Talk of the Town, Chapter One

This is the beginning of the fifth book in my Small Town series. It's set in France, a decision I'm debating. I like that it's set in France, because book six will take place in Egypt. I've been to both places but only as a tourist for a few weeks at a time. I can't claim to know either country super well. There's so much I don't know, I wonder if the story, and the series, would be better served they take place in my fictional town in the Pacific Northwest. Do you love stories set in small towns? Do you think a series set in a small town should have books veer to France and Egypt? The first four books are firmly rooted in my fictional town, Cascadia, Washington. As a reader, would a detour to France and Egypt for books five and six be too jarring? Books seven and possibly eight will both be set in Cascadia. I'm about fifty pages into the story and I don't want to write any further if I'm going to make a change. I welcome all feedback!

TALK OF THE TOWN

CHAPTER ONE

Blanchet peered over the edge of the sheet, his eyebrows looking like bristly caterpillars resting on his wrinkled brow. His cheeks sunken, gray, and his lips blue. “Luc is most undoubtedly and indisputably a beauf—a ridiculous beauf.” His black eyes skated away from mine. “His mother’s fault,” Blanchet went on, “it’s not so bad in a woman, and she was pretty, which Luc isn’t. Pretty and a prig, my sister Sarah——”

There was a faint emphasis on the word sister, and I remembered having heard my mother say that both Julien and William Blanchet had been in love with the girl whom William married. “And a plain beauf my nephew Luc,” continued the old gentleman. “Curse it all, I, why can’t I leave my money to you instead?”

“Because I wouldn’t take it.” I sat, unprofessionally, on the edge of my patient’s large four-post bed. If Blanchet hadn’t been so frail, I would worry about him kicking me off, but in his weakened condition, I was safe.

Blanchet scowled at me. “You’re a fool. How much would you take—eh, Gabe? Come now—say—how much?”

I laughed. “Not a euro.” I swung my arm over the great carved post beside me. There were cherubs’ heads upon it, a fact that I found amusing.

“Nonsense,” said Blanchet, and for the first time his thin voice was tinged with earnestness. “Nonsense,” he repeated, “you’ll see. I’ll have my way.”

I started at his earnestness, wondering what he could possibly have in mind.

Blanchet’s eyes changed. They were very deep-set eyes. It was only when he laughed that they appeared grey. When he was serious, they were so dark as to look black. Apparently, he was moved and concerned.

My voice took a pleading tone. “I can’t take it, you know.”

“And why not?” Blanchet folded his hands on his chest as if praying.

I rubbed a hand over my face, tired of the argument. “I appreciate the gesture,” I said. “But I can’t benefit under a patient’s will. I haven’t got many principles, but that’s one of them. Doctor Renee drummed it into me from the time I joined him.”

Blanchet lifted his prickly coal black eyebrows that made his shock of white hair seem like a lie. I would have found the old man’s vanity amusing if it wasn’t also very sad. “Your morals offend me,” he said with a sniff. “No one likes a saint, Gabe.”

“Then you will have a hard time in heaven.”

“Maybe I’m not going there.”

“You are,” I said with absolute conviction.

“You don’t know all the things I’ve done,” he said.

I wrapped a hand around his foot and gently squeezed it. “Can we not talk of your death. This cold will pass. There’s no reason for you not to live another three to six years.”

Blanchet barked out a laugh that turned into a cough. I leaned over to snag a couple of tissues from the box and handed them to him. The laughing-cough shook the old man’s slender frame and when the fit ended, he leaned back against his army of pillows and pressed the tissues to his lips. He closed his eyes, exposing the blue-veins on his lids. “You won’t take a thousand?” he asked without opening his eyes.

“Not a centime.” I grinned, even though the old bastard couldn’t see me with his eyes closed.

Blanchet opened his eyes to glare at me. “Beauf,” he muttered. Then he pursed up his lips, felt under his pillow, and pulled out a long folded paper. “All the more for Luc,” he said. “All the more for Luc,” he repeated, “and all the more reason for Luc to wish me dead. I wonder he hasn’t poisoned me. Perhaps he will. Heavens, I’d give something to see Luc tried for murder! Think of it, I—only think of it—Twelve French Citizens in one box—Luc in another—all the citizens looking at Luc, and Luc looking as if he was in church, and wondering if the moth was getting into his collections, and if anyone would care for ’em when he was dead and gone. And Nicolette—like Niobe, all tears——”

I had been chuckling, but at the mention of Nicolette, my stomach twisted. I interrupted my patient, “You mustn’t tire yourself.”

“Like Niobe, all tears,” repeated Blanchet, obstinately. “Sweetly pretty she’d look too—eh, I? Luc’s a lucky dog, isn’t he?”

Any laughter within me died. I studied the old bastard.

“You think me a beast?” Blanchet cocked one of his eyebrows and my a great show of arranging the bedclothes in an accurate line across his chest. As he did so, his hand touched the folded paper, and he gave it an impatient push. “You’re an idiotic fool,” he snarled. “I’ve made my will once, and now I’ve to make it all over again just to please you. All the whole blessed thing over again, from ‘I, Julien Morell Blanchet,’ down to ‘I deliver this my act and deed.’ Oh, heavens, what a bore.”

“Do you wish me to call Fenwick?” I asked.

Blanchet flared into sudden wrath. “Don’t talk to me of lawyers,” he barked. “I know enough law to make a will they can’t upset. Don’t talk of ’em. Sharks and robbers. Worse than the doctors.”

I shifted uncomfortably at the insult to my profession.

“Besides young Fenwick talks—tells his wife things—and she tells her sister.” Blanchet paused for a long, labored breath. “And what Aimee Bowden knows, the town knows. Did I ever tell you how I found out? I suspected, but I wanted to be sure. So I sent for young Fenwick, and told him I wanted to make my will. So far, so good. I made it—or he did. And I left a couple of thousand pounds to Bessie Fenwick and a couple more to her sister Aimee in memory of my old friendship with their father. And as soon as Fenwick had gone, I put his morning’s work in the fire. Now how do I know he talked? This way. A week later I met Aimee Bowden in the Grand Rue, and I had the fright of my life. I declare I thought she’d ha’ kissed me. It was ‘I hope you are prudent to be out in this east wind, dear Mr. Blanchet,’ and I must come and see them soon—and oh, heavens, what fools women are! Aimee Bowden never could abide me till she thought I’d left her two thousand pounds.”

“Fenwicks aren’t the only lawyers in the world,” I said, trying to calm him.

“I did go to one once to make a will—they say it’s sweet to play the fool sometimes—eh? Fool I was, sure enough. I found a little mottled man, sat blinking at me, and repeating my words, till I could have murdered him with his own office pen-knife. He called me Moral too, instead of Morell. ‘Julien Moral Blanchet,’ and I took occasion to inform him that I wasn’t moral, never had been moral, and never intended to be moral. I said he must be thinking of my nephew Luc, who was damn moral. Trying to save some species of larvae from extinction. Oh, heaven, here is Luc. I could ha’ done without him.”

Luc crept through the ajar door as if apologizing for his existence. He was a slight, fair man with a well-shaped head, a straight nose, and a chin that disappeared into his shirt collar. He wore Dexter glasses because he was short-sighted, and high collars because he had a long neck.

“If he hadn’t been for ever blinking at some bug that was just out of his sight, his eyes would have been as good as mine, and he might just as well keep his head in a butterfly net or a collecting box as where he does keep it. Not that I should have said that Luc did keep his head.”

“I think you make him nervous, sir,” I whispered.

“I know I do,” Blanchet barked.

Luc, looking like he was entering a boxing ring without a mouth guard, shut the door.

Blanchet watched him with black, malicious eyes.

Luc took a chair beside the bed. “Nice weather, huh?”

Blanchet, adopting the solemnity of a mortician, nodded twice. “Indeed.”

There was a pause.

Luc made another stab at conversation. “I hope you are feeling pretty well.”

“Do I look like I’m feeling well?” Blanchet pinned his nephew with a hostile gaze. “I’m dying. I don’t expect to live for another week. At least, I hope not.”

I stood by the window looking out. A little square pane was open. Through it came the drowsy murmur of the village. Blanchet’s house stood a few yards back from the road, just at the head of the Grand rue. Le Castellet was a very old town, and the house was a very old house. There was a staircase which was admired by American visitors, and a front door for which they occasionally made bids. From Blanchet’s room, I could see a narrow lane hedged in by high old houses with red tiles. Beyond, the ground fell sharply away, and there was a prospect of many red roofs. Farther still, beyond the river, were the great black chimneys of Blanchet’s foundry, and the smoke billowing from them. Blanchet employed half the town, including my mother. What would happen when he was gone? Luc didn’t have a head for business.

I looked down into the Grand Rue and watched one lamp after another spring into brightness. A long ribbon of light traveled down to the river and rose again. I had lived here most of my life. I feared I would never leave.

“Gabe!” Blanchet barked. “Tell this fop how I feel.”

 I turned back into the room. “Why, you know best how you feel, sir.”

“Oh, no,” Blanchet said in a smooth, resigned voice. “Oh, no, Gabe. In a private and unofficial sort of way, yes; but in a public and official sense? Oh, dear, no. Luc wants to know when to order the headstone, and how to arrange his vacation so as not to clash with my funeral, so it is for my medical adviser to reply, don’t you think, Luc?”

The color ran to the roots of Luc fair hair. He cast an appealing glance in my direction, but did not speak.

Trying to put Luc, the lucky dog, at ease, I said, “You might outlive both of us.”

“Seen any more of young Stevenson, Luc?” Blanchet said, with an abrupt change of manner.

Luc shook his head and studied his shoes. “No, sir, I haven’t.”

“No, and you aren’t likely to.” Blanchet coughed and waved his hand. “There, you’d best be gone. I’ve talked enough.”

“Then good-night, sir.” Luc Blanchet looked cheered, as if he’d been released from a jail cell. He practically sprinted for the door.

Blanchet’s reply sounded angry and I guessed he was masking his fatigue and fragility with hostility. As soon the door had closed, Blanchet trained his gaze on me. “What’s the good of him? He’s not a business man. He’s not a man at all; he’s an entomologic—a cursed lepidoptofool.”

When the old gentleman paused for breath I said, “Someone has to study insects.”

“Why?” Blanchet demanded. “Who cares about larvae?”

“Is there something else bothering you, sir?”

Much like a dragon, Blanchet blew out a noisy breath through his nose. “He’s muddled the new contract with Stevenson. Thinking of butterflies, I expect. Pretty things, butterflies—but there—I don’t need to fret. It won’t bother me. I’ll be dead. It’s Luc’s concern, isn’t it. My income won’t be important very much longer.” He was silent for a moment. Then he made a restless movement with his hand. “It won’t, will it, eh? You didn’t mean what you said just now? It was just a lie? I am not going to live much longer, am I?”

I hesitated and the old man broke in with an extraordinary energy.

“Oh, for the Lord’s sake, I, I’m not a mamby-pamby—out with it! How long do you give me?”

I sat down on the bed again. “Really, sir, I don’t know,” I said, “I really don’t. There’s no more to be done if you refuse the treatments.” I held up my hand to stop the torrent of words. “No, we won’t go over all that again. I know you’ve made up your mind. And no one can possibly say how long it may take. You might have died this week, or you may die in a month, or it may go on for a year—or two—or three. You’ve the constitution of a donkey.”

“Three years,” Blanchet muttered. “Three years, I—and this damn pain all all the time—gettin’ worse——?”

“Oh, I can relieve the pain.” I tried to sound cheerful. “There’s no need to suffer.”

“Much obliged, Gabe, but no thank you. Some horrid drug that’ll turn me into an idiot? No, thank you, I’ll keep my wits, if it’s all the same to you. Well, well, it’s all in the day’s work, and I’m not complaining, but Luc’ll get tired of waiting for my shoes if I last three years. I doubt his patience will hold out. He’ll be bound to hasten matters on. Think of the bad example I shall be for the baby—when it comes.”

He studied me for a long moment, before continuing. “Lord, what d’ ye want to look like that for? I suppose they’ll have babies like other folk, and I’ll be a bad example for ’em. Luc’ll think of that. When he’s thought of it enough, and I’ve got on his nerves a bit more than usual, he’ll put strychnine or arsenic into my soup. He’ll poison me yet. You’ll see.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Luc I know,” said I with half a laugh, hoping the old man was joking.

“Eh?” Another rise of the caterpillar eyebrow. “What about Pellico’s dog then?”

“Pellico’s dog, sir?” I repeated as if I didn’t know what he was talking about.

“What an idiot you are, Gabe—never heard of Pellico’s dog before, did you? Pellico’s dog that got on Luc’s nerves same as I get on his nerves, and you never knew that Luc dosed the poor brute with some of his bug-curing stuff, eh? Luc’s not so unhandy with a little job in the poisoning line.”

My mood darkened. I remembered it as if it had happened yesterday, but I didn’t like being reminded. Old Pellico’s dirty, evil-smelling shop still jutted out of the farther end, and the grimy door-step upon which the dog used to lie in wait for our ankles was still as grimy as ever. Sometimes it was a pant-leg that suffered. Sometimes an ankle was nipped, and if Pellico’s dog occasionally got a kick in return, it was not more than his due. It surprised me when I reaChloeed Luc actually minded the dog—so little ruffled Luc, then or now.

Luc had denied being afraid of the dog, but said he claimed the dog hurt his hears with his howling and kept him awake at night.

The dog died the day after our conversation.

I sat there frowning and remembering.

Blanchet laughed at my expression. “Aha, you know what I’m getting at,” he said, “Luc’ll poison me yet. You see, he’s in a fix. He hankers after this house same as I always hankered after it. It’s about the only taste we have in common. He’s got his own house on a seven years’ lease, and here’s Nick Anderson going to be married, and willing to take it off his hands. And what’s Luc to do? It’s a terrible worry for him not knowing if I’m going to die or not. If he doesn’t accept Nick’s offer and I die, he’ll have two houses on his hands. If he accepts it and I don’t die, he won’t have a house at all. It’s a sad dilemma for Luc. That’s why he would enjoy seeing about my funeral so much. He’d do it all very handsomely. Luc likes things handsome. And Nicolette, who doesn’t care a jot for me, will wear a black dress that will make her look gray and washed out, and she can play the Christian martyr. And Chloe won’t wear black at all, though she cares about me a lot more, and she’d look a deal better in black than Nicolette—eh, Gabe?”

I swallowed hard, trying not to think of Nicolette…

Or Chloe.