Erik:
(Monsieur Hussenot, the innkeeper, is reminiscing about the first time he met Anne.)
His voice grew serious. "She came up from the railway station in a hired wagon, with her things—she'd brought a lot of kitchen equipment along, and one of her sisters was with her—not Amelié, her niece who's here now, another girl—and the baby. The baby was in a basket, with a thick veil drawn over it, but not just to keep off the dust and the flies…She came in, and introduced herself and her sister, and gave me the letters from the law office.
"I took her up into what's our private sitting room. She drew off her hat, and her gloves—it was late summer, so she was just wearing little gloves, of net lace— and set them down. She put the baby's basket on the table by the window.
"My wife offered them a cool tisane (A/N: a tisane is French for an herbal tea), but Madame Touchet said, 'There's something I have to show you first. This has to be done straight off, no two ways around it. My baby—my son Erik. He's sleeping in his basket here. I'm going to uncover him, and it's going to be a shock to you. Don't go screaming and waking him, now.' Our two granddaughters were right there. She folded back the veil….Have you seen Erik Touchet as yet, M'sieu?" His voice was gentle, almost tender.
"Yes. From the window." My voice sounded strange in my ears…
"Then you know," he said, simply. "It was a shock…I thought, 'The poor girl's mad, her child's been dead for days, and no one's done a thing for her.' But then he breathed in, sighed, and stuck his thumb in his mouth, just like any baby.
"'Cover him up—hide him again.' cried my wife.
"My granddaughters had gone white. Eugenié had stuffed her handkerchief in her mouth, and was biting it so she wouldn't scream, and Virginié had both hands pressed over her mouth, and turned away.
"'No', says Madame Touchet. 'This is my place of work and my home now, and it's going to be his home, and people are going to have to get used to him, and he to them. If you don't like it, I'm sorry, and you can write to the law office and complain. You didn't hire me, and you can't fire me. But I'm not hard to get along with, as you'll find. . I'll have that tisane now, and thank you.' She sat down next to the basket, and put her hand in on the baby's head and stroked it, very gently and lovingly.
"My wife brought it, and served her and her sister, Martine was her name. Martine Norbert. Martine didn't seem any happier about the child than we were, and it seemed as if it was going to be more like a wake than a welcome, with that baby Death there in his basket. But Madame Anne smiled, and thanked my wife, and asked, had the workmen been doing a good job smartening up the place, doing repairs and re-plastering? And so we managed.
"After she'd drunk the tisane, we showed them around. The kitchen wasn't attached to the main house, back then, but in a separate building, so the food smells don't get into everything. Now there's a hallway that links the two, so the drafts won't chill the food on the way to the table, but then it was a small house all on its own—it has a basement, there's two stories and an attic. She went in, and looked about—the workmen had been given orders to finish the kitchen first, and they'd put in the electric, the running water that wasn't there before, the gas cook-stove and ovens, and even a water-heater."
"Whoever it is that owns the inn seems to have spared no expense in modernizing it." I commented. "Electricity—running water— the kitchen has a gas stove, and there are water closets."
"Yes—and they didn't stop where the guests do, as some folk would have. The staff's quarters—our quarters— are as modern as any of the rest. Madame Touchet seemed to have expected it, for she looked about and nodded, and said 'It'll do, I'm right pleased by all of it.' Then we were occupied with showing the carter's boys where to bring her things from the wagon.
"The baby woke up, with all the noise that we were making, crashing and banging of pots and pans, crates and barrels—and he started to cry. He sounded more like a bird than a baby.
His mother went to him and picked him up, and talked to him. Not in baby talk—but more as if he were a much older child. 'See, Erik? It's just as I told you. We're home now.' She took him to the window, and pointed out. 'That's where I'll have the kitchen garden, and it'll be a fine one. There'll be fruit trees over there, towards the fields. You and I'll go searching for wild mushrooms in the woods, there, that's inn property, too. We'll have a good life here, till your father comes home to us, and after that, like as not, he'll stay here with us, too. We'll be very happy here.' She kissed his head.
"She saw us looking at her, then, and snapped, 'Just so you know, he's named for his father, and he looks like his father. As to why I would marry a man who looked like this, that's my business, and none of yours. I did, and that's all I'll say about it.' Everyone had stopped, and was staring at her.
"She looked about, and smiled at the carter's oldest son, and said, 'I don't know as what you're stopping for. I haven't tipped you yet.' That got them all moving again. She took the baby upstairs, then, and spent a while up there, in the rooms where they've been living ever since. Some of the things were their clothes, so we had to go up and down. She sat in a chair by the one window, rocking him.
"My wife did say, later, that it nearly turned her stomach when Madame Touchet undid her bodice to nurse that baby. She didn't know how any woman could bear to have that suckling on her. I didn't see anything—she put a shawl over herself and the baby." He sounded a little sad about that.
"She did nurse him, then." commented Nadir, with a hint of satisfaction.
It just proved she had a baby, not that she had that baby, I thought, and stored that argument away for future reference.
"That girl was divinely equipped for that maternal task." Monsieur Hussenot had a hint of ribald awe in his voice. "I don't know how she was built before she became a mother, but they didn't shrink afterward…
"Anyway, the first meal she made for us was chicken and dumplings, and from the first bite, I knew why she'd been hired. Those dumplings were as light as feathers and soft as velvet, with just this hint of thyme to them…but if you stay here long enough, you'll find out for yourself. We all settled into routines around the inn, but about three months later, there was trouble. I hope I'm not boring you with this, M'sieu?"
"No, not at all." I demurred. "Monsieur Hussenot, you are a natural raconteur. I could listen to you all day." …which is exactly what might happen. I thought, but in all truth, I was enslaved to his story. I did not want him to stop. I wanted to know it all.
"That's very gracious of you. My wife wouldn't agree with you! Three months later, the baby started getting out of his cradle! They all do that eventually, of course, but little Erik was only six months old—and looked it! In terms of size, I mean… And he was talking! Just simple words, then—Mam! and Milk! and Love!…"
Can I admit that brought tears forth to sting my eyes? It did.
"He was crawling about when he should barely have been able to lift his head, always wanting to follow his mother around, and getting underfoot. That was the cause of the trouble…Now, I think the situation as it stood between the sisters was just made to cause bad blood. Martine was older than Madame Touchet, two years older, and not only was Martine not married, she had her job only because of her sister, and had to take Madame Anne's orders. Martine wasn't the cook her sister is, she wasn't the worker her sister is—and she couldn't stand the baby!
"There were two cradles, one for the room upstairs, and one for the kitchen, so's she wouldn't have to be carrying it up and down all the time, and while he could get out of the kitchen cradle, he couldn't get out of the upstairs one—not yet, anyway. Her sister Martine thought she should leave him in the bedroom cradle, but Madame Touchet wouldn't hear of it. When her sister asked Martine to sit by the cradle and talk to him, and rock him, so he'd stay put and let her work, even though it would mean Martine would get off any other work, (which would have suited her just fine, we all thought,) she wouldn't. Martine threw a hysterical fit, instead!
"Oh, it was terrible, M'sieu! The awful things Martine was shouting, such language that she used—and all in that Alençon accent of theirs! The baby screaming! There was eggs broken, dishes too, and clouds of flour in the air. Such a mess! We had to go in there and rescue Madame Touchet…she was huddled down over the baby, on the floor. That was the only time I've ever seen her beat down by anything.
"'Right, then.' she said to Martine, once my wife had thrown water on the sister. 'Just you go up and pack your things. There's a train this evening as'll get you back home to Alençon. I'll give you your back wages. I'll pay for the train ticket, and give you five francs besides. I didn't ask that much of you, but I told you when it started as I wasn't asking you on holiday. I said I'd give you a hand up, but you'd have to get your feet under you and stand. You didn't, and after this…Just get you home, and tell Mam and Da about how you burned your bridges here.'
"Martine spat at her—and I mean she let go with a gob! Hit her sister right on the cheek!—and said back, 'I don't see you going home to show them their grandchild. Happen I'll have something to tell about that! Who'd you marry then, as got that brat on you? The devil?'"
That was a question I wanted to ask Madame Touchet myself.
"I'd have thought she would have slapped Martine across the face for that." pondered Monsieur Hussenot. "But no, she didn't. She wiped that gob of phlegm off with the edge of her apron, and said, 'Reckon as remembering what you just said will comfort you of nights, when you can't roll over in bed for sisters on either side of you? Or when they're all borrowing your new clothes and using up your bottles of scent? Good bye, Martine. I wish you well.'
"With that, Madame Anne counted out a handful of francs, and held them out. When Martine wouldn't take them, Madame Touchet turned her hand over, and let them fall to the floor. I think that might have been a worse insult than the slap, from the look on Martine's face…
Then she took the baby up, gave him a cuddle, and went out for a walk with him. She didn't come back until after her sister was gone. Once Madame Touchet left the kitchen, Martine was down on her knees, scooping up those francs fast enough!
"What did you do?" I asked.
"What could we do? We went up and saw to it Martine packed, and only took what was hers."
"Why would you do that?"
"Why? You see, M'sieu—it was clear, from before she got there, that Madame Touchet was the reason behind the inn—that the owner, who ever he is, had bought it with the plan to install her there as cook. Her cooking is what draws the customers. We could never get another cook as good as she is on the wages that she makes—but she has more money to draw on than what the inn pays her—at least, more than what I give her every week as wages. I wouldn't be surprised if that law office in Lyons, where I send the accounts and the profits, doesn't turn around and put a tidy sum into a bank account for her."
"Why is that?" I inquired.
"Because she had money enough to buy what the English call a dog-cart, a little country carriage with room for a passenger, the driver, plus space enough for a large dog to ride behind, and a pretty mare to pull it. Once her sister had gone, Madame Anne came back, asked that it be brought round, and asked my wife if she would drive her over to see Father Anselm. She couldn't drive it herself, as she had to hold Erik, and wouldn't ask anyone else to do that or to watch him while she was gone. Of course Madame Hussenot agreed, and off they went.
"It wasn't a surprise that she should want spiritual comfort after such a heart-wrenching scene, but that wasn't why she went there. She went to ask if Father Anselm knew of an older woman who needed a home desperately enough that she would be willing to look after Erik—not all by herself, but in Madame Touchet's kitchen, like she had wanted her sister to. Madame Anne said she would treat that woman just like an aunt or grandmother.
"Old Sophie came back with them that night, and she's been there ever since. Sophie can't manage stairs any more, so they turned a small pantry into a bedroom for her, on the ground floor."
"And the proposal worked for them both?" I wanted to keep the story flowing.
"For all three of them. Madame Touchet is no dummy, don't let that face or that accent fool you—or those melons on her chest, either! She let Sophie know that she'd treat her as Sophie treated Erik. These days, Erik goes to Sophie as if she was his favorite grandmother, and Sophie goes to Mass in a fine wool gown, with fur-lined gloves in the winter, and silk flowers on her hat in the summer."
"What happened to Martine?" I was curious because it seemed to me that Martine could be a good source of information, even if she did not know it herself.
"She got on the train to Alençon. We haven't seen her since, and the only time Madame Anne has mentioned her since, was after she came back from their mother's funeral, a year and a half ago. She said Martine was well, living with one of their other married sisters and looking after that sister's children."
That wouldn't prove useful in tracking her down.
Monsieur Hussenot continued, "When she came back after the funeral, she had her youngest brother Claude, the baby of the family—I understand Madame Touchet has ten sisters and six brothers,."
Seventeen children! That put my former assistant Jules and his wife Annette to shame. Anne's parents must have been at it like rabbits—.
"And her niece Amelié, daughter of the oldest brother, with her. They've worked out much better."
"How—how have people taken to the boy, around here? Are you and your family still as shocked?" Perhaps I was going a bit too far; perhaps I should have stopped…
"Well—his face did take some getting used to, there's no denying it, but we've gotten used to it. He's a good boy, when all's told—he minds his mother most of the time, he's very quick and bright, and pleasant in his ways. It's a real treat to hear him sing. He doesn't go off the inn property without his mother, but she takes him into town with her to shop and visit around, and to Mass on Sundays. The people around here know the score—they know which side of their bread is buttered! If Madame Touchet left, so would the tourists and the visitors—and their francs.
"Mind you, things do happen now and then—A few weeks ago, in the dry-goods store, a man grabbed little Erik, I don't know why,—I wasn't there, I only heard about it from Eugenié, who was—and the boy screamed. Madame Touchet turned around, and let that man have it. Right in the face! Dislocated his jaw, or near enough!"
"Was there trouble over that? Was she arrested?" I asked.
"Her? No, I doubt there's a gendarme in France who would arrest a weeping mother, especially a pretty young one, for protecting her child… They used to get a Peeping Tom now and then—whether it was to look at the child, or to look at her, I won't speculate, but not since they got the dog a couple of years ago."
"A dog?" I hadn't seen or heard one close by.
"Yes, a Bas Rouge bitch they call Truffle. Are you familiar with Bas Rouges? They also call them Beaucerons. Old Jacques Boulanger, great uncle of the Boulanger who used to own the inn, he breeds them. He still lives up in the woods, here.
"They're big, and they have a mean look. They make good trackers, good hunters, good herders, and good guard dogs. They can be damn vicious! That one that Madame Touchet has would do anything to protect her or the boy. Die—or kill. Right now, the dog is back up in the woods, getting bred. There'll be Bas Rouge puppies in a while, around here. They'll be going up to reclaim her, soon."
That was valuable information. If I went for a walk at night, I would know to be on the lookout for her. Dogs are such thoroughly good creatures; it's only men who make them bad through clumsy treatment and ill usage…I remembered my Sasha. It was good that the boy had a dog—and perhaps he would get to keep one of the litter.
Darius coughed politely. "Excuse me, sirs, but one of the Mademoiselles Hussenot has come to say that her grandfather is needed."
"Ah, well. I've filled the gentleman's ears enough for one morning. I hope I've diverted you a little, at least. You listen like a Christian, sir, and for my part, I've enjoyed it." He heaved himself out of the chair, and extended a hand through the curtain.
After a startled moment, I took it. He wasn't acting as though he could see me—see the mask, that is. I shook it. "Thank you, Monsieur. You have indeed eased my hours. I hope you may have a chance to come again—tomorrow, perhaps, or the next day?"
"Have to see how busy we are, M'sieu!" he said, jovially. "Good day to you both…"
Monsieur Hussenot went out, his dignified tread dying away as he left the cottage.
Chicken Soup with Feather-Light, Velvety Dumplings
Soup:
3-4 quarts good quality chicken broth or stock
2 cups chopped cooked chicken
3 carrots, chopped
3 stalks celery with leaves, chopped
1 large onion, chopped
½ cup fresh parsley, chopped
2 teaspoons salt
½ teaspoon pepper
Dumplings:
2 cups sifted all-purpose flour
3 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
2 eggs
½ cup part-skim ricotta cheese
¼ cup lowfat milk
1 tablespoon fresh thyme, finely chopped
1 tablespoon fresh parsley, finely chopped
In a very large pot, combine the broth, chicken, carrots, celery, onion, and parsley. Bring to a boil over medium heat, then reduce to a simmer. Salt and pepper to taste. Remember that it is always possible to add more seasonings, but impossible to take them back out.
To make the dumplings, sift the dry ingredients into a small bowl. (The salt, flour and baking soda are dry—the herbs are not.) In another small bowl, beat the eggs with the ricotta and milk until well mixed. Stir in the herbs. Add to the flour mixture. Mix until just combined. Use a tablespoon to form the dough into lumps. Drop into the boiling soup. Cook 15 minutes. Serves 8-10. Best fresh; not bad on reheat.
If you have ever had bad, heavy, tasteless dumplings (sadly, most dumplings are like that) these will be utterly unbelievable. If you have never eaten dumplings, these will set an impossibly high standard. Are you willing to risk that?
A/N: In a large family of that era, siblings of the same sex often had to share a bedroom and a bed. There was nothing sexual or wrong about it. Martine and Anne both knew what sharing a bed with several sisters/cousins/nieces was like.
Hello, Sat-Isis. You have me blushing… I would be honored if there was a Gevaisa Cook-book—good luck explaining it, though! I virtual hug u.
Thornwitch, you are so right. There are a lot of Norberts out there. Martine is one of the less pleasant ones. It'll get interesting.
Mia26: There are some oblique clues in this chapter. If you try the scones, or any of the recipes, let me know…That goes for everybody!
Thanks, Stine. OCs and OWs are a tough sell. I'm glad I'm getting her (Anne) right. And Erik is challenging.
Hey, Lexi: Booyah? Love the word. Deliberately writing bad English…ohh, wouldn't my old teachers have a fit… I hope Anne still comes across as intelligent. Luv u.
Sue Raven: Yes! Yes! I got somebody hooked! Okay, I'll calm down now…
Euchrid Eucrow: Good eye! Like Water for Chocolate was one of my inspirations.. Others are: the movie Chocolat, with Johnny Depp, the works of Terry (Discworld) Pratchett, the movie Tampopo, a Japanese film all about the human relationship with food and the quest for the perfect bowl of noodle soup, the novel Madensky Square by Eva Ibbotson, and the works of P.G. Wodehouse.