I was the first to raise my hand.
Chapter Twenty-six
Madame Bolze was not only willing to talk but was delighted at the prospect of visitors, and invited them to come on Tuesday at eleven o’clock. Blondine wasn’t about to miss a chance to see the inside of the Vieille Ruche, and she offered to drive so that André might have a day off.
“Works for me,” Emma said. “But be forewarned: I’m a backseat driver of the first order.”
“Backseat...?” Blondine asked.
“She means she’s going to tell you what to do every step of the way,” Rosalyn said.
“This is supposed to be news?” Blondine said. “We’ll leave at nine.”
“I’ll be ready,” said Rosalyn. “But why so early? Michel said it was only a twenty-minute drive.”
“We have stops to make. We will need a basket with fruit and pâté, and we must stop at theboulangerie. We cannot arrive empty-handed.”
?The next day Rosalyn helped Emma into the front passenger’s seat and climbed in the back with Emma’s crutches.
At the butcher a few towns over, Emma and Blondine argued over which basket to buy and which pâté was superior: thepâté de campagneor the truffled mousse. At the fruit stand, Emma and Blondine argued over whether to buy apples or pears, clementines or Valencia oranges, or dried fruits like plums, apricots, and dates.
And that was nothing compared to the long, drawn-out discussion at the counter of theboulangerie. Blondine insisted on bread that waspas trop cuit, not too cooked, which engendered yet another heated discussion with Emma, who was staunchly of the opinion that a well-browned baguette was best. Soon the baker emerged from the rear of the store to weigh in on the proper degree of doneness of a perfect baguette, and several other customers waiting their turn to order chimed in.
Rosalyn stayed out of it, relishing the opportunity to examine the baked goods on display.Theboulangeriewasn’t apâtisserie—a shop that specialized in pastries and desserts—but nonetheless sold delectable-lookingchoux, or cream puffs, as well as éclairs, madeleines, macarons, meringues, andtartes aux fruits, which were miniature open-faced fruit-and-custard tarts. How in the world did the French stay so skinny?
Theboulangeriesmelled like heaven, and Rosalyn hoped the scent would linger on her clothing the way the cigarette smoke had after the Ephipany party.
The disputants in the Great Baguette Debate at last called a truce—neither side had convinced the other, though all agreed the proprietor of theboulangeriehad the best bread in all of Champagne—and, to appease Emma, Blondine bought several baguettes in varying degrees of doneness, as well as an assortment of other breads to bring home with them.
Back in the car and once again en route to visit Madame Bolze, Blondine ripped off the heel of a baguette and handed it to Rosalyn.
“It’s calledle quignon, the bit you eat on the way home,” she explained.
“There’s a name for that?” asked Rosalyn, and took a bite of the delicious fresh baguette.
“You don’t even want to know how many words the French have to describe all types of bread, bread creation, and bread consumption,” said Emma, letting her head fall back on the headrest and breathing out a weary sigh. “I’m telling you, it’s a religion.”
The ice from the other night had long since melted, but a heavy mist hung over the fields of cereal grains, lucerne, and wheat. Old fences, tractors, and other farm equipment studded the landscape. Doors to caves were nestled at bottoms of hills, like Hobbit houses. Tucked into the valleys of gentle, rolling hills were little villages full of stone houses topped with red roofs.
Rosalyn gazed out at the passing countryside and felt... if not happy, then at least not terriblyunhappy.
The moment she became conscious of it, guilt washed over her. Thoughts of Dash flooded back: their honeymoon in Paris, walking hand in hand through the Napa vineyard, how proud he was of her painting, how much he loved her eyes. Most piercing was the memory of how she had run from his hospital room that last time.
She forced her mind away from that image, focusing instead on the old letters she had been reading, on the idea of these very same villages burned and bombed by the invading German armies. What would it have been like to see enemy soldiers marching through these cobblestone streets? She imagined the chalky blue and green shutters shut tight against aggressors, giving the houses the look of charming fortresses or sleeping hulks.
They passed a marker, this one a stone angel, no doubt standing over yet another list of war casualties. There was something calmingabout being in a place that had experienced so much suffering, yet refused to forget.
“Emma,” Rosalyn heard herself say, “you and Blondine mentioned that this area owes its success to the widows. Do you suppose it wasbecausethey were widows that they accomplished what they did? Or were they just extraordinary women regardless of their marital status?”
“Good question,” said Emma. “I read that Madame Pommery set up a retirement fund for her workers, and founded a mother’s fund. That was pretty forward-thinking of her, and I would assume it had to do with her own understanding of the precarious economic situation facing women and children at that time, especially when the husband died.”
“Madame Pommery founded an orphanage, as well,” Blondine said. “It wasn’t uncommon for wealthy widows. I agree with Emma. I think they understood the special challenges women and children faced. And back in the day,veuvewas a respected form of address—especially for women of means. Widows had much more freedom than women with living husbands.”
“Some champagne producers putveuvein front of their names, just for the status of it,” added Emma, “even if they didn’t have any widows in the family—or, at least, none who were involved in the business.”
“Scammers from the start, huh?” said Rosalyn.
Emma waved a hand in the air. “You have no idea. This place was chock-full of scammers—producers would find some ditch digger named Pérignon, and establish a new ‘house of Dom Pérignon.’ Champagne has tried to reinvent itself as a very classy area, but its history was a bit wild.”
