“But what did he do?” Marine whispered.
Florence looked around and waited until a young undergraduate who was walking by, his arms full of books, passed out of earshot. “Léopold told me the Count had a huge appetite . . .”
Marine rolled her eyes. “I assume you’re not saying he was a gourmet?”
Florence hissed. “Sexual appetite.”
“What does that have to do with ghosts?”
“The ghosts of murdered babies,” Florence whispered.
“Are you serious?”
Florence nodded. “Hugues de Besse fathered dozens of illegitimate children,” she replied. “The babies were killed and buried beneath the house. That’s the story, anyway.”
“Let me guess,” Marine said. “And the mothers were young, unmarried servants?”
“Exactly. The ghosts are the babies and their weeping mothers . . .”
Marine closed her eyes, trying to imagine the names and faces of those girls, if even for a moment. “It’s just a story,” she said. “Perhaps with bits of truth behind it.”
“Without proof, that’s all it is,” Florence said. “Let’s get to work.”
They worked silently for over an hour, both taking notes and marking pages with tiny colored Post-its, which Marine always carried in her purse. Florence saw the Post-its and beamed with pride. “Once an academic . . . ,” she said. She held out her hand and put it on top of Marine’s. “This is so much fun.”
Marine smiled and was about to reply when she saw that her mother already had her head buried in another book. Marine continued reading, pausing after a few minutes to read aloud, “‘Eighty percent of Aix’s population in the seventeenth century worked to support the remaining twenty percent of wealthy clergy, civil servants, and nobility.’”
“Yes, they would have been farmers, artisans, food sellers, servants,” Florence replied.
“Et les porteurs de chaise.”
“Ah, yes, the men who carried the sedan chairs. Many noble Aixois couldn’t afford a carriage and horses, but they could afford to pay two unlucky souls to carry them around the muddy streets.” Marine smiled and nodded. She knew what the porteurs did. Her mother was in professor mode. There was no chance for her to add to the conversation.
Marine read on, saying, “Listen to this, Maman. In the medieval neighborhood, some families lived with anywhere from eight to forty people under the same roof.”
Florence nodded. “The wages were so low that even if both parents worked they still couldn’t afford to feed their children. Especially if there were an emergency.”
“Like the plague,” Marine replied. “Or famine.”
“Or even another child,” Florence added. “So they relied on charity houses, in Aix’s case not run by religious institutions but privately funded.”
“Their way to salvation,” Marine said.
“Look,” Florence said, showing Marine a page from the green book she had found in the stacks. “The hospital called Saint-Eutrope was founded by a merchant, Michel Jualme, in 1600. Later, in 1629, a foundation was set up for repentant prostitutes, although the text proudly states that Aix had many fewer prostitutes than Marseille.” Marine sniggered and Florence continued, “And La Charité, a hospital for orphans, opened soon after.”
“Then these charities would have been in existence during Hugues de Besse’s time,” Marine said.
“But neither the babies nor their mothers were sent there,” Florence said. “The problems at the bastide were kept a secret.”
Marine said, “I just read that most of the children weren’t in fact orphans but enfants trouvés—abandoned by their families because there were already too many children and not enough money to feed them. What a terrible choice to have to make.”
Florence put her pen down and stretched, something Marine had seen her do hundreds of times. “Why don’t you come for dinner tonight?” Florence asked.
Marine wasn’t sure whether the invitation extended to Antoine, who at any rate had just sent her a text saying that he would be home late. “I’d love to,” she answered.
“Of course Antoine can come . . . ,” Florence quickly added but without much enthusiasm.
“He’s working late,” Marine said.
“So it will just be the three of us. Your father can cook, and I’ll tan both your hides at Scrabble.”
Chapter Nineteen
New York City,
September 22, 2010
What was so odd about Sandrine’s appearance that night?” Justin asked.
Valère waved a hand in the air. “In a bit.”
“Okay. I can wait. So, what were Agathe and Alphonse doing hanging out at Le Hibou? Alphonse sounds like such a jerk! What in the world were they meeting about? There must be an explanation.”
Valère leaned back, enjoying the young editor’s enthusiasm and the fact that he had believed every word so far. If anything, Valère congratulated himself, he was a master storyteller.
Valère continued, “You can imagine my shock at being told that Agathe and Alphonse had little tête-à-têtes at Le Hibou. And why was I being so cranky with Judge Verlaque?”
Justin grinned.
“Yes, I saw the face you were making when I told you the story. Well, Justin, that’s how I used to behave when I was famous. I know I’m still famous, but I’m talking about back in the day—in the eighties and nineties—when I’d hang out with rock stars and actors. It still sneaks up on me sometimes, that horrible behavior, mostly when I’m overstressed or overtired. I have no idea what Antoine Verlaque thought; I’m sure my shitty behavior affected our newly forming friendship, and for that I was sorry. But at the moment all I could think of was Agathe and Alphonse Pelloquin.”
“But that Verlaque guy was trying to pin you into a corner,” Justin said, pouring some wine into Valère’s glass. “What did you say?”
I told the judge that I had no idea why Agathe would meet with Alphonse; they had nothing in common. Absolutely nothing. Agathe was an artist, and Alphonse was a shark. That’s one of the reasons why I chose him as my publisher, early on in my career. To be honest, I really didn’t care about literary integrity. I just wanted to sell books.
I asked the judge, “Why are you worried who Agathe drank
