Bousquet turned to me. “Madame Vaugeois is provocatively referring to the public housing projects. Previous generations of immigrants have been housed by the government in large buildings that we call the cité. Every decent-sized French town has their cités.” He turned to Madame Vaugeois. “Simone, of course it’s not the same thing. You can’t just lump all people together and complicate things.”

“For me, as a French person, the cité is another kind of migrant camp. It is Calais, but worse because it’s permanent. It’s a huge mistake that we’ll never be able to put right. Before the cité we never had much crime. It’s an insult to everyone, including the poor people who live there.”

Father Bousquet didn’t respond to Madame Vaugeois. He ate for a while. Drank the wine. Complimented the chef. Vaugeois was content to let it lie.

After lining up his silverware on the plate, Bousquet turned to me. “We have a complex of cités, to the north of town. Three big buildings. The complex is called Les Brosses. Approximately three thousand residents. There is some crime. They are less-privileged, for the most part. It is difficult for even second generation immigrants to find work. And they are discriminated against.” Bousquet waved his hand in the air. “Enough of our problems. Tell us about yourself. You are a cousin of the Vaugeois?”

“My mother was a Vaugeois, Delphine.”

“I take it she emigrated?”

I said, “Yes. She left France before I was born.”

The priest nodded, “Before my time.”

Madame Vaugeois clapped her hands together. “I must get the family tree.”

Chapter Five

Madame Vaugeois returned with two heavy and unruly binders held together with twine. I stood and helped her with them. The covers were red cardboard, faded with age. In between the cardboard was paper. Old paper.

Bousquet and I watched as she spread the pages around the table. Scribbled lines and arrows connected boxes with scribbled old family names. Birth certificates were mixed up with property documents and hospital records from other centuries. She hunted around for a while and Father Bousquet did his best to help her.

There was a Delphine eventually, somewhere down the line, at approximately the right year. In the end they both concluded that Gilles and Delphine Vaugeois were distant relations through a thick web of marriages. What had endured between them, genealogically speaking, was the name Vaugeois. She said, “Let’s just say that we are cousins,” and poured herself more wine.