Chapter Twenty-Six
Restoring Chateau de Castelmore to its former glory was a beast, but we got there. No expense was spared, and Yvon’s new kitchen turned out even more space-age than the one in Capbreton.
Chez Yvon was sold. “Only the chateau is the appropriate setting for my art,” he claimed.
For sure, his menus have been super-creative from the day we moved in. The patrons, both in the regular restaurant and his Resto du Coeur, were in culinary heaven.
We kept the villa since we loved to visit the seaside. With Paulette gone, Capbreton was a tourist’s dream.
Paulette, oh dear, was back at the cutting-edge laboratory, this time as the guinea pig. One thing was certain. She wouldn’t ever leave. It was like Hotel California, only worse.
Robbed of their determined new leader, the Sansculottes lost their bite and disbanded. Hopefully, we wouldn’t ever have to deal with them again, the one exception being the man in the tree. His name was Francois, and he was a chef as well.
One day, he walked in with the intention of groveling. Back then, Yvon was recruiting, and Francois was now his sous-chef. They yelled at each other the whole time, but that was normal in a professional kitchen.
The treasure we donated to the local museum, together with a substantial sum to organize an exhibition featuring the fate of the French Jews. It was super popular, and the proceeds went toward the orphanage.
Berthe approved.
How I knew? She contacted me one day when I was unpacking my belongings in Yvon’s villa. By then, it was safe to come out of hiding. We recognized each other the moment I buzzed open the garden gate and found her standing there. It was the old lady from the library who took pity on me. “Oh, had I known it was you, I would have called earlier. Such pretty hair, so full of life. I hope you feel better now, dear.”
Once inside the house, her gaze, sharp as a razor clam, roamed through the living room. Ignoring the empty glass shelves it settled on the tapestry. “The thing’s rather big for the wall, no?”
“Well, yes. We’ll hang it in the hall of Castelmore. The rest of the Batz heirlooms are already there. All we’re missing is the staircase, and then everything’s finished.”
Berthe giggled into her tea. “How do you get up and down without?”
“Servant’s steps. Look, I’m sorry about the treasure, but your grandniece said to donate it. So we did.”
Daintily, Berthe nibbled a carrot muffin, a recent creation of mine. Yvon kept complaining about their insides being too mushy, but then he was a hard man to please. Didn’t stop him from devouring them the moment I bought them out.
“You worked miracles. The exhibition was a stroke of genius, Madame Batz. I couldn’t have done better myself. I congratulate you.”
That had been both Yvon’s idea and his money. Actually, I was Madame Rosen-Batz, but it didn’t matter, really.
Villa Glorieuse was sold and the gate between the two properties replaced by a solid fence. No more sneaking around in the evenings. The day before I handed over the keys to the new owner, I put fresh flowers on Maurice’s grave.
I didn’t want to disturb his furry soul, so I left his bones where they were. He would forever hold a place in my heart; without him, I would never have known the real Yvon.
As far as felines were concerned, Louis took the scepter from Maurice, though he held court on a much grander scale.
The moment we opened the west wing of Castelmore to the public, he became the star of our boutique hotel. The guests adored him. So did the dogs, but then he lorded it over them from day one. Oh, the dogs. I put my foot down, and the canine musketeers were allowed inside the living room, even if nowhere else.
“Athos, Porthos, and Aramis are family,” I said.
“If you insist, my love.”
“It would be different if they chased Louis, but they don’t do that. They are very polite doggies.” I hugged a stinky rump and got a slobbery kiss on my cheek.
Yvon sighed. “Hounds, not doggies. Your feline friend doesn’t run, the reason why he isn’t prey. They would chase him otherwise. I wouldn’t mind chasing Master Louis from our bed.”
“They’ll regret it, should they ever try. The same applies to you, my dear. Don’t be a drama queen, as Raoul would say. He’s only a small animal.”
“Your small animal takes up an enormous amount of space.”
What did he expect? Louis was a cat.
I left Yvon on the sofa, grappling with le menu , and circled the servant steps to the first floor. The wooden planks covering the corridor, leftovers from another chateau that wasn’t so lucky and was dismantled, caressed the soles of my bare feet.
Summer had returned again, but the thick ramparts of the old house protected us from heatwaves much better than any air-con ever could. Not to forget they were more eco-friendly. I opened the last door to the right and entered a room painted in cheerful yellows and creams, with ceramic butterflies on the walls. The blinds were drawn, but the windows stood open, and a wind chime jingled and jangled in the soft breeze.
The cradle nesting in the corner had once been Yvon’s. One of his supporters found it in a jumble sale, restored it, and gave it to us as a wedding present.
Very subtle.
Yvon hadn’t been optimistic about his ability to produce offspring, fearing the curse would have damaged the family jewels forever, but he was wrong.
He usually was.
Now Jaqueline, our daughter, slept in the cradle, tiny fists balled at her side, dark curls bouncing from her head, the eyes—as violet-blue as her father’s—closed.
The cradle was rocking gently.
Cook? No, she was the traditional type of ghost, had never been haunting during the daytime. The other kept more irregular hours.
“I adore babies. If only they wouldn’t scream so much.” The voice seemed to originate behind the teddy bear sitting on the sideboard.
“Well, duh. You can’t have the one without the other. And she’s no baby. She’s a year and a half.”
Soon, there would be stereo squalling, but Yvon didn’t know that yet.
Raoul shimmied into sight, dressed in the type of breeches en vogue at the end of the seventeenth century and a frilly shirt exposing plenty of manly chest. He noted me watching and grinned. “Racy outfit, eh? It’s modeled on a painting I found in the attic. Monseigneur thinks I’m overdoing it, but me, I find it très chic .”
“Shame it’s wasted on me, as much as I might appreciate the view. You need to find yourself some nice male ghosts.”
He winked. “Oh, you have no idea, mon amie. This place is a distinct improvement over the beach. I’m no longer left with only eye candy for my troubles, as they say.”
“Really? I’m pleased for you. Be a good spirit and don’t go away again. We’ve got used to you.”
He grinned and swept into a traditional bow. The bare feet marred the effect, but only slightly. “Don’t get your hopes up. You won’t be rid of me that easily. The only fly in the ointment is the old termagant who runs the night shift. She’s ever so unhappy I washed up in her backyard.”
From what I understood—Raoul wasn’t frightfully clear on the matter—by transporting his bones to a resting place of our design and by creating what he dubbed an “unnecessarily emotional soup” in the aftermath of his second demise, we had somehow bound him to us.
The day we removed the front door of the chateau and started the renovations, Raoul returned to haunt Yvon and me.
For us, the arrangement worked.
Cook didn’t agree, but she was a reasonable person...ghost. The chateau really was big enough for both of them and then some. Not that we needed any more spirits when the cellars were full of the blasted Armagnac.
Apropos Armagnac, Arbadonaro visited twice, each time with his granddaughter, a lively lady roughly my age. Cécile and I fast became friends, and together we took up exploring and teaching Gitan lore. This world needed some healing.
Oh, okay, it needed a lot.
Hopefully, I wouldn’t have to do more cursing any time soon. Once was enough. Twice even, if I counted Paulette, but it was her own bloody fault.
Cécile’s best explanation was that once I’d triggered the curse it remained charged, and since Paulette was mortal when she ate my ragout with Yvon’s spoon, it sort of flipped her into immortality. Words to that effect, anyway.
Oh, before I forget: Monsieur Arbadonaro and Berthe were dating. We were happy for them.
Otherwise, I dropped novel writing. I wasn’t cut out for it. The blog was still on, and I took the occasional job from the Guide Douchevin , while Yvon did the catering. Vera had divorced her husband and was running the hotel. Her kids were already fluent in French.
We were always booked solid. Yvon was a very popular person now also among the Gitans . They’d never reveal his secret, which was also theirs. They didn’t need the limelight.
We also saw many people interested in the history of Lupiac and d’Artagnan. And then there were Yvon’s supporters and friends, now mine too. Not to forget Gerald and his husband or my parents. Someone was usually around, and everyone was in raptures about Yvon’s cooking.
Hmm. I loved him to bits, but I could swear his dijonaise still tasted funny.