They continued up the narrow lane until they arrived at the address. It was a little early, but as Paul knocked on the door he smelled fresh bread baking. At least someone was awake in the house.
“I just realized how hungry I am,” Paul said. “Haven’t eaten a thing in twelve hours.”
The door opened and a white-haired woman of perhaps ninety stood there. She was smartly dressed, with a shawl around her shoulders. She pursed her lips, studying the two Americans.
“Bonjour,” she said. “Puis-je vous aider?”
Gamay replied, “Bonjour, êtes-vous Madame Duchene?”
“Oui,” she said. “Pourquoi?”
Gamay had rehearsed a speech in French regarding Admiral Villeneuve’s letters. She gave it slowly.
Madame Duchene cocked her head to the side, listening. “Your French is quite good,” she said in English, “for an American. You are Americans, aren’t you?”
“We are,” Gamay said, well aware that American travelers in Europe often had a bad reputation.
Instead of sending them away, Madame Duchene smiled and waved them in. “Come, come,” she said. “I was about to make some crepes.”
Gamay glanced at Paul, who was smiling broadly. “I swear, you were born under a lucky star.”
The aroma in Madame Duchene’s kitchen was heavenly. In addition to the bread that she’d already baked, the smell of fresh apricots, blueberries and vanilla danced about the room.
“Please, sit down,” Madame Duchene said. “I don
’t get many visitors, so this is a pleasure.”
They sat at a small table in the kitchen as the older woman went back to the counter. She began cracking eggs, pouring flour and whipping up the batter from scratch. She spoke as she worked, looking back at Paul and Gamay occasionally.
“My first husband was American,” she said. “A soldier. I was fifteen when I met him. He came with the Army to toss out the Germans . . . Blueberries?”
“Madame Duchene,” Gamay interrupted. “I know it may seem strange, but we’re in a great hurry—”
“Blueberries sound wonderful,” Paul said, interrupting.
The look came his way once more. Twice as stern this time. Paul seemed unaffected. “No need to be hasty,” he whispered as Madame Duchene went back to work. “We have to eat at some point. And somewhere. Might as well be here.”
Gamay rolled her eyes.
“Blueberries are good for you,” Madame Duchene added without turning around. “They’ll help you live a long life.”
“Not if your wife kills you first,” Gamay muttered under her breath.
Paul grinned at the joke. “Tell me more about your husband,” he asked of their host.
“Oh, he was tall and handsome. Like you,” she said, turning around and looking at Paul. “Had a voice like Gary Cooper. Not quite as deep as yours, though.”
Gamay sighed. If another woman was going to flirt with her husband, she figured a ninety-year-old French lady who made crepes was about as safe as it got. Beyond that, Gamay herself was famished. And assuming Paul could be charming enough, they might get Camila Duchene’s story more easily and completely if they did it his way.
After breakfast, the story came out. “My grandfather had the letters,” Madame Duchene said. “He never really spoke of them . . . Something to do with the shame of having someone stabbed to death in your ancestral home . . . And Villeneuve was not famous in a way that anyone wanted to remember him.”
“But you tried to sell them, didn’t you?” Gamay asked.
“Years ago. Financial troubles. We were losing everything. After my husband died, things fell apart. There was a craze for historical things back then. Anything and everything from Napoleon’s era. If you had a butter knife he once used, you could get ten thousand francs for it.”
“And that reminded you of the letters?” Paul guessed.
“Oui,” she said. “I thought if they could be sold at an auction, we could be saved. But it wasn’t to be. We were accused of being forgers and frauds and no one gave us the benefit of the doubt.”