Un petit Fleur de pee...

We have, en famille , unwaveringly attempted to avoid reacting to the failings of Mademoiselle Delacourt with anything but the most stoical politeness. The position of governess companion is always a tricky one in any household, the post falling, as it does, somewhere above the class of servant but below the status of family member or guest. In the case of Miss Delacourt it must be acknowledged to fall considerably lower. I have always felt that it is ones duty as a personage of some social standing to rise above the inconveniences of life and to set an example to those of less fortunate position and bearing. However even with my unequalled breeding and well honed comportment there are some things with which I find hard to tolerate. Miss Delacourt has pushed my composure to the brink for she has, it appears, fallen hopelessly and unwisely in love. With a cat.

I am well aware that felines have a fine part to play in many households, with their catching of mice, their useful skills in decimating bird populations and saving the family fruit trees from marauding sparrows.I know also that there are many to whom a cat is a cherished thing, a boon companion in an otherwise friendless life, even perhaps in some bizarre circumstances a child substitute. All this I can understand and to a certain extent empathise. Small fluffy kittens with saucer eyes have even to my eye a certain appeal, albeit transitory in nature. However, and here there is no kind way to state my case more clearly, Miss Delacourts cat is none of these things. Hers is not a fluffy kitten and what is more, Miss Delacourts cat stinks.

The cat has been named "Fleur" and is she assures us in her lilting lisping way that "Fleur is her mummies very own widdle fluffy kins". The latter statement was met initially with perplexed glances by the household and it took sometime to be able to decipher the exact meaning of the word" widdle". The name "Fleur" was only slightly less confusing but for different reasons. As a name it is not inapt for a kitten. It conjures up images of freshness , and of beauty, a lightness of spirit , a certain fragrant joy in life . It would be endearing as a name if it not for the in alterable fact that the creature is not only sloth like and the size of a small piglet, but is very certainly a male. Under the circumstances one feels perhaps "Widdle" might have been a more appropriate .

I am given to understand that Fleur was discovered by his new love at the edge of the river when she was out walking and was alerted to his piteous cries. How he managed to get himself stuck inside a sack weighted with stones and tied tighly aroudn thetop one can only hazard to imagine. But he was rescued and brought home where he now resides in splendour complete with a large satin bow of a floral design in shades of pink about his rather beefy neck. Since his arrival he has divided his time between the scratching of our furniture and his fleas and has taken upon himself the odouress task of scent marking all the household linen with his urine. Anyone who has tried in vain to remove the smell of Tom cat from white Damask table clothes will appreciate this has not made him popular with Madame Grognonne ,who may be seen scouring her cook books for a recipe for cat stew which she insits is a eastern European delicacy.

On a more positive front insufferable though her presence has made our daily life and as unpleasant as her unfortuante appearance, choice of garments and unforgivable halitosis may be there is a bright side to this dank dark English cloud of a woman. The mere mention of her name has proved sufficient to quell even the greatest flurry of insolence in Eldest, and her arrival in any room sends our daughter to swiftly seek refuge in edifying pursuits such as reading and needlework , she has taken to studying her catechism with vigour and even volunteering to assist her youngest siblings with their homework unasked.It would appear anything is to be regarded as better than being obliged to endure even five minutes longer than necessary with her English companion.

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The illustration is by the unfortunate Artist Mr Louis Wain, who is a great favourite of Madmoisele Delacourt. She arrived from Tooting Beck with several representaions of his work wrapped in plain brown paper, a fact that in itself should have rung loud warning bells with me had I not been more than usually occupied at the time. He was , she tells me, born at Clerkenwell in 1860 and married his sisters' governess, a fact that I fear gives our own governess companion aspirations to do simular,. Add to this the fact that after his marriage he took to drawing nothing but cats , a subject with which he became unaccountably obsesive, I think is perfectly understanable that the poor man ended his days in a mental assylum.

The terror of Tooting Beck

Months have passed unnoticed since I last wrote to you. It is incomprehensible how time has flown. See how the lily of the valley are breaking into flower, the cherry trees frothing with exuberant pink blossom, the birds playing their seasonal game of cache-cache between the branches, and yet still it does not feel spring like Chez Nous for with us lives the very chill and epitome of winter, One Miss Amanda Delacourt.

Let us consider then this , our latest arrival. Let us examine her with the scrutiny deserved by any new member of a respectable household. Who is she and whence has she come?

Her title implied maidenhood or at the least a celibate state however these things can be frankly deceptive, take for instance mademoiselle Salope in the next village who although unmarried and therefore technically still a maiden has managed to bring forth 7 smaller Salopes onto this earth within a space of 6 years, all of whom bear an uncanny resemblance to the local curé. Even allowing for God working in mysterious ways, one would, I suggest be hard pressed, to deny the family connection as they all have his ears.

Jacques dispatched on the feast of the epiphany to collect Miss Delacourt from the station went armed with a photograph kindly supplied with her application for employment. It showed a clear skinned young woman with fine features and a good head of hair.

He returned with a withered bag of bones bearing a sour face and a pinched mouth. I am well aware that travelling can be frightfully debilitating if one allows it to be and does not take the correct precautions however, even allowing for this, our new governess had either undergone some sort of unpleasant metamorphosis en route from Folkestone or the photograph was an extremely old one.

Sadly, we were swift to discover, her temperament matched her face. She is a woman of indeterminate age brimming with the bitterness of one whose life has failed to live up to her expectations. The slightest hint of joy or humour in others she squashes with a tart word or a sneer which renders her face even more unattractive, if that were possible. She will have the last word on any subject as she is convinced she knows all. Added to all her charms is her indecipherable French spoken in what one presumes, she views as an appealing lisp and delivered with a coquettish angle of the head, which renders it all but inaudible hence one must, should one wish to understand, bow ones head towards her, having first taken for oneself a large breath of clean air in defence against her halitosis. Her simpering, which was no doubt alluring in her youth, and her style of dress all give the impression of some nightmarish hag dressed in a young girls clothing. Although she must have undoubtedly been a maiden once I suspect her fruits have long since been tasted and discarded by many in favour of riper and more luscious morsels. It is perhaps this that has soured her.

In short, she is not the joyful addition to our entourage that we had hoped. Madame Grognonne has taken to ominously polishing her gun at the slightest provocation and Jacques for whom Miss Delacourt appears to have taken a fancy may be found at all hours hiding in the shrubbery with Loic to avoid her attentions. This is proving to be a trifling irksome should one require his services. She is the fly in our ointment the grit in our familial eye, Loic’s widow who kindly has adopted the habit of helping Madame Grogonne in the kitchen, in order to prevent the latter from accidentally discharging her firearm should Miss Delacourt enter her domain, swears one look from her will curdle the milk and prevent the butter form churning.

Life has become under her presence more than a trifle vexatious. I fear something must be done to rid us of this carbuncle on the face of our happy family. The question remains is what and by whom?

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The painting above entitled Old Woman Drinking Tea,( c. 1907) is by Antonio Mancini an Italian artist born in Naples in 1852, although not a portrait of her will, I hope, give the reader a fair impression of the visage of Miss Amanda Delacourt of Tooting Beck. Mancini once said that “Vulgarity is often the daughter of poverty” and in this case I fear that the same may be said of Miss Delacourt. I have instructed Chief Patissier that should I ever show the slightest inclination to visit Tooting Beck he has my permission to have me committed to the care of the local mental institution where I am sure, if Miss Delacourt is anything to go by, I would find the inhabitants far better educated and agreeable.

Christmas chez Loufoque

A new year approaches at unfaltering speed. Christmas has come and thankfully departed leaving only the remnants of candle stubs and glass baubles and the shredded needles of the sapin de noel to remind us of its brief visit. Apart from a brief diversion caused by the unexpected arrival of a Christmas gift from the Americas (taking the form of a rather large packing case filled with an interesting melange of sprogets, dibbets and preserving jars of muddy coloured unctuous matter labeled peanut butter, which after some careful consideration we conjectured must be some type of engine lubricant)courtesy of our erstwhile friend Elma Bucket of the American flying corps,we were as ever assaulted on all sides with it the usual dull litany of unsuitable and unwanted gifts.

What ever possesses ones friends and acquaintances to burden one with a seemingly endless supply of scented handkerchiefs, un-wearable items of knitwear and utterly undesirable objects d'arte is beyond my understanding. Thankfully we find ourselves blessedly bereft of relations on the Loufoque side and mine only relatives having estates in the Bordeaux region acknowledge sensibly their familiar obligations with a seasonal benison of several cases of their own exceedingly good Bordeaux Superior.I dread to think what My dearly departed Belle-Mere might have felt suitable for our household, a set of mathcing antimacassars embroidered with the passions of Christ possibly or a life size reproduction of the painting of the martyrdom of the 10,000 by Durer,to hang over our nuptial bed, the latter of which at least one supposes might prove to be quite a conversation piece although sadly also likely to squash any lingering passions not already quenched by the hand knitted Khaki bed socks she undoubtedly would have sent with it.I understand from Madame Grognonne that one of the old Madame Loufoques started the knitting of bed socks for the troops during the Napoleonic campaigns and it has become rather a familial tradition one which I have refused to embrace.Some traditions are better left to die a lingering painful death and that one is I fear one of them.

We celebrated the Revellion of Christmas in the traditional manner with the entire family and staff attending midnight mass with Antoine joining our happy band for the feast afterwards, although the term happy may be a trifle over stating the joviality of the atmosphere since the inclusion in our party of the new priest of the parish did nothing to enhance our festive spirits and neither the cloying clerics insistence on telling rather inane jokes although dinner nor the way he brayed like a donkey at his own wit did much to improve any of our tempers.Finally the awkward situation was resolved after Madame Grognonne thankfully suggested to Chief Pattisiers that our honoured guest might enjoy a taste of our special reserve eau de vie, to which he happily agreed. as a result of which the we were able to enjoy the rest of our celebrations in peace and tranquility the cleric having predictable fallen into a comatose state soon after being foolish enough to down his glass in one. Jacques very kindly returned him to the village and propped him up against the main doors of the church where I understand his parishioners found him in the morning his hand frozen to the door knocker.


Since last I wrote, the duties and obligations of the festive season not withstanding, my time has been almost entirely taken up with the task seeking a means of ensuring Eldests future edification and improvement and having sought advise from relaible sources I have taken the step of placing an advertisement in a respectable English newspaper and engaging one Mademoiselle Delacourt as a tutor governess for Eldest whom I hope will be able to polish our not so little rough diamond into a shining gem. She comes highly recommended by Lady Caroline something or other and I understand is well qualified, although in what I am not quite clear.

Miss Amanda Delacourt of Tooting Beck, I pin my hopes then, entirely upon you.

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The painting illustration my small missive is Durer's depiction of the martyrdom of the 10,000 painted in 1508. The topic portrays peasants and servants being dispatched by their betters and was one imagines a reminded to the lower classes to be mindful of their placve in society.Although one can clearly sympathise with Durer's problems with his domestic staff it does beg the inevitable question as to whom Durer thought would do the tiding and cleaning up after all the slaughter,so typical of a man to forget such matters.

Serious thoughts from the salle de bain

Having fully recovered from the ructions and ramifications of recent weeks I was lying in the bath the other evening, prior to dinner , and appreciating the milky beauty of my slender and elegant ankles when my thoughts drifted to the contemplation of the physical failings of others less fortunate and thus was, alas, sadly reminded of the rather unpleasantly disappointing thickness of Eldest ankles. A thought that naturally led me to a pondering upon her visage in general and in consequence what the future might hold for her. I ended my ablutions quite depressed as a result and quite unable to do justice to Madame Grognonne’s excellent Rognons de Veau flambés au Madère .

It is, to say the least; regrettable that a couple as handsome as Chief Patissier and myself should produce such a rather plain creature, especially when one considers the unsurpassable beauty of her brothers. Nature can at times be tiresomely unfeeling in the distribution of her bounty, bestowing on our boys the clear nursery complexions of the English upper classes, the large violet blue eyes of their father and the thick dark lashes of their mother whilst absentmindedly condemning our female offspring with straight short lashes, thick eyebrows and a figure that owes more to robust stolidity of the Breton horse than to my own fine elegance. One must blame of course the Loufoque genes of her Fathers Ancestry. I know little or nothing of mine own antecedents but one can clearly see that the boys obviously take after my side.

Children can be such a bitter disappointment. I imagine this is why Helen of Troy never embraced motherhood, what is the point ,after all, of being the face that launched a thousand ships if ones female progeny are naught but puddings?

With a face as lamentable as hers one must accept the fact that she is unlikely to win hearts. After her rather disastrous attempts at learning Russian I have somewhat shied away from interfering in her education however, as good a job as the nuns have done with her in attempting to impart the finer points of needlepoint, piano and watercolours their knowledge of the world is naturally rather limited. Loathed as I am to add yet another domestic appendage to our troubled household perhaps a tutor is called for.

I shall have to contemplate the matter closely meanwhile I have set my self to the task of preparing her for the wilder world and investigating the possibilities which a girl of her background might choose as a suitable career and to that end have managed to get a copy of Cassell’s Book of the household, which has a highly informative chapter on Careers for Girls, sandwiched between an article on the cultivation of Dahlias and a brief history to time. Admittedly it is English and is a little out of date but one must work with what one can.

If all else fails she could of course join the convent although since she has adopted a rather unbecoming habit of truculent door slamming and grunting as her chosen means of communication I think we might seriously rule out a silent order.
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The painting above is one of several studies by Degas of a woman going about her private ablutions. He seems to have been quite obsessive in fact about this particular theme, a fact that perhaps should not undergo too much scrutiny. I am sure that in some artistic circles it is perfectly acceptable for a gentleman to spend his time hanging about the bathrooms of ladies and watching them undress, but no tin my bathroom I can assure you. Far be it for me to comment on his choice of model but I really feel if he was going to concentrate on this particular subject the might have chosen someone slightly more attractive to paint. To be fair her wrists are fairly elegant in a coarse sort of way, even if her hands are a trifle red, but she definitely leaves a lot to be desired in the foot department and as for the state of the water one can only wonder exactly she has been doing that has caused the water to be covered in green scum.

The story ends and all is explained..almost..

If you will recall back we left Madame Grognonne , Loic disguised as the widow, the widow dressed as a woman of ill repute, Jacques frail farmhand and Antoine attired as a sardine gutter, for no apparent reason, at the entrance to Chateau Loufoque. We thus continue to the story’s end, its culmination pieced together from the accounts of all involved.

Arriving then at dawn to be met by the over excited pigs ,no longer confined to the pantry and greedily devouring the hydrangeas, our hearty heroes knew, without doubt, that something was a miss Chez Loufoque. Leaving Jacques and the widow to unravel Loic’s artificial leg from the sacking, Antoine leapt from the cart to unravel the mystery. Sadly this was not all that he unravelled, catching, as he did his petticoats and slipping face first into the festering fish guts. With help from Madame Grognonne, and unperturbed by the awful offal, he drew his cloak around him and pulled up his hood the better to scrub off the sticky sardine scales adhering to his skin, and a good job too for otherwise he would have certainly have come off far worse when he slipped on the pig excrement, as he descended from the cart, their recent meal of hydrangeas obviously not agreeing with their digestion.

The crash of his clattering of his clogs alarming the pigs and no doubt alerting whoever was in the house to his arrival there was now little point in attempting to sneak up on them unawares. He marched onwards then boldly towards the kitchen.
Thrusting open the door, whilst at the same time being careful not to smear the brass handle only recently polished by Madame Grognonne, his eyes smarting from the reek of his fouled clothing, Antoine could see nothing in the darkness save a lone figure at the table. He moved forward to demand the interloper identity themselves only to find his voice hoarse and unfamiliar no doubt from his sleeping open mouthed on a cold night in an open cart. Spying chief Patissier’s decanter of best cognac on the table, he raised his arm to grasp it, intending to rescue it from the thieving hands of that unidentified figure at the table and hoping the restorative liquid might sooth his throat.

However he found, due to the rigidity of the whalebone corset he was wearing, he was unable to lower his arm again, his stays having been rather battered out of shape by his tumble from the tumbrel and he had the unpleasant sensation of something hard and sharp threatening to penetrate his person should he attempt to lower his limb. This was not a risk he was willing to take. In his discomfort he barely had time to give the figure at the table at the table a second thought for in the instant he realized he had been harpooned by his whalebone another figure entered the room, one whom he instantly recognized and at whom he rushed with relief, for if there is any man in the world skilled and experienced in the art of releasing Antoine from the confines of a woman’s corsets this is he! However before he can reach his saviour and seek succour the figure at the table shrieks and slumps in a most ladylike manner as only a person of her breeding and natural poise can do.

Here then is all made clear. The mysterious spectre at the kitchen door is none other than Antoine and here are Antoine’s filching thieves, none other than Chief Patissier and his dear and charming wife Un Peu Loufoque. A rush of relief is felt by all.

Madame Grognonne, stout in limb and heart , hoists her mistress from the floor and carries her off to her chamber to recover her composure and repose in peace. Chief Patissier releases Antoine from his confining corsets and washes away the smell of sardines outside in an as oil drum as off old , a fire is lit and a hearty breakfast is prepared by the widow. Stories are exchanged and tales of intrigue and woe. Chief Patissier tells Antoine briefly about his abortive friendship with Lawrence and Antoine recounts tales of his carousing with the local cleric. All is put right over a shared meal and a few restorative cognacs. Upstairs, sitting in the sunlight, Madame Grognonne silently watches over her mistress sleeping whilst she silently polished her gun and ponders upon life.

But what of the Gendarme? What fate has befallen him?

Only Time will tell, and time, as ever, is in no haste to do so.
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The engraving above purports to depict the rather touching departure of the local cleric shortly after the the conclusion of the events described above. Some say he left to seek his fortune in Vannes where he worked as a missionary to sailors , others that he chose a life of penitence as a hermit on one of the small islands off the coast of Cape Breton. Some tell tales that he was called upon by a mysterious visitor, late one night ,accompanied by a person disguised as a sardine gutter, and that what happened at that meeting caused him to see the error of his ways. Truth is an elusive creature, but all that is certain is that he left the commune and was never seen again, and that the night of his departure the shrine to Loic and his miraculous limb was secretly dismantled and the money collected from it was found all neatly stored in a coffer in the clerics kitchen with a note donating it to the restoration of the church tower.

Homeward Bound

Whilst our motley band of misfits slept the day away in the cool shade of the woods, and Antoine valiantly stood guard puffing on Madame Grognonne’s pipe to keep the flies at bay, there happened to pass, not far from them, the figure of a young lad intent on his duty.

It was none other than the lost and grubby figure of Jean Luc Perdu, carrying in his satchel an urgent telegram from myself ,which was sadly by now somewhat ragged and stained owing to his unhygienic habit of storing his baguette and bloater paste repas in his satchel along with his mail.

Little did he know that had he but chosen to rest his velocipede under the trees and taken the opportunity to perform some much needed ablutions in the clean waters of the stream he would have stumbled across Madame Grognonne, the rightful recipient of the telegram and thus saved himself several more days on the road.

Of course had he come across Madame Grognonne, there in the woods, he would have very likely not continued along the road to Paimpol and therefore perhaps never had the opportunity to make the intimate acquaintance of one Fleur Fleton a friendly fish filleter who introduced him with to the delights she usually reserved solely for the entertainment of members of the Breton fishing fleet, before sending him on his way back in the direction in which he had come. So overcome was he with Fleur Fletons and her fishy tales that, very soon after delivering his bloater paste stained telegram at Chateau Loufoque, he returned to Paimpol and bound himself as a cabin boy on a cod fishing boat sailing for the far flung shores of Cape Breton in Canada where, having discovered that due to an unfortunate inner ear imbalance he was ill fitted to the life of a sailor, he apprenticed himself to a fur trapper called Finnius Finnigan and eventually married Finnegan’s fine daughter Fenoulla. That however is another story altogether.

Anyway, I digress. As the day began to cool and evening fell the party reassembled themselves and adjusted their disguises, not easy in the case of Loic whose backward facing foot had become inexplicably tangled in the widows garter elastic, then, having eaten a restorative repas of herring fillets and anchovy paste tarts washed down with the remains of the cider, they resumed their journey homewards with many a backward glance fearing with every turn of the carts squeaking wheels that they the perfidious port policemen at Paimpol may even now be pursuing them .

The night being cold, all except Jacques, who was driving the creaking cart, took refuge in the back lying huddled together on top of the sacking in the rear gaining what heat they could from each others bodies and the festering fish guts, which although they make excellent organic fertilizer for the garden do not make particularly desirable bedding. Happily, none of them were discerning characters and were not ,therefore, greatly discomforted by their odiforous mattress although Loic did take the precaution of removing his twisted limb and hanging it over the side in order to avoid further petticoat entanglements and the danger of the joints becoming seized up with sardine scales. There was I am sure many an unfortunate traveller that night who felt their time had come seeing the creaking cart go past in the mist its back piled high with bodies.

On reaching the outskirts of our village the cart stopped with the intention of allowing Antoine to dismount and make his way across country to his home unseen. However he slept so soundly that none had the heart to wake him , and it was in fact lucky for them they had halted for in doing so they narrowly avoided an accident when a small but swift dog cart, its drivers muffled and travelling at speed shot past them unseeing and would have almost collided with them had they not been parked under the protective branches of an overhanging chestnut tree. Who could it have been rocketing past at such urgent velocity and at such an early hour? Fearing they had been found out and suspecting the worst they travelled onwards in silence choosing the little used roads until, as dawn broke the sky with its first shards of tentative light they arrived, Chez Nous ,to find some other person had arrived before them and the door to the silent house stood open...
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The photograph is of none other than that of Finnius Finnigan, future father in law to young Jean Luc Perdu and Grandpere to all the little Perdus that Jean Luc and the fercund Fenoulla produced in the way of offspring, including Fanny, Florence, Fabian, Francois, Felice , Ferdinand, Phillipe and last but not least poor little Elodie . Early on in their marriage they made the sensible decision to ensure all their children were given prenoms starting with the letter F so as to save on the the cost of name tapes for their clothing. Poor little Elodie however was the exception and was named after Jean Luc’s maiden aunt whose crossed eyes she had unfortunately inherited. Phillipe was a spelling error, one that could have happened in even the best regulated families unless sensible precautions are taken.

Floundering with the fisherfolk.

Having partaken of a restorative luncheon I shall now continue the tale of our intrepid travellers.

You may remember we left our devious band of domestics travelling incognito by night in an open cart borrowed from Yannick for the transportation of fish offal, Jacques disguised as an old deaf farm labourer, Loic garbed as a mariner, the Gendarme dressed as the widow, the widow dressed as a woman of ill repute, Antoine dressed as a sardine gutter and Madame Grognonne dressed as herself. The night was a cold one and their journey long but they were amply prepared for the hardship, Madame Grognonne having assembled a hamper of comestibles and the widow providing an interesting assortment of beverages of various varieties and levels of potency.

The gently plodding of the cart horse well known for its soporific sound unsurprisingly soon sent all into a deep slumber until their sudden rude awakening as the cart wheel struck a rock and the wheel jarred by the jolt , jettisoned the passengers into the ditch. All would have been badly bruised had they not fortuitously fallen on the Gendarme. Happily, with each lending a hand, and using the still comatose and rigid body of the Gendarme as a prop, Antoine and Jacques were able to replace the wheel. Sadly as a result of the mishap Loics leg had become twisted and the foot was pointing backwards, a problem they knew from previous experience could only be remedied with professional help. Therefore after some worried discussion it was decided that he and the Gendarme should exchange disguises, the widows long skirts would thus hide Loics deformity for even in Paimpol , the home of the Breton fishing fleet, the sight of a sailor with a foot facing backwards was bound to draw attention. This exchange of clothes was not easily undertaken for disrobing a drunken man without his acquiescence is not an easy task, and as a result they were forced to leave his corsets and bloomers on under the sailor’s tunic and trousers. However finally they were able to continue.

Cresting the brow of the hill they saw below them the distant lights of ships at anchor in the port shining like stars in the early morning darkness and the cart, now squeaking alarmingly made its way to the town quay where the colourful cursing of female fish filliters drifted across the cold air as they hauled the catches up from the boats below. The plan had been that once they arrived at the bustling port they could easily discard the drugged Gendarme, dressed as a woman in the widows clothing, in some out of the way spot propped outside a tavern where he would eventually sober up. Meanwhile they would fill the cart with fish offal and would all be home and safe before he had been discovered. The Gendarmes recent diet of laudanum laced with eau de vie would almost certainly ensure his amnesia and failing that, his female garb would be sufficient to discredit any tale he told which might implicate the Loufoque households involvement in his predicament.

Unfortuantly, whilst they sat outside a tavern, pondering a new course of action, they were spotted by a Sardine gutter, the very one that Madame Grognonne had seen off with a bucket of water some weeks previously at the height of Loic fever. Recognising her tormentor and casting suspicious glances in Loics direction, for even dressed as a widow woman his charisma stood out, she called upon her friends to come and help her reek her revenge and it could have turned a trifle tiresome had it not been for Antoine’s swift intervention.

Screaming shrilly he leapt from his seat, between Jacques, disguised you will recall as a deaf farm labourer, and the Gendarme, dressed as a Sailor on shore leave, and slapped the sailor soundly about the head accusing him of interfering with his person and making such a fuss that they were soon surrounded by a crowd of indignant dalliers under cover of which Madame Grognonne and Loic were able to slip swiftly away leaving the widow behind to offer the others support. Although even at a distance anyone would have been remarkably desperate to make advances at Antoine dressed as he was, the other Sardine gutters were quick to rush to a fellow woman’s defence and all set upon the Gendarme who, as luck would have it, was just that minute regaining consciousness.

Finding himself aroused from his opiate induced slumbers by a bevy of big breasted beauties he lurched forwards to make himself acquainted but in doing so tore his tunic on a nail thus revealing to all his women’s corsets under his mariners uniform. At the same time his breaches, designed for a smaller figure, burst their buttons and the widows lace bloomers billowed out. Such a commotion followed as the sardine gutters surged forward intent on finding if this was a man in woman’s clothing or a woman in mans and in either event disrobing the pervert. A fish gutters life is not a gay one and thus they must find amusement where they can.

Jacques and the widow managed to remove Antoine, who was eager to remain and join in the fun, swiftly had the cart filled with fish entrails and were safely back on the road homewards before anyone had time to note their dissapearance. As luck would have it the day was a warm one and their progress was accompanied by a swarm of flies to escape from which Antoine and the others drew their hoods over their heads. It was decided it would be safest to secrete themselves somewhere and stop until nightfall thus they might avoid the attention of the flies and other travellers on the road. The rested in a wood where Antoine volunteered to sit guard by the cart whilst the others slept.

Thus we must leave them once more, a little closer to home and perhaps a little closer to phantom at the kitchen door, for I too am tired from their exertions to continue further.
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Above is the photograph is of a group of fisherwomen sorting crabs on the shore at Paimpol. I think you will agree that they look indeed , a formidable force not to be trifled with and that Jacques and the widow were wise to extricate Antoine from their vicinity with such speed for goodness knows what might have happened to him had they discovered that far from being a harmless sardine gutter of advancing years he too was a man in disguise!