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Couchon, the large spotted pig that was the prize truffle hunter of Monsieur Blanchet, shot off like a bloodhound, with a squeal of such infinite excitement and interest it was almost indecent to witness. Jacques and Elodie laughed as they followed through the forest. It was barely dawn, and the only light that guided them came from the lingering moon.
Spring was on its way, but it was still cold, and billows of steam blew out of their mouths when they breathed.
Beneath the vast oaks, Elodie’s booted feet trod on thick rotting leaves, slick and wet, as the water and mud oozed beneath them.
Mirabeau, the smaller black pig, raced to join Couchon at the base of an enormous tree. The animals pressed their snouts into the leaves and shivered with glee. Monsieur Blanchet yelped, then shoved Couchon out of the way, scooping up a truffle the size of Elodie’s fist and placing it into the waiting basket.
There was a cheer from Jacques and Huginn, who made a shrill cawing sound above as he flew.
Monsieur Blanchet broke off a piece of sausage for the pig as a reward, then gave it a tantalising sniff of the truffle, and a lusty smack on its rear so that it tore off towards a new likely spot.
It was an honour to be here, Elodie knew. The truffle hunters were a closeted tribe, keeping their secret places full of the black gold to themselves. To be safe, Jacques had kept his hands over her eyes when they came to fetch her in their van. Only once they’d driven for several miles and had arrived in a dense forest did Monsieur Blanchet give his son the signal to release her to look.
She had no idea where they were, but it did still look like they were within the Luberon, an area that contained her village amongst others, as well as areas of natural beauty like forests and mountainous regions, though she couldn’t say for certain.
Soon she was helping Couchon and the others, pushing away the great pigs to get at the truffles which were placed into Monsieur Blanchet’s basket.
By the time the sun had risen, they all had smiles that stretched for miles. Jacques’ hands once more were covering her eyes on the return journey, and Elodie could smell the scent of the truffle on his fingers.
She shifted in her seat and Jacques momentarily removed his hands. ‘Ah-tut-tut, keep them on, I can’t have your Grand-mère out here stealing my truffles for her restaurant.’
Elodie grinned.
‘Aha! Because she would, wouldn’t she?’ said Monsieur Blanchet, seeing her grin from the rear-view mirror.
Elodie shrugged. It was likely. Grand-mère was very nice, but she was a bit of a bloodhound when it came to good produce.
In her pocket, for her trouble, Monsieur Blanchet had given her a small truffle the size of two buttons; it shocked her to discover that this could fetch well over ten francs. She had no intention, though, of selling it.
‘So what are you going to do with that truffle?’ asked Monsieur Blanchet when he at last said it was OK for Jacques to release his fingers as they were nearing Grand-mère’s house.
‘I am going to surprise Grand-mère with breakfast in bed. I’m going to make an omelette.’
He kissed his fingers to his lips. ‘Perfect,’ he said.
When they pulled up outside, Elodie saw that the front door was open, and she could see Grand-mère was already awake. She rushed up the drive, as Monsieur Blanchet and Jacques trundled away in their van with the prize pigs who had earned their breakfast.
Elodie waved, then raced inside, her smile wide, as she fetched the truffle from her pocket, speaking a mile a minute in French. ‘Grand-mère!’ she hollered. ‘Truffle hunting is the best. I promised on my life not to reveal Monsieur Blanchet’s secret locations so he could let me follow his prize pigs, Couchon and Mirabeau, around – oh, it was so wonderful. I have a truffle, my very own one, can you believe it? I thought I’d make us an omelette for breakfast, what do you think?’
‘I think not,’ exclaimed a shocked, masculine voice in heavily accented French.
Elodie blanched, turning around slowly. Just off the hall, in the living room to her right, stood a tall man with dark blond hair and very blue eyes. Next to him was an elegantly dressed woman in a beautiful yellow gown. Her hair was like something out of a magazine, coiled around her ear in perfect waves. She put a cautionary arm on his hand and said something to him in another language. He shook his head, and turned to glare at Marguerite.
‘Is this what she has been up to – screaming like a banshee in the house, chasing after some farmer’s pigs – and cooking like some, some common servant?’ His eyes were bulging out of his head.
‘Yes,’ said Grand-mère simply. ‘I make no apologies for our life here. This is how things are. You knew that when you met Brigitte.’
He looked utterly furious.
The other woman looked at Elodie. She didn’t smile; what she saw seemed to cause her pain. ‘Clairmont eyes,’ she whispered.
She had, however, said it in another language, so Elodie did not understand.
The man looked suddenly bashful as he glanced at the other woman, and he spoke to her again in another language. His tone was soothing, conciliatory, gone was the display of anger. The other woman did not look soothed. Far from it. Her face seemed like it had been cut from marble.
Elodie looked from her to the man and then to her grandmother. It was beginning to dawn on her who this was, and the realisation – far from bringing her excitement – was filling her with dread.
Marguerite stepped forward. ‘Elodie, this is your father,’ she said in French, confirming the worst.
