“I sure hope nobody tries to save my underwear after I’m gone,” said Lucy, thinking of her rather tired collection of cotton high-cuts and stretched-out bras. “I don’t even want them to look. Just throw it all away.”

“Believe me, Mom, nobody’s going to want your underwear,” said Elizabeth, pausing before a series of stone carvings depicting scenes from everyday medieval life.

“These are charming,” said Lucy, captivated. “They’re like photographs from long, long ago.”

Leaving the church, they explored the quaint town, wandering through narrow streets, past ancient houses with steep tiled roofs that tilted this way and that. All the windows were carefully screened, many with lace curtains, and Lucy wished she could glimpse the interiors. Eventually, they found themselves at a park along a river, and they sat for a while, resting and enjoying the peaceful atmosphere, so different from Paris.

“I wish we could have walked the labyrinth,” said Lucy, watching a couple of ducks paddling by.

“Really?” Elizabeth was surprised. “I’ve never thought of you as being religious.”

“I go to church every Christmas, and sometimes at Easter, and I never miss a funeral,” said Lucy, defending herself. “I know quite a few hymns by heart.”

“But do you pray?” asked Elizabeth.

“Only as a last resort,” admitted Lucy. “I thought it was worth trying the labyrinth, since nothing else has worked. I thought I might get some insight, some answers.”

“Well, we have to walk back, so you can meditate as we go.”

Lucy’s stomach growled, reminding her it was past noon. “I have a feeling I’ll be meditating on lunch,” she said. “Crepes or panini, that is the question.”

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

“What did you think of Sylvie’s mother?” asked Lucy when they were back on the train to Paris.

“Pretty typical Frenchwoman,” replied Elizabeth. “I read somewhere that if you want to marry an accountant, you should marry a Frenchwoman.” She paused. “I bet Madame is the one who actually runs the tabac. There’s a long history of women entrepreneurs in France.”

“But women got the vote here only in . . . when?”

“Something like nineteen forty-four, I think,” said Elizabeth. “I imagine the theory was that they didn’t need it, because they were in charge of everything, anyway.”

“It’s a love-hate thing, isn’t it?” mused Lucy. “They glorify women at the same time they tear them down.”

“They punish them if they’re powerful,” said Elizabeth. “There were really terrible attacks on Madame de Pompadour, for example, and Marie Antoinette. They printed up these awful pamphlets full of lies and insults. And there’s Marianne, the symbol of France. She’s always bare-breasted, a national sex symbol.”

“And Renoir,” added Lucy. “He painted all those beautiful nudes, but they say he treated his models very badly.”