mainly for the horses, and it keeps Luc happy. You know, his father was one of the old-style gardians , and he taught Luc to ride when he was four. By the time he was ten, he was working.” Reboul took a look at his watch. “Now then. We’d better start.”
    Sam took a sheaf of papers from a folder and passed them over to Reboul. “There’s some helicopter reading for you. It’s the script. Perhaps you could take a look at it as soon as you can and see if there’s