The Body in the Vestibule

Faith couldn't eat another thing, but the next course, 'Le delice de I'escorgot,' the snail's delight, was intriguing. She turned to Michel Ravier. 'Have you ever had this before?' She'd never seen it on any menu or in any of her cookbooks.

“Many times and so have you; however, only at functions like these do we find it done so well.”

It was salad—of course.

Meanwhile, the entire party prepared to take a walk. They piled into any car available, drove to a nearby lake, strolled around the circumference, and returned for cheese, more wine, more dancing, and eventually the pieces montees displayed in all their glory on a table outside the kitchen. These were mountains of tiny cream puffs, stuck together with caramelized sugar, graced on each summit with sugared almonds and a tiny bride and groom—vintage 1940, by the style of dress.

The evening was wonderful. Tom made a lovely sentimental toast to the newlyweds, and almost everyone and everything else in France. Faith danced with her husband, her son, the bride's mother, and finally shared a tango with the good inspector that left her more than a little breathless. She was going to miss that man.

At two o'clock in the morning, just before the onion soup was served to tide the guests over to breakfast, Faith turned to Tom and said, 'Let's go to bed.'

“Great idea, but I may be too tired.' He sighed.

The farewells took a long time and their cheeks were rosy from being kissed so heartily. They collected Ben from the pile of coats where he had been sleeping for some time under the watchful eyes of four very old ladies who had been supervising the dancing, tapping their toes in time to the beat of the music and their own conversation, which had continued without pause all evening.

To the Fairchilds' surprise, the car was not blocked in by others and they set out for the auberge a few miles away where they'd arranged to stay. It was a beautiful night, or rather, morning. The sky was clear and filled with stars.

“Happy, darling?' Faith asked her husband.

“Blissfully, now that you are back safe and sound. Don't do it again, Faith, okay?'

“You always say that.' She leaned her head on his shoulder.

He kissed the top of her soft, fragrant hair. 'And you never listen.”

Just before dawn, there is a moment of total silence the French call 'l'heure bleue'—the blue hour. It is not, strictly speaking, an hour, but a minute—a minute that seems to stretch far beyond sixty seconds.

It is the time when the night creatures have fallen asleep and those of the day are not yet awake.

If you are in the country away from the noise of a car or truck, you can feel the silence. It is palpable and, for the duration, even frightening. You stand in a large field and watch the sky begin to lighten, praying for the return of sound other than your own blood pounding in your ears. Praying for proof that the universe continues. You are tempted to call out—to no one.

Then the shrill peeps of the morning birds start and mount. They sound unnaturally loud. Only now—after the silence.

A rooster crows.

And far away from France, on this particular day, September sixteenth, a baby adds her first cries as l'heure bleue passes.