“Bonjour,”he said.
“Bonjour.”She looked down.
“Avez-vous perdu quelque chose par terre?”
No, she hadn’t lost anything on the floor. Except perhaps her dignity.“Oui. Non. Peut-être.”
He laughed. Yeah. Go ahead. Laugh.“Et que faites-vous chez Monsieur Dubois?”
What was she doing in Monsieur Dubois’ house? What should she say? And wait—this guy spoke English. She was not going to play this game.
“I bought it,” she said.
He was shocked.“Vous avez fait quoi?!”
“I bought Monsieur Dubois’ house on the one-euro program.”
Nowhewas in shock.
“À bientôt!”she said, heading downstairs for another piece of baguette.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Marlow arrived at themairiejust as Rémy did. Guillaume was nowhere in sight. Oh well, she thought. Here we go.
“Bonjour, Madame, comment allez-vous?”said Marlow, diving in.
“Très bien, merci, et vous?”said Rémy, letting them into themairie, opening the office and stepping behind the counter.
Marlow passed over the appeal, smiling her best fake smile. “If there were any way to push through the appeal now, rather than September—” she started in.
“There is not,” said Rémy. “Will the house be empty until then? Because if the house is uninhabited for over seven weeks, the penalty is activated.”
“You mean the security deposit?”
“No, the uninhabited house penalty.”
“The what?! You never mentioned an uninhabited—”
“Did I not pass you the conditions of sale? Ah.Désolée.My mistake.” Rémy rummaged through an in-tray, found the paper she needed, slid it across the counter, and then pointed out rules with her manicured finger, translating as she went. “Homeimprovements over five years. No vacancy for over seven weeks at a time. Participation in local matters. All accounts settled. A ten thousand-euro penalty should one fall delinquent.”
“Ten thousand—oh my G—what kind of local matters?”
“Perhaps there might be a vote. Or … a municipal meeting. A census …”
You couldn’t force people to vote or attend a meeting or fill out a census! OK, you could make someone answer a census. But the rest was some Orwellian Big Brother bullshit.
“I have a life in Toronto,” said Marlow. “I have an apartment and bills to pay and plants to water. I’m not getting squeezed into some impossible situation that’s, you know, impossible!”
Marlow felt faint—maybe the last vestiges of jet lag, but more likely a reaction to being shafted. She gripped the counter. “Can I at least have my security deposit back?”
“No,” said Rémy, examining her perfect nail polish job, “I think perhaps I will hold onto it a little while longer, until this matter resolves itself.”
Marlow glared at Rémy, grabbed the paper, and walked out the door.
Guillaume had just parked in the Nenier parking lot when Marlow came down the Mirabelle stairs.
“Ah non, am I late?” he asked.
