Free Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) by Marisa Raoul

that is Madame Raoul ?’
    â€˜Well … not really, though I can imagine, by its name that it has something to do with the paranormal.’
    â€˜Yes. You’re right Madame Raoul ,’ he answered eagerly. ‘Parapsychology is the study of mental phenomena that are inexplicable by orthodox scientific psychology. At present, I am employed in a large hospital where I work amongst aids sufferers and my findings are extraordinary.’
    â€˜How interesting. Though I can hardly begin to understand what parapsychology has to do with the aids virus.’
    â€˜Yes, they must seem an odd pair but I assure you I have great success in easing my patient’s suffering.’
    â€˜That’s wonderful. How rewarding for you and your patients.’
    He smiled softly, nodding his head and taking a long drink from his coffee cup.
    â€˜ Madame Raoul … or may I call you Marisa ? I must tell you something in the strictest confidence. It is about your father,’ he said gravely.
    â€˜My father,’ I replied in shock, ‘What could you possibly know about my father?’ I asked.
    â€˜I feel that you have an unresolved issue with your father that you must fix as soon as you can. You mustn’t let your differences separate you,’ he replied.
    I was aghast. This stranger’s intimate knowledge of my family life both shocked and intrigued me.
    â€˜You must promise me Marisa …can you?’
    â€˜Yes … yes of course. I know exactly what needs to be done and I promise you I’ll get onto it as soon as I can.’
    â€˜Good … bien . Now may I ask you a favour?’
    â€˜Of course. Perhaps you’d like some more coffee?’
    â€˜ Non Merci , but I’d love to visit… how do you say, votre cave à vins (wine cellar), if I may? Would you mind?’
    â€˜My wine cellar … no, I don’t mind at all. But I don’t understand.’
    â€˜Well, if you will allow me this visit, I will then be able to explain many things to you, I’m sure.’
    â€˜Right then,’ I answered, instantly intrigued and leaping to my feet. ‘Let’s go.’
    Jean had remarked on our intense conversation and jerked to attention.
    â€˜Where are you off to, Marisa ?’
    â€˜Oh … well … we need to visit the cellar, Chérie . We won’t be long. I’ll explain later. Please, would you like to follow me, Monsieur ?’ I said, gesturing towards the front entrance.
    â€˜I’m right behind you, Marisa .’
    I pushed open the heavily-bolted oak doors of the ground floor garages, flooding the area with soft, morning, light. My newly acquired ‘Dutch’ friend entered quickly, as if pressed for time. He strode about the dimly lit interiors, silently studying the stone walls with uncommon interest. ‘May I?’ he asked, as he approached the glass door leading to the walled courtyard garden.
    â€˜Of course,’ I replied. ‘Make yourself at home,’ I added, impatient with excitement.
    He opened the door, entering the perfumed garden in silent composure. I watched him, curious of this man who seemed to be entering some mysterious new world. His every unhurried step and measured gesture both intrigued and annoyed me. My keenness to know what he was considering or feeling was palpable and I bit my tongue so as not to interrupt his investigation.
    Finally, he returned from the garden and paced slowly toward the cellar’s carved entrance. He ventured down the flagstone steps and into the subterranean depths of this architectural 13th century wonder, with its beautifully arched, keystone ceilings and large, stone salting trough.
    I allowed him the courtesy of some solitary time in the cellar, knowing my presence would only be an uncalled distraction. Although restless, I leant against the oak doors of the garage, my face warmed by the late morning sun. He emerged several minutes later and without