Read The French for Christmas for Free Online Page A

since then either; clearly French country-folk are happy to respect one another’s space.
    The rooster crows again, twice over this time, as if he knows his first attempt to sound reveille didn’t succeed in getting me out from under the covers. I sigh deeply, still determined not to be bullied into getting up before I’m good and ready. To tell the truth, I’d rather try and sleep a bit longer because, otherwise, I know how the day will stretch out, dauntingly long, ahead of me. If I could, I’d stay under the covers, like a hibernating bear, until Christmas is safely behind me and it’s safe to come out, blinking in the spring sunshine.
    The first few days here were fine. I was happy to pass the time unpacking and getting myself settled in, slowly getting familiar with my new surroundings, mastering the art of setting and lighting the fire, curling up on one of the sofas to read for hours on end, relishing my solitude. Not having to think. But already I can see that time may start to drag and I fear a return of the depression that may roll back in at any moment. It sits out there, like a fog bank off the Maine coast. The distraction of a new place can only hold it at bay for a short time, I know. So, despite Foghorn Leghorn over the way, I’m determined to try to doze a while longer. Then, because Rose told me Saturday is market day there, I’m planning on taking myself down to Sainte-Foy-La-Grande. Just to give myself something to do. And also because I know I really need to make myself eat something other than the cans of soup and crackers I’ve been resorting to for the past few days since my arrival here. Mamie Lucie’s recipe book sits on the table in the kitchen, looking at me reproachfully as I spoon bright orange gloop into a pan to heat through. One of these days, I tell it, I’ll cook something proper, I promise...
    Still under the covers, I close my eyes, hoping to slip back into blessed unconsciousness once again, but then immediately open them again, wide with fear... Because there’s a strange, furtive noise coming from just outside the house. It sounds like someone’s tiptoeing across the gravel, breathing heavily. The only windows up here are roof lights, so I can’t peek out at the intruder, who pauses every now and then—I imagine him trying the front door and the windows downstairs—before the footsteps tiptoe round the end of the house. Oh no, now he’s on the other side... I can hear that heavy breathing, and soft footfalls crossing the grass. He’s going to break in through one of the sets of French doors. Will the doctor and his wife hear him? If they’re that old, then probably not. Will they hear if I scream? They’re probably still fast asleep this early on a Saturday morning.
    I’m panicking now, my own breath coming fast and shallow. Surely it’ll be better to confront him downstairs while he’s still outside—and with my thick sweater on instead of just in my pyjamas—than wait until he’s in the house? Quickly and quietly I pull on my layers of warmer clothes and creep downstairs. Moving swiftly and silently into the kitchen, I grab a large breadknife and cross to the terrace doors, preparing to brandish the knife and scream at the top of my lungs in the hope of creating such a disturbance that the intruder will flee in terror. Used to city life, I usually carry a canister of pepper spray in my purse, but I jettisoned this before I left London, thinking I wouldn’t need such things in the safe, tranquil French countryside. How I regret that now! So instead I snatch up the pepper pot from the table, thinking at least it’s better than nothing.
    A dense white fog has closed in overnight. Its chill has turned the air itself into a solid wall of blankness, obscuring the rest of the world so that I feel even more isolated than ever.
    And then I freeze in my tracks—freeze being the operative word on this frigid December morning—at the sight before me. Under the apple