With the restoration of our finances, we are buoyant about the future. Where that future lies is less certain, our arrangements with Madame continuing only to the end of May. We consider the Luberon, somewhere around Gordes, but only half-heartedly. Caromb is very comfortable, and the cherry harvest is not yet finished. One evening, knowing both Madame and Raymond are at home, I approach them to enquire about extending for a month. Nous sommes bien contents, replies Madame; we’re very happy for you to stay, though of course the rent will have to increase, she adds. It’s getting near peak season. Beyond the end of June, we have no idea what we will do; all we know is that Madame’s place is already booked.
The formalities of handing over the cash and receiving a receipt take place in the room that is normally closed. This is serious business and we sit at a big oak table, Madame and Raymond on one side, John and I on the other, facing the tall, glass-fronted bookcase. I’m intrigued by its contents—perhaps it is the library of the late husband? They’re old books, mostly reference books—no novels that I can spy—and I ask if we can look at the two volumes of Larousse Universel: Nouveau dictionnaire encyclopédique, published in 1922. Mais oui, she replies. Madame now trusts us enough to offer them on loan, one volume at a time.
More encyclopedia than dictionary, this is a work Diderot himself would be proud of. After dinner each evening I reverently place the book on the cleared table and pore over its amply illustrated pages, drawn by the images more than the words: the machinery used in making chocolate; a 1920 map of Turkey and the Middle East; guides to trellising fruit trees and pruning grape vines; the different varieties of cabbage; and a palmistry how-to, a diagram showing the lines of destiny and the astrological associations. It is amazingly comprehensive, entries ranging from a list of all the fruits grown in France and the principal varieties of each to biographies of all the Kings Louis of France, from the first to the 18h. It even has a recipe for cherry jam. Madame’s dictionary is an absolute treasure trove. I spend hours with these volumes and learn so much about France and the French.
More good news arrives in the mail. The first is a letter telling John the first examiner has approved his thesis, and the second is an unexpected invitation from the Université de Compiègne where the examiner’s colleague is on sabbatical. It’s possible, says the colleague, that there might be a short-term job on offer later in the year. It’s encouraging but rather vague, and I’m not sure I really know where Compiègne is. In any case my sights are firmly fixed on Montpellier and Professor Jouanna.
For me, Monsieur Poste brings my first acceptance letter. Australian Gourmet will pay me $30 for my article on rabbit. I convert it into francs and am over the moon! Immediately I start planning more articles for both Australian Gourmet and its rival publication, Epicurean. Contemplating the ethics of writing for both, I decide a nom de plume is necessary. It has to hint at a French identity, though at the same time it should be equally plausible as an English name. My family name is found on the roofs of glasshouses on the outskirts of Carpentras. Bonnet is a long-established local family, and Denis Bonnet was a 19th-century artist whose paintings I have seen in the Carpentras museum. Choosing a first name is easy; plenty of girls’ names are the same in both languages, Claire or Jacqueline or Alice, but I choose the simple Anne, with an -e. For Epicurean, I am Anne Bonnet.