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  By the end of that same week, the villagers were surprised to find that Henri Marron (though he was not technically a Marron, they found it easier to refer to him that way) was still in residence.

  The morning after the funeral, Henri had awakened in the largest of the cottage’s three bedrooms. Unlike many of the guests at the wake, Henri had remained stone cold sober; the pain he felt had nothing to do with an overindulgence in cognac or the local red.

  “Henri, my poor tragic darling!”

  Louise had somehow managed to boil a pot of coffee. A fresh cup sat, with a tiny raft of scorched grounds floating on top, upon the table. Henri, still dulled with grief, noticed only a slight graininess to the brew which, in a way, was a kind of blessing in itself.

  “We’ll leave this mess.” Louise threw her arms wide with a gesture she’d used to great effect when she’d played Tosca, to indicate the ravaged buffet table, the soiled plates, crumpled napkins and empty glasses and bottles. “We’ll leave it for the hired people to clean up. Later this afternoon, we’ll visit the agent to list the cottage and, tonight, we shall return to Paris.” Her gesture was from Aida this time, a filling of her lungs with air and a thrusting forward of her chest to demonstrate that, though she was perhaps not as young as she appeared to be on stage, she could still hold her own against those willowy infants who called themselves sopranos but who were hardly old enough to show any bust. Henri did not, of course, appreciate such charms but still, she liked to keep in practice.

  “No.”

  The word slipped out before he was quite conscious of having said it. He realized with a sudden shock that, more than anything else, he dreaded returning to his empty apartment in the city.

  “I think I’ll stay,” he continued with a tinge of wonder at his own boldness, both at his whimsy at altering his life so drastically and at his bravery for contradicting Louise who was, after all, a diva.

  “Don’t be silly, ma cher. Marc’s death has hit you harder than you know. Tragedy has muddled your thinking. You cannot seriously consider keeping this . . . shack.” Her mouth formed a small moue of distaste as she looked upon surroundings which she would have called charming a scant moment ago. However, once she risked being seen in the company of anyone who actually lived in such a place, those same surroundings revealed themselves to be an anathema, not to be flaunted in polite society.

  “Don’t you think it’s terribly primitive?” she finally ventured. “And a trifle small?”

  “Nevertheless,” Henri said with newly found purpose, “that is exactly what I intend to do.”

  “But . . . why?” The soprano seemed on the verge of tears on behalf of the irresponsible decisions about to be made by her dearest friend. Or, perhaps, she had merely taken a sip from her own cup of coffee. “You have a perfectly lovely home in the city,” she cried with dismay, “with a patio!”

  “I shall sell it. And I shall live here where I can be . . . ” Emotion caused his voice to catch within his throat for a moment. “ . . . where I can be close to Marc. Besides,” he added when he saw Louise’s expression of horror, “what need have I of a patio? Here, I have an entire garden. With ducks.”

  Try as she might, Louise could not convince him of his folly. His colleagues from the opéra added their voices to hers, including an extraordinarily handsome flautist with whom he had dallied some years ago, well before he had met Marc. But as tempting as revisiting that liaison might have once been, Henri was adamant.

  His swan song was a triumph. Never had Carmen been conducted with such passion. Debussy’s Pelléas and Mélisande had never before been so in love. A braver and more noble Turandot never trod the opéra stage. When the season ended, he laid down his baton for the last time. Within six months after Marc’s death he had sold the Paris apartment and moved to the cottage in Millepoix. Within six more, Henri was bored stiff.

  That is not to say that those early months were not filled with a frenzy of activity. Once he had skimmed the scum from the pond, the ducks gave voice to their gratitude with effusive quacks each morning, just after dawn. Not only would he soon be feasting upon the bounty of the vegetables he had planted in the garden, but his laboring with hoe and rake while stripped to the waist under the country sun, had rendered his body lean and his skin brown.

  In time, Henri got to know his neighbors and developed a warm affection for them. In return, the residents of Millepoix began to look upon Henri not as the Marron, but rather as our Marron. Monsieur Bouvard’s fingers pressed a little more lightly upon the scales and the waitress at Le Coq Calicot began replenishing his Café Americain without being asked, and without the usual extra charges. When he grew tired of the incessant local chat about the weather, and the griping about the tourists who sometimes stopped in Millepoix on their way to visit the wineries farther north, he had only to spend some time at the flower shop of old Monsieur Seldemer who, it turned out, was surprisingly knowledgeable about French opéra. Henri even found himself engaging in a mild flirtation with Laurent of the well-muscled arms and winning grin who worked part-time at the garage of M. Grandevere. Though the youth was far too young for him, Henri warmed to the attention. While the sting of Marc’s passing was still tender, interest from a handsome lad was always a welcome palliative.

  Despite the excitement of growing vegetables, making a pleasant home for the ducks, and dreaming of a young man’s smile, Henry longed for more. Then, for no particular reason other than that it caught his fancy and the Widow Lavoisier was interested in selling, Henri bought a bakery.

  “But you know nothing about baking!” Louise cried when Henri told her what he had done.

  The diva was a frequent house guest, ostensibly to recover from her love affair with a dashing Czech tenor who, it turned out, was primarily interested in getting her out of her gowns so that he could try them on himself. Henri suspected that the truth was that Louise was getting older, though she’d never admit to it. There were times when she was no longer offered the best roles, and the languid lifestyle and country air appealed to her when the bustle of Paris and the intrigues of the younger singers proved taxing to her stamina.

  “Remember that we are French. We can survive anything, even the Germans. But in the matter of bread, we are unforgiving.”

  “I’ll learn,” Henri said.

  And he did.

  In the beginning, he churned out trays of misbegotten baguettes and leaden croissants of bilious brown that the Good Lord, in His infinite wisdom, had never intended be a proper color for a baked good. But perhaps to compensate him for taking Marc, God had bestowed a gift upon Henri and, within a very short time, he discovered he had a true talent for baking. In the mean-time, his business thrived nonetheless when the villagers discovered that Mademoiselle Cachouète’s cats had an aversion to Henri’s eclairs. There was nothing more effective for keeping the wretched beasts from shitting among the aubergines and in the marigold beds and, soon, every garden in town had a border of strategically placed pastries.

  By the time Henri grew confident enough in his abilities to try his hand at the legendary Gateau St. Honoré, the legendary dessert which requires a mastery of every known baking technique, the villagers of Millepoix were already boasting of the skill of their new baker, though they never did it within Henri’s hearing lest his head should swell with the sin of vanity. Business improved, and when Henri found he needed an extra pair of hands in the bakery, Laurent from the garage was happy to relinquish his grease-smeared overalls in favor of a flour-daubed smock.

  Louise expressed suitable shock when she found Henri working along such an attractive and much younger man. But he almost convinced her that his need for an apprentice was greater than his need for a lover and she eventually ceased her objections. Besides, when Laurent moved the bread from oven to cooling rack, her breath caught at the sight of his bulging arms and the strong column of his throat as he strained to lift the heavy pans. Since le Bon Dieu had seen fit to create such beauty on earth, she reasoned,
she would be committing a minor sin if she were not to be suitably admiring of it. In time, the village tongues ceased wagging and, should anyone witness a certain kind of glance or the exchange of a tender gesture between the two men, they simply shrugged. After all, Henri had come to them from Paris and, as everyone knew, the habits of Parisians were often exceedingly strange.

  As for the event which so drastically changed things in Millepoix, it was, as such events often are, rather minor in and of itself. While Henri was certainly a talented baker, he was by no means a formally trained one. As a result, his technique was often improvisational and accidents, as accidents are wont to do, happened. In this case it was a momentary inattention while cutting dough for the almond pastries. The bell above the front door of the shop tinkled at an inopportune moment and, in the instant of distraction, the knife sliced several layers of skin from the tip of Henri’s finger. Bright droplets of blood decorated the dough, incarnadine against the creamy beige.

  Henri quickly wrapped his finger in a cloth, called for Laurent to discard the ruined tray of pastry and put the other into the oven, and went to fetch Madam Lescailles a boulle of whole wheat and two plum tarts. When he returned to the kitchen a few moments later, he did not realize that Laurent had mistakenly prepared the pastries with the spoiled dough.

  The tainted tarts were not out of the oven five minutes when Madam Auberge entered the shop with a tearful little Marie-Claire in tow.

  “Her new puppy has escaped,” Madam explained. She lowered her voice so that the child could not hear. “We tracked it to the Avenue de Parc, where the tourists drive past at great speed and we fear . . . ” She shrugged and ventured a wan smile in typical Gallic acceptance of God’s will when disaster strikes. “We are hoping that perhaps one of your almond croissants might ease the sting.”

  While the little girl was indeed grateful for the pastry, it was clear that the loss of her beloved pet would not be ameliorated by mere almonds and sugar paste. Still, it was something and, when Madame Auberge and her daughter left the bakery, the child’s tears seemed to be flowing a trifle less freely.

  Henri put the incident from his mind and busied himself with bandaging his hand. But when Mademoiselle Cachouète of the many cats crossed the threshold a few moments later, a second helping of tragedy flavored the afternoon.

  “Alas, it is the cancer,” the spinster confided. “It is not for myself that I sorrow. I am an old woman and if le Bon Dieu sees fit to call me to his breast, who am I to object? But mes bébés. Mes petits choux. It is for them that I weep.” As if to confirm her words, a single tear made its way down one leathery cheek. “Who will care for my dear cats when I am gone? Eh bien,” She squared her shoulders so that they could endure the burdens they could not avoid carrying. “I think I shall have a sweet croissant.” She grinned ruefully and patted her ample stomach. “After all, it is not as if I must worry about my weight for much longer.”

  Custom was brisk all afternoon and, finally, just before Henri was about to shutter the bakery for the evening, Yvette and Claude Poinard entered the shop. The domestic situation chez Poinard was well known to be an unpleasant one and their visit to Henri’s bakery certainly did not contradict their reputation for bickering. Today, the subject of their disagreement was either the excessive attention which Claude had paid to the new barmaid at Le Chevalier Bleu, or the excessive price paid by Madam Poinard for a new hat. It was hard to tell which.

  “Do you see what I must endure while married to this beast?” Madam implored Henri.

  “And I, what I must endure from this shrew?” her husband made sure to interject, simply to make sure the baker was privy to both positions in the argument.

  “Perhaps some almond pastry might help you to find the sweetness that first led you to each other?” Henri suggested.

  Though the couple scoffed at the foolishness of the idea, they nonetheless purchased several of the pastries and departed in an uninterrupted cacophony of insults and vituperation.

  The following day, Henri was delighted to hear that Marie-Claire’s puppy had returned, lively and un-squashed by the automobiles of the tourists. Even more delightful was the news that Mademoiselle Cachouète’s doctor had made a mistake. The old woman was not only not dying of cancer, but she interpreted the reprieve as a sign that God approved of her charity, and wished her to add several more homeless felines to her household. Perhaps most remarkable was the change that came across the Poinards. The couple, who had been at each other’s throats for almost two decades, were behaving like newlyweds smitten with love for one another. Claude, who had never before gifted his wife with so much as a single chocolate, showered her with elaborate bouquets. And, since the weather had grown warmer and the Poinards had taken to keeping their windows open, their closest neighbors could swear to the enthusiasm with which Yvette thanked her husband for the flowers.

  All over the village, miracles began to happen, both large and small.

  On the east side of town, Pierre Roubeau found a long-lost pocket watch which had belonged to his father. A plantar wart, which sorely vexed Madam Durand, vanished overnight, evidently having gone the way of Monsieur Grandevere’s chronic lower back pain. Young Faustine Arnaud astonished her teachers by proving she could effortlessly add sums in her head, when only the days before she had been the worst student in her class.

  On the west side of Millepoix, the discovery of a bank error saved the La Fuete family from eviction. Madam Prevaine appeared in public in a dress she had not been able to fit into since her wedding forty-six years ago. And the large strawberry birthmark on Richard Navarre’s left cheek faded into invisibility.

  Tongues wagged about the remarkable good fortune that had blessed so many. Slowly, as the villagers gossiped and compared notes, an astonishing theme developed. It was discovered that all of those who had received blessings had one thing in common: they had partaken of one of Henri’s luscious almond croissants. What’s more, they had all purchased the pastries on the same day. As for those who had not, the trials and tribulations of their lives remained unaffected and unchanged.

  When the rumor first crossed his ears, Henri laughed. While he had no argument with the increased business it fostered, he found it quaintly rural and a trifle foolish until he realized that the day in question was the very day he had bled into the dough. As a good French Catholic, Henri was well acquainted with miraculous healing brought about by the blood and other body parts of the saints. His own parents had ascribed to two foolproof ways of dealing with sickness and injury, whether it be as mild as a hangnail or as severe as bubonic plague. In either case, the cure was the same: aspirin from the doctor and, if that failed, kissing the relic at the local church, a brittle scrap of bone which once purportedly resided in the shoulder of Our Savior’s great aunt. If neither course of treatment worked, it was obviously God’s will that the victim continue to suffer.

  He questioned Laurent about the tray of adulterated dough and, after much scratching at his chest and armpits while he thought, and prolonged furrowing of his handsome brow, Laurent allowed that it was indeed possible that he had confused the two trays and baked the wrong one. Perplexed, for he did not consider himself particularly saint-like, but unable to deny the manifestations of his neighbors’ fortuity, Henri decided to try an experiment. He prepared two portions of dough. Into one, he pricked his finger and dribbled a small measure of blood. The other, he left unadulterated. He baked brioche and kept the batches carefully separated. When he offered the finished breads for sale, he kept careful note of which of his neighbors selected from which tray.

  The results astonished him.

  Eighteen-year-old Michel Crevaine received an unexpected inheritance, almost precisely enough to purchase the forest green roadster he’d been lusting for. Elaine Gougeon’s beau finally set a wedding date after six years of engagement. Old Philemon’s bowels began to operate like those of a man half his age. Each of them, along with others who experienced similar good fortune, ha
d eaten the brioche made with Henri’s blood.

  As for those who had purchased from the other tray, no similar blessings accrued. Madam Harmon’s canaries were attacked in their cage by a raven and perished. Capitaine Racine still suffered from excruciating gout. And Felix Valery struggled to find employment that would allow him to support his wife and five young children.

  And yet when Henri prepared a special batch of pain ordinaire, and made certain that the three customers each had a loaf of it, within a day, Felix had found a well-paying job, the Capitaine tossed away his cane, and Madam Harmon found an injured lark in her garden that sang with an angel’s sweetness and was tame enough to eat breadcrumbs of the tainted brioche from her hand. Even more astonishing, the lark’s wing healed overnight with nary a trace that it had ever been broken!

  “You are suffering from delusion,” Louise proclaimed when Henri told her of his suspicions, “brought on by too much country air. We must spend a weekend in Paris immediately.”

  In the coming months, much to Louise’s disgust, Henri continued to experiment. He found that, while his blood alone effectively overcame most mundane problems, more severe troubles required a measure of flesh, as well. When Madame Cachouète’s cancer returned, Henri lined the puff pastry of a special Napoleon with thin slices of skin from his hip. When the Poinard’s relationship exploded into physical violence, he sacrificed the first joint of the little toe on his left foot, and baked a tourtière du veaux to their continued happiness.

  “You must stop,” Louise told him. “There is something unholy in this gift of yours. It cannot but end badly.”

  “Did not Our Savior provide His blood and His body to the faithful in Holy Communion?”

  The singer pressed her lips tightly together. To accuse a good friend of blasphemy, or even sacrilege is not something one embarks upon lightly and so, she refrained from arguing her point as vociferously as she would otherwise have done.