coup de foudre
“In French we call it coup de foudre. A strike, that bolt, of lightning.”
***
As we sat and talked and ate our dinner, our last night in their lovely home in Versonnex, none of us – excepting Clémence, who has obviously been witness to this all her life – could ignore the beautiful warmth created by her parents. Though they sat at the opposite ends of the table, seven of us in between the places where they sat, nothing could break the attention they gave each other. Instead of distracting from it, we merely became enveloped in the tenderness that is their marriage, the honest sweetness that is Guy and Blandine.
Finishing the last bites of l’agneau rotî avec les haricots verts, I debated whether or not to ask the question in my head, afraid it might come across as far too saccharin for a post-roast lamb coversation. But of course it had to be asked.
“So how did you meet..?”
Clémence’s eyes lit up, “Well, my mom got drunk on their first date…”
“Ah, Clémence, non.” Her father shook his head. ”We met before that. She was visiting her brother, who was friends with my friend’s cousin…” At this point, I must confess that I am sure I am getting this part of the connection wrong. Sufficient to say, through mutual acquaintances, they ended up at the same party.
He continued, “Anyway, I was there, I saw her, and I knew. It was, it really was, love at first sight.”
It caught me off-guard, hearing this kind forty-something-year-old man speak of meeting his wife in such a manner, such a genuine manner. I think he saw the look on my face, on all our faces, and he went on to say, “In French, we call it coup de foudre. A strike, that bolt, of lightning. It’s that instant force.”
Clémence, dutifully playing the role of a daughter disgusted at her parents, rolled her eyes and feigned a gagging face.
“Ah, Clémence, you are not ready for romance,” her father commented, shaking his head.
Blandine then continued, “I went home, and I couldn’t breathe. My mother had to help me sit down and calm me that night. She thought there was something wrong with me. Oh, but I was very much shaking, you know. My hands, everything. Oh, my mother was so worried…”
Guy began again, “I was seeing two girls at the time. But that evening, I called them both right away and told them I would no longer see them. That was it.” He gestured with his arms, illustrating that yes, at that point, that evening, 25 years ago, he knew, after seeing Blandine for the first time, that his life before her is ended and everything is now just beginning.
This, of course, brought out a response from the rest of us, moved not just by their story but at the way they told it, with affection untainted by two and a half decades.
“Aw, that’s a great story…”
“Awesome, you were dating two girls..?!”
“That’s so rare…”
“It’s too bad that really doesn’t happen anymore…”
Hearing that last comment, Blandine turned her head, “What do you mean it does not happen anymore? Of course it does! It happens still, you know. Of course it does.”
Guy nodded in agreement.
I can’t help but be unsure of their certainty, my 23-year-old pessimism rearing its ugly head. Yet as we continued on with our meal, it became more and more difficult to doubt anything said by these two very generous, very astute couple. And what’s amazing is that it isn’t what they said necessarily that allowed us to be convinced, but how they seem to live the words they impart. Suspend disbelief, Jean Louise, I remember my first year university teaching assistant in English literature urging me. I believe I am outnumbered.
“So,” Clémence pressed her parents, “tell them about your first date when you drank too much…”
Guy and Blandine preparing a meal together
just yet another delicious lunch, this time of le baguette, le jambon français, la saucisson, les olives, et le fromage epoisse de Bourgogne
the crew
Oh, the French! they know how to make sweet love!