The Austrians.
They arrived in late spring, when the air still carried the scent of damp stone and last year’s leaves. An Austrian couple—no one knew their names. He wore bright red suspenders and a hat far too round for the region, like something from a travelling circus. Children whispered le clown autrichien behind cupped hands.
They stayed at the village’s only chambre d’hôtes, run by Madame Jourdain, who spoke no German. They spoke no French. Still, somehow, keys were exchanged, a bed was made, and they were shown to the room with the floral curtains and the sagging double mattress locals call le lit français—too narrow for sleep, too wide for comfort.
They stayed just one night. Ate nothing. Said little. By morning, they were gone.
No note. No payment. Only this photo remained—wedged behind a mirror frame, discovered weeks later when the light fell just right.
In Saint-Mystère, that was enough.
It always is.