Unfortunately, we had to pass through the kitchen to get our packs for the hotel. Bruno spun away from the counter and presented us with a cup. Titi frowned down at the pot he was stirring over the stove. “The onion soup’s not really done.”

“The pot de chambre is,” Bruno said. “Have a taste.”

I looked down at the mess in the cup, which stank with an un-godly odor and in which I could clearly distinguish a thick streak of ketchup and a tuft of toilet paper. I knew for a fact that we had run out of toilet paper some time ago.

“No,” I said.

“It’s tradition. You both have to eat it until you figure out every ingredient that’s in it!”

“Americans have lousy palates,” I said. “Sébastien, this sounds like a job for a Frenchman. But I’ll give you a head start—ketchup and toilet paper.”

In what seemed to me extraordinary fidelity to tradition, he accepted a spoon, dipped it in, and tasted. His face screwed up. “Vinegar and coffee,” he said. “And chocolate, of course. Chocolate is always the primary ingredient.”

“It is? That’s barbarous.”

He handed the cup back. “I think the parents of the groom should have to figure out the rest.” He grabbed my hand again, and we ducked past Bruno.

“I hope it wasn’t good chocolate,” I was still muttering as we grabbed our packs and ran for the car.

Thirty-nine

Panic seized me the next day when I saw only a few dozen people under the breakfast pavilion and a dozen more prone on the grass. Were the other hundred in the hospital, or did even my in-laws slowly fade after so much partying and start to head home? As I approached Jean-Charles, stretched facedown in the grass, he put a finger to his lips. Gray hair sticking out around his head like a wild man, he dragged himself forward on his elbows combat-style toward an innocently sleeping Bruno. Claudine patted the empty chair beside her. “Come sit by me, ma petite Laura. I want to talk to you about that chamber pot.”

“Uh-oh,” I said, backing up. “You didn’t save it for us, did you?”

“No, no. Its makers insisted it be eaten right away.”

“Good.” I met her eyes. “I mean . . . oh, dear.”

“And do you know who had to eat it for the cowardly bride and groom? Their parents, of course. Every last bite of it!”

I grinned. I’d kind of liked the way she said “their” and also that the awful conglomeration was all gone.

“You have a sick sense of humor,” Claudine said, misunderstanding.

“Hey, I didn’t come up with that tradition.” I sat down beside her and picked up the marmalade as Sébastien came up.

“Sébastien, come sit by me, mon petit chou.”