The Matchmaker of Perigord: A Novel (P.S.)

325 Pages·2008·0.8 MB·English

by  Julia Stuart

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THE MATCHMAKER
OF PÉRIGORD
A Novel
Julia Stuart
To my mother, who read to me,
and my father, who inspired my love for France.
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Contents

1
GUILLAUME LADOUCETTE WIPED HIS DELICATE
FINGERS ON HIS trouser leg… 7
2
HAIRLESS CUSTOMERS WERE NOT A PROBLEM
GUILLAUME Ladoucette had foreseen… 13
3
A BREEZE SNIFFED ROUND THE ADJUSTABLE SIGN
AT THE ENTRANCE… 28
4
AS HE SAT WAITING IN HIS CAR, GUILLAUME
LADOUCETTE PULLED… 45
5
IT WAS MONSIEUR MOREAU WHO FIRST SPOTTED
THE STRANGER walking… 60
6
GUILLAUME LADOUCETTE LED HIS FIRST
CUSTOMER TO THE CHAIR with… 76
7
THE ONE PERSON IN AMOUR-SUR-BELLE WHO
WELCOMED THE FACT that… 92
8
THE INSTALLATION OF THE MUNICIPAL
SHOWER TURNED OUT TO BE… 107
9
WHEN LISETTE ROBERT ANSWERED HER DOOR
TO FIND GUILLAUME Ladoucette… 123
10
‘DID YOU OR DID YOU NOT SUGGEST GOING
HALVIES-HALVES?’ ASKED… 142
11
YVES LÉVÈQUE STOOD IN HIS GARDEN
CONTEMPLATING THE unspeakable state… 159
12
UNFORTUNATELY FOR LISETTE ROBERT IT
WAS MADAME Ladoucette who first… 176
13
MUCH TO HIS DISMAY, GUILLAUME LADOUCETTE
ARRIVED AT WORK early. 191
14
ÉMILIE FRAISSE WOKE UP IN HER FOUR-POSTER
RENAISSANCE BED feeling… 207
15
HEART’S DESIRE WAS CLOSED THE FOLLOWING
MORNING. Guillaume Ladoucette had… 223
16
WHEN GUILLAUME LADOUCETTE OPENED HIS
EYES THE FOLLOWING Sunday his… 238
17
UNFORTUNATELY FOR THE RESIDENTS OF
AMOUR-SUR-BELLE IT WAS Madame Ladoucette… 254
18
IT WAS WHEN GUILLAUME LADOUCETTE WALKED
SLOWLY downstairs in his… 269
19
PIERRE ROUZEAU LOCKED HIS FRONT DOOR
IN THE CERTITUDE THAT… 284
20
MADAME LADOUCETTE WAS THE FIRST TO
WAKE THE MORNING following… 301
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Credits
Cover
Copyright
About the Publisher
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1
GUILLAUME LADOUCETTE WIPED HIS DELICATE FINGERS ON HIS
trouser leg before squeezing them into the glass jar. As he
wiggled them around the cold, slippery fat he recognized
what he felt was an ankle and his tongue moistened. He
tugged it out and dropped the preserved duck leg into the
cassoulet made by his mother thirty-one years ago and which
had been on the go ever since. The ghostly white limb lay for
several seconds suspended on haricot bean and sausage
flotsam before disappearing from sight following a swift
prod with a wooden spoon.
Custodian of the cassoulet now that his mother had gone
cuckoo, the barber gave the dish a respectfully slow stir and
watched as a goose bone appeared through the oregano
and thyme vapours. The flesh had long since dropped off, his
mother having first added it to the pot nineteen years ago
in celebration of his opening a barber shop in the village.
Initially, Madame Ladoucette had strictly forbidden the
bone’s removal out of maternal pride. Years later, her mind
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warped by grief following the death of her husband, she con-
vinced herself that her son’s good fortune at starting his own
business – the only happy memory to surface during that
difficult time – was proof of the Almighty’s existence. It was
a conviction that led to her irritating habit of suddenly stand-
ing up at the table and dashing over to whichever
unsuspecting dinner guest had mistakenly been served the
grey bone. With a pincer-like motion, she would swiftly
remove it from their plate with the words ‘not so fast’, in the
fear that they would make off with what she had come to
consider a holy relic.
From amongst the beans emerged an onion dating from
March 1999, several carrots added only the previous week, a
new thumb of garlic which Guillaume Ladoucette failed to
recognize and a small green button still waiting to be
reclaimed by its owner. With the care of an archaeologist, he
drew the spoon around the bottom and sides of the iron pot
to loosen some of the blackened crust, which, along with an
original piece of now calcified Toulouse sausage, were, the
barber insisted, the secret of the dish’s unsurpassable taste.
There were those, however, who blamed the antique sausage
for turning the pharmacist Patrice Baudin, who had never
previously shown any sign of lunacy, into a vegetarian, a
scandal from which the village had never recovered.
Keeping the cassoulet going was more than just the duty of
an only son, but something upon which the family’s name
rested. For the cassoulet war had been long and ugly and
there was still no sign of a truce. All those fortunate enough
to have witnessed the historic spectacle agreed that the first
cannon was launched by Madame Ladoucette when she
spotted Madame Moreau buying some tomatoes in the place
du Marché and casually asked what she was making. When
the woman replied, Madame Ladoucette recoiled two paces
in horror, a move not appreciated by the stallholder on
whose foot she landed.
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