Paulik parked in front of the narrow village house he knew to be Gaston’s. Its freshly painted green front door was shaded by a magnificent wisteria that bloomed for a few weeks in early spring, and the clean white lace curtains hanging in the front windows signaled that there was a woman in the house. He knocked, using the brass knocker, and a moment later the door opened, revealing Gaston wearing a cook’s apron. “Ah, monsieur le Commissaire,” Gaston said, stepping aside. “Entrez.”
Paulik nodded and walked in, not at all surprised that Gaston knew his occupation. The news that Paulik was a police officer had probably been known throughout the village before he and Hélène had even signed the deed to their property. That, too, explained why the Pioger cousins had lain low and why Paulik had not known of their existence before Thomas told him about them.
“Something smells good,” Paulik said, making his way down the narrow hallway to the back of the house, where he imagined the kitchen was. Village houses like these normally had similar floor plans.
“Lapin,” Gaston replied, gesturing for Paulik to sit at the polished wooden table.
Paulik thought he might find Gaston’s wife in the spotless kitchen, but then remembered that Gaston was wearing the apron. “Are you cooking the rabbit with white wine?” Paulik asked.
“And olives. It was the way my dear Mathilde cooked it.”
“You’re a widower?”
Gaston nodded. “Mathilde died four years ago. But does that mean I should live in filth and not eat properly?”
“I should say not,” Paulik agreed.
“Not like old Marcel,” Gaston went on, walking toward an antique hutch. Paulik smiled; he loved the way some elderly people, like his parents, referred to others the same age as “old.” “He lives like a pig.”
“Is that your buddy down at the bar?”
Gaston nodded, opening the cupboard. “Un petit verre?”
“That would be nice, thank you,” Paulik replied. He looked around at the kitchen, every bit as clean and tidy as the front of the house had been, and he realized that Gaston frequented the Bar des Sports not because he was depressed, or an alcoholic, but for companionship.
With trembling but big hands, Gaston took out an unlabeled bottle and two small liquor glasses. He walked over to the table and set them down, winking. “A little elixir.”
“Perfect,” Paulik said, picking up the bottle and looking at the clear liquid. “You made it.”
“Of course,” Gaston replied. “Mathilde used to, but now that she’s—” He stopped himself and poured out the alcohol.
“What did you do before retirement?”
“I worked on the rails.”
“And how long have you been retired?” Paulik asked.
“Since 1979.”
Paulik coughed, surprised that the still virile man in front of him was much older than he thought. “Are you serious? I was in middle school then!”
“In those days, if you worked for the SNCF you retired at fifty-five. I’m now eighty-six.”
“Congratulations,” Paulik said, holding up the dainty crystal glass, toasting Gaston partly on his long retirement but also because the old man looked like he was in his early seventies. Paulik took a sip and then looked at Gaston. “This is delicious.” He took another and said, smelling the liquor, “I can’t place the flavor. There’s a bit of cinnamon in it . . .”
“Angélique,” Gaston replied.
“Ah,” Paulik said, setting the fragile glass down carefully. “My daughter loves that flower. She said to me the other day that all flowers should be white.”
“There’s lots of it around here, but Mathilde came from Haute-Provence, where there’s even more. She called this the monks’ liquor.”
“And you’re from Puyloubier?”
Gaston nodded. “Born in this house.”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about Puyloubier.”
“Ah, I thought so.”
Paulik went on, “Specifically regarding La Bastide Blanche.”
Gaston whistled. “When we were kids at the village school we used to sing a song about the bastide. Le fou qui va à la Bastide Blanche, va avoir une vie de turbulence!”
“Was the house already closed up back then?”
“Oh yes. Once, when I was about six or seven, I decided I’d go up there and see the place for myself,” Gaston said. “I got halfway up the lane to the bastide when my mother caught up with me. It was the only time she ever laid a hand on me.” He rubbed his behind for effect. “I can still feel it.”
“What exactly happened at the bastide?” Paulik asked.
Gaston grimaced and twisted the cork back into the bottle. “Not for me to say . . .”
Trying a different tack, Paulik said, “I could go and ask Marcel . . .”
“That old fart?” Gaston cried out, pulling the cork out of the bottle and refilling their glasses. “I’d trust him as much as the plague.”
Paulik smiled; it had been years since he heard that expression. He sipped his angelica liquor and waited. Gaston took a sip and began, “The bastide was built in 1660, by a nobleman by the name of de Besse. He died just a few years after it was completed, and it was passed on to his son, who raised his own family there, two sons and three daughters, I believe. His oldest son in turn inherited the estate in the early 1700s—Hugues de Besse. Le Monstre Hugues.”
“Ah bon?”
“You’ve no doubt heard all about the Marquis de Sade, and the goings-on in his château up in Lacoste?”
Paulik nodded. “I grew up on a farm in Ansouis.”
“That’s just down the road from Lacoste,” Gaston said.
