Free A Good Year by Peter Mayle

was so obviously doing his best to be agreeable.
    And even helpful. “Now, as to the plumbing,” Roussel was saying, “there can sometimes be complications when the level in the well is low. The pump is old, and needs encouragement. Also, there is the
histoire
of the septic tank, which can be capricious when the mistral blows.” He lowered his head, peering up at Max from beneath an overgrown tangle of sun-bleached eyebrows, and tapping his nose. The
histoire
was clearly not a pleasant one.
    “These things I attended to for your uncle Skinner during his last few years, when his sight was failing.” Roussel assumed a pious expression and crossed himself at the mention of the old man’s name. “
Un vrai
gentleman. We became very close, you know. Almost like father and son.”
    “I’m happy that you were here to take care of him,” said Max, shaking his left leg free from Tonto’s amorous clasp.
    “
Beh oui.
Almost like father and son.” Emerging from his memories, Roussel bent down and ran a finger across the surface of the table. He seemed surprised at the result, as though dust were a rarity in empty, uncared-for houses.
“Putaing,”
he said. “Look at that. This place could do with a good
femme de ménage
to give it a spring-cleaning.”
    Roussel displayed the dusty fingertip for inspection, and then clapped a hand to his forehead. “But of course! Madame Passepartout, the sister of my wife.” He slapped his palm on the table for emphasis, displacing more dust.
    Max and Tonto looked at him, both heads cocked.
    “A veritable tornado in the house. Not a speck escapes her, she is
maniaque
about her work. She sees dirt, she destroys it.
Tak tak!
”
    “Sounds like the answer to a young man’s prayer. But I imagine she’s . . .”
    “
Mais non!
She is resting between engagements at the moment. She could start tomorrow.” And not a moment too soon as far as I’m concerned, thought Roussel. Fond as he was of his sister-in-law, she could be something of a trial when at a loose end, always at his house scrubbing anything that didn’t move, rearranging the furniture, polishing and titivating. He always had the feeling that she wanted to dust him.
    Max could see that there was to be no denying Madame Passepartout if he wanted to establish a good relationship with Roussel. He nodded his agreement. “That would be great. Just what I need.”
    Roussel beamed, a man who had successfully completed a ticklish negotiation. Madame his wife would be delighted. “We must celebrate our meeting,” he said, heading out of the kitchen. “Wait here.”
    Tonto resumed his courtship of Max’s leg. What was it about small dogs that made them leg-molesters? Was there a link, however unlikely and distant, between that and the preference that very short men have for very tall women? Or perhaps the enthusiasm was because Tonto had never been exposed to a young English leg before. Max shook him free for a second time and gave him the end of a baguette to distract him.
    When Roussel returned, he was carrying a bottle that he presented to Max.
“Marc de Provence,”
he said. “I made it myself.”
    The bottle was unlabeled, and contained a pale brown liquid that had a thick, oily look about it. Max hoped it traveled well. He filled two glasses, and the two men toasted one another.
    Wiping his watering eyes after the first explosive swallow, Max was reminded of the equally foul-tasting wine in the cellar. “Tell me,” he asked Roussel, “what do you think of our wine, Le Griffon?”
    Roussel wiped the back of his hand across his mouth to remove any residue of
marc
before it could cause blisters to form on his lips.
“Une triste histoire,”
he said. “I have to admit that the wine is perhaps a little naive, a little unfinished around the edges.” He paused, shook his head, and smiled. “No, I must be honest. It’s worse than that. Unkind people have called it
jus de chaussette.
At any rate, it leaves something to be