She, of course, knew the head archivist, who, unfortunately, had arrived at his position not thanks to talent and hard work, but via connections and politics. As she walked in, signed the guest registry, and continued down the hallway toward the archival rooms, she wondered how best to approach him. Tell him exactly what she was looking for? Tell him the bare minimum? She opened the door and a young woman—perhaps in her late twenties—looked up from the desk and smiled. Florence returned the smile, introduced herself, and asked for the head archivist. The woman shook her head. “He’s gone for two weeks,” she answered. “Vacation.” Florence pursed her lips, forgetting that many workers now chose to take vacation at any time instead of during the traditional mid-August break.
“I see,” Florence said.
“But I’d be happy to help you,” the young woman quickly added. “All I’ve done this week is catalog.”
“Have I seen you at the university, in the theology department?” Florence asked. In fact, she wasn’t sure, as these days all the students looked the same to her and she was rarely on campus, unless she had a meeting to attend.
“Perhaps,” the young woman answered, smiling. “I’m a graduate student. I’ve read some of your articles on Saint Augustine.”
“Well, well,” Florence said, flustered. “What is your name?”
“Elodie.”
“Then let’s get going, Elodie,” Florence said. “We need the archives for the parish of Puyloubier.”
“Easy.”
“From 1688 to 1760.”
Elodie’s face lit up. “I can get those.”
Florence smiled and said, “Excellent. My area of specialty is centuries earlier, as you know. Actually, the man I’m looking for, Count Hugues de Besse, was born in 1688, but let’s begin with, say, twenty years after that date, until his death in 1760. The church in Puyloubier is Saint-Pons.”
Elodie shook her head. “Not then. It was Sainte-Marie, which is still there, up behind the village. A few weeks ago I cataloged some old photographs of it. I’ll go and get the right books and then join you. We can work here. As you can see, it’s a quiet period of the year.”
“Perhaps because no one knows that the building’s air-conditioned,” Florence said, setting her purse and carryall on a large wooden table. She reached into the fishnet bag and took out a light-blue cotton sweater, its lapels bordered by yellow embroidered daisies—a gift from Marine. Before putting it on, Florence glanced at the label and winced. She had often passed the boutique—one that specialized in fine knitwear—and she dreaded to guess what the sweater had cost her daughter. Shaking her head, she blamed it on Antoine Verlaque and his extravagant tastes. Marine had been raised to shop at Monoprix, and during the sales.
Minutes later Elodie reappeared, carrying three large, dark-green ledgers. Florence noticed, as the young woman carefully set the books down, that she wore white gloves. Elodie reached into her pocket and gave a pair to Florence. “We’ll begin with these,” Elodie said. “The top ledger begins in 1710, when your count was twenty-two. Is that okay?”
“Perfect.”
Elodie sat down and opened the book. She looked at Professor Bonnet and softly asked, “Would you mind telling me a little bit about what we’re looking for?”
A door opened and closed down a hallway, and Florence moved her chair closer to Elodie’s. Whispering, she told the girl what she knew, and the gossip about the count that circulated, thanks to people like Philomène and Léopold. Elodie listened intently, trying not to grimace at certain parts of the story. “Before going downstairs to get these books, I looked up the name of the archbishop during this time,” Elodie said, after Florence had finished.
“Excellent,” Florence said. She looked at ledger’s first pages and the delicate cursive handwriting that filled its columns. “This is fascinating.”
“These are birth records from Sainte-Marie,” Elodie said.
“But of course the Bastide Blanche births we’re concerned with wouldn’t have been recorded.”
“What about a doctor’s record?”
“No,” Florence said, shaking her head. “They would have had a midwife.”
“Oh, of course,” Elodie said. “Or they might have even helped one another with the births.”
“The poor girls.”
“Court records?” Elodie asked. “If someone complained about the count? Surely someone did?”
“That would be my daughter’s area of expertise,” Florence said. “But I doubt any of the girls felt they could reveal what was going on in that house. So,” she said, carefully turning a page, “I’m not sure what we are looking for, nor do I think that these record books will reveal anything.”
“Letters? Diaries?”
Florence sat up straight and looked at Elodie. “Do you have such things?”
“Yes,” she answered, pulling her chair out from behind the table. “I wasn’t sure, at first, what you were looking for. The archbishop may have kept letters, and diaries, I can’t remember offhand. They’re downstairs. When I first started interning here, I was given the parishes of Sainte-Victoire to reorganize. That includes Puyloubier, of course. I’ll be right back.”
Elodie closed the library between noon and two o’clock, and they ate their lunch together, in a small kitchen downstairs. Mercifully, it, too, was air-conditioned. “We aren’t supposed to let patrons stay during the lunch hour,” Elodie said. “But I think given that you are a retired theology professor—”
“I don’t want to get you in trouble!” Florence protested. But at the same time, she didn’t want to have to eat outside in the heat.
“No, it will be fine. I’m usually the only person who uses this kitchen. Everyone seems to be away, or they eat in town at a restaurant.”
After finishing her tuna sandwich, Florence took off her sandals and had a nap on an old leather sofa pushed against one of the kitchen walls, while Elodie read a novel. Florence envied Elodie’s youth, especially the ability to be able to read all day. Her own mind wandered too much now.
Florence looked up at the clock. It was almost four. They hadn’t found any diaries kept by the archbishop, Jean-Baptiste de Brancas, but
