Anne:
"This soup is fit for an emperor," old Bertrand said.
It was my herb soup he was speaking of, and that's a recipe of mine I know I can take pride in.
"Thank you, M'sieu Bertrand," I told him, "As we haven't an emperor right now, I'll just have to serve it up to us, which I'd rather do any day—No, Erik, don't go feeding Truffle under the table. You and she both knows better. Let her out into the yard, now, won't you?"
"Yes, Mam."
"That's a good lad." I said.
"I don't recall seeing that picture before. Is it new?" Bertrand pointed with his fork.
"The sunflowers? Yes. I got it Saturday." I answered.
"Sunflowers! That's what it's meant to be, then? Looks like it was painted by one of those impressionists. How did you come by it?" he asked.
"It's more how it came by me. On Saturday, like I said, there was a man down to the train station as fainted dead away, while he was waiting on the platform for his next train. Dr. Chilperic said as there wasn't nothing wrong with him but hunger, cause he was half-starved. So they brought him up here, to the kitchen house."
"He was a weedy young fellow," Sophie put in. "Weedy and seedy. He had this fiery shock of hair, and a beard to match. Looked like somebody took a good chunk off his ear with a knife at one time. He had daubs of paint all over him, too."
"That would be the artist, then." nodded Bertrand. "I see it's signed Vincent. Was that his first name, or his last?"
"His first name." I said. "He was a Dutchman. His last name was Van Gogh. At first he wouldn't touch a bite, cause he said he couldn't pay, but I pleaded with him till I wore him down. Then he said as he was on his way to see his brother. When he got there, his brother would give him money, and he'd come back and pay me. I told him there wasn't no need for that, but he swore he would, unless he died first. He told me as I should pick one of his paintings he had with him, as surety against his coming back."
"And that's it?"
"Yes. I was looking at them, and I thought: if he don't come back, I might have bought myself a painting for the price of a square meal, so's I'd better pick one as I can live with. I like yellow, and I like sunflowers, so that's the one I chose."
Bertrand squinted at it. "You don't think it looks a bit of a mess?"
"P'rhaps—but I like it."
"So do I," my Erik piped up, being a loyal little chap. "I liked M'sieu Van Gogh. He showed me his paint box and all his paints and his easel and drawings, and next time, he said as he'd look at mine. He said he wants to make a picture of Mam and me together. He said as we'd make an—int'resting subject."
"We'll see about that when he comes back." I had the sad feeling as M'sieu Van Gogh wasn't going to come back. He had the look of a man as is being eaten by fire from the inside out—and then there was the way he'd smiled as he'd said he would pay me back, unless he died first.
"You two is awful close-mouthed this evening." I addressed Amelié and Claude. "Is anything the matter?"
"No." "Nothing" they answered.
"Then you'll help me with the dishes and the main course, please? And Minna, can you get the clean plates?"
They stood, and Amelié started collecting the soup plates, while Claude came and helped me with the food.
"We was talking about what happened today while you was out." volunteered Ame.
"And what was that?"
"Well, after dinner," said Claude, "I'm going out to the cottage, to talk to M'sieu Makepeace."
"Why's that?" I asked him. "M'sieu Bertrand, will you have a piece of the salmon? I can't say as the chicken's any too good this evening. I did my best with it, but it was too fatty. So were those all I got this week."
"Oh, a bit of each, my girl. I smelled that chicken all the way up the hill." Bertrand answered, as Claude spoke up.
"M'sieu Hussenot said as that M'sieu Khan said his friend was feeling better—."
Sophie interrupted. "That's good," she said in her cracked voice. "It wouldn't do for him to be dying here, it would look bad. Let him go and do his dying at home."
"I'm glad he's better, too," I told Sophie. "Go on, Claude, do."
"M'sieu Khan said as his friend was better, but his sufferings was cruel, and he needed somewhat to take his mind off'n it, so M'sieu Khan wanted to know if there was anyone working here as could and would go sit and talk to him a space. It didn't have to be about nothing important, but M'sieu Makepeace liked to hear the stories folk could tell about their lives."
"The flavor's as good as ever," Bertrand put in. "But I do see what you meant about that chicken. This bird was cellar-raised, and kept penned up, too, if I'm any judge. Who's your poulterer? Garrulier, isn't it? I'd be glad to have a word with him for you."
"Look, Mam, I've made a country on my plate! These potatoes is the mountains, and that broccoli's the forest, and the gravy, that's a lake. The lake's brown cause it's been raining hard."
"And that's why the trees is so green, on account of all the rain." I said to my son, and to our friend, "M'sieu Bertrand, I'm obliged to you for the offer, but I'd like to try talking to him myself, first. If he still tries to pass second-rate birds off on me, I'll be more nor glad to call on your help, but as I've dealings with him every week, I've got to learn how to get round him."
"You call on me if ever you've the need," said old Bertrand, all stern-like. "Just remember that." He went back to his plate.
"I thank you, sir. Minna, could please you pass the potatoes? Thanks—What about M'sieu Makepeace, Claude?" I asked.
"M'sieu Hussenot went and talked to him this morning, to see as it would be all right, He spent the better part of two hours with him, and after that, he told M'sieu Khan he could ask anyone, so long as they didn't shirk their duties."
"I wish he'd come by to speak to me." I said. "I'd have liked to know what was going on."
"You wasn't here." Claude pointed out. "You and Erik was up in the woods."
"So we were. I suppose it's all right. It's a kindness to comfort a sick man, after all."
"I've already been to talk to him." added Amelié. "I went this afternoon, and I didn't go inside, cause I know better. I sat outside the window."
"Did you, now? What was that like?" and to Erik, I said, "I like your country, but you still got to eat the forest."
"Aww, Mam!"
"If you wants your dessert, you'll eat it."
"All right." He put a bite of broccoli in his mouth.
"He's right nice, I thought." Amelié furrowed her brow. "He listened as if I was all growed up, and didn't talk down to me nor tell me to cut my chattering."
"What did he want you to talk about?" Please, let him have been respectful of her. Amelié was starting to fill out, just like I was at her age, and I remember what men was saying to me back then.
"He started out asking where I was born, and what was my family like, and how I come to work here, and all. Oh, and when I said I was from Alençon, he said as he was from Normandy, too. He was born in Boscherville."
"Where did he say as he was born?" I had to ask.
"Boscherville." she answered.
I know full well other folk have been born in Boscherville, yet still I was spooked by the mention of that place. It's that I'm fearful of being found out. I don't know what I'd do if ever the other Erik Touchet found out about us…
"Oh, and he said something right nice about you, Aunt Anne," said Ame. "He must be well enough to get up and sit, because he must have seen you out the window. He said as you was 'the loveliest rose.'"
Even with all I've seen and done in my life, I heard that and blushed.
"Oho, he must be feeling better!" crowed Bertrand.
"Wonder what you and he'll talk about, when he gets around to talking with you?" cackled Sophie.
I stood up. "I don't know if I will go talk to him, but, if I do, I can tell you I won't be encouraging that kind of talk!"
"But you ought to talk to him!" pleaded Amelié. "You have so much more to tell, and such as'd be of interest, too."
"We'll see. Help me clear, and I'll get out the strawberries and crème Chantilly!"
Herb Soup
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 tablespoons fresh tarragon, chopped
2 tablespoons fresh rosemary, chopped
2 tablespoons fresh basil, chopped
2 tablespoons fresh thyme, chopped
2 teaspoons fresh mint, chopped.
(These are just guidelines; if you love dill or some other herb, or can't find a particular herb listed, by all means make substitutions)
6-8 scallions (green onions or spring onions), minced
2 tablespoons flour
8 cups of good quality chicken broth or stock
1 cup fresh or frozen, or canned sweet corn kernels. If canned, drain liquid before using or measuring.
3 egg yolks
1/3 cup sour cream
Salt and pepper
In a soup pot, melt the butter, add all the herbs and the scallions, and sauté over low heat for two minutes. Sprinkle with the flour, stirring constantly, for 2-3 minutes longer. Add the chicken broth. Bring to a boil; add the corn. Simmer for five minutes.
In a bowl, beat the egg yolks and sour cream together until smooth. Add two cups of the hot soup to the bowl and beat until smooth. This is important; if you just dump the raw, cold, egg-and sour cream mixture into the hot soup, it will curdle and become like egg drop soup, instead of the smooth, silky, even texture it should have.
Pour the egg, sour cream, and soup mixture into the soup pot. Taste to see if salt and pepper are needed. Simmer for 3-4 minutes, or until soup is slightly thickened.
Serve with your favorite bread, toasted.
A contradictory soup; delicate yet powerful.
Erik:
I was finishing my letter to Jules. I wrote:
'In addition to ascertaining the whereabouts of Dr. Etienne Bayre and Mademoiselle Marie Perrault, I would be very glad if you could find out where the Count and Countess de Chagny are now residing, and, if they have children, what their names are, and where and when they were born. To confirm that I expect the impossible of you, I would also like to know if, in the last four or five years, they have withdrawn or paid out any large and unexplained sums—monies not accounted for by any purchases or debts, even by gambling debts. The sum I am interested in would be—'
I paused. So much to purchase a rundown inn in the middle of nowhere, refurbish it, modernize it, plus more money paid directly to Madame Anne…
'One hundred thousand francs or more. It may have been broken into smaller payments that would collectively add up to that amount.
I will close by adding my sincere hope that you, your wife, and your children are all well. I would like to hear how all of you are; I have often thought of you and yours.
Sincerely, etc.'
I sealed the envelope, and put it aside for Darius to take to the inn's office in the morning. It might prove impractical to investigate the Chagny finances, but I wanted as much proof as possible. I checked the time, and realized my next visitor would be arriving soon.
In preparation for the arrival of Claude Norbert, I turned off most of the lights, got into bed and drew the curtains. I heard Darius admit him, and a moment later, announce him.
"Evening, M'sieu" His voice broke in the middle of that greeting, short as it was, and I winced. This interview would be tedious if I had to listen to his voice quavering the entire time.
"Good evening, young man." I replied. "Won't you sit down?" He did.
As with M'sieu Hussenot, I could catch a glimpse of Claude Norbert. I had been told he was thirteen. His was a fortunate thirteen, an angelic thirteen. He had dark gold hair that curled at the temples and nape of his neck, blue eyes, a fresh, clear, red-and-white complexion, and the features of a youth drawn by DaVinci. He also had those unfortunate Norbert teeth, and he wore a pair of glasses with thick lenses.
"I know as you like to hear all about folks' lives, but I don't know where to begin."
"You might begin by telling me—," and I paused. I wanted to be subtle. I could not say 'your sister and her son', so I recalled something the girl, Amelié, had touched on. "How the new lace-making techniques have affected your family. I understand the Norberts were notable lace makers, until machine made lace came along."
"All right—it used to be as all the Norberts made lace, by hand. It's damn slow going, doing it like that—begging your pardon, sir."
"For saying 'damn'? It's quite all right. I've been known to say it myself."
"Thank you, sir. Like I said, making lace by hand takes a long time, but it used to be as it paid, at the end. A family of toffs—."
"Toffs?" I interrupted.
"I mean, aristocrats, sir, or folk as is rich enough to afford lace. A family of toffs would have a daughter, see? And when she was born, they'd order lace made for her trousseau and her wedding dress. It'd take years to make it all, but then like as not she wouldn't marry till she's twenty, or so, and by then, the lace would be ready. And we'd get thousands of francs, all in one go. Only it was always a risk."
"Because the girl might die, or not marry, or the family might lose their fortune?" I asked.
"No, because, there's always folk with the money and a growed-up daughter, and then they're glad they can buy it without waiting twenty years. The risk was that the fashions might change, and whatever pattern of lace it was, it might have gone out of style, and then nobody'd want it. Not even when they was the ones who ordered it, twenty years gone by. Then we'd get no pay at all for twenty years of work."
"Did that happen often?"
"Once is often enough—but before that, there was the first Revolution. That was the start of all our troubles."
"Ah, yes. The aristocrats that were not guillotined fled the country, and never came back for their lace." I surmised.
"Right, and wearing lace was looked down on, for being too much like a toff, so nobody else wanted it."
"I imagine that your family must be going on some hard times, as a result."
"That's true, sir. The factories pay more often and pay regular, but not so much nor hand-made lace did. Getting all the money at once was good, too, cause then we could pay for big things all at once, instead of trying to save a few sous here and there. Mind you, making lace is hard on a body. You get round shoulders, near to being a hunch back, your eyes can go bad, and your hands cripple up in the end."
"That sounds terrible. Is that why you and your sister and cousins are here cooking instead of in Alençon, making lace?"
"Yes—at least, that's how it worked out."
"How it worked out? Is there a story behind it?" This, I knew, should lead the conversation in the direction I wanted it to go—to Anne, the phenomenally gifted cook (even if I didn't understand what all the fuss was about), Anne, on account of whom the inn had been purchased, as a setting for a culinary jewel. Anne—and the boy.
TBC…
A/N: Vincent Van Gogh, one of the most important figures in the history of art, lived from 1853-1890. He only began painting in 1880, and it was not until about 1886 that he began to use color in the style for which he is now known. He sold only one painting in his lifetime, but he is now world-renowned and his paintings sell for millions of dollars.
Deeply troubled by mental and physical illnesses, he was dependant on his brother Theo, an art dealer who believed in him and supported him. Vincent Van Gogh once cut off part of one of his own ears (or possibly had it cut off in a fight with fellow artist Paul Gauguin) and sent it to his ex-girlfriend. He committed suicide in 1890, succumbing at last to his depression and physical agony.
One of my favorite works by Van Gogh is his painting of the bust of a skeleton who is holding a cigarette between his teeth!
Hello everyone!
Ellen: As to Anne's treatment of people; she is aware of what she's doing, and it does bother her. She tries not to hurt people. She may have some growing and developing as a person to do yet. Besides, if she was perfect, she'd be a Mary-Sue! And studying for the AP and reading Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell are perfectly valid excuses, IMHO. That book takes forever!
Allegratree: Oh, good, I was aiming for that effect.
HDKingsbury: Ah, a new name! Glad to have another enthusiastic reader. I'm enjoying writing this one. I'm very fond of Anne and L'il Erik, and I think it shows.
An omnibus shout-out to: Lostschizophrenic, Emily, Sue Raven, Pickledishkiller, An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin, and at the very last moment (but never least) awoman!