With a sigh that fogged the air, Chantal untied her robe. She slipped into the pile, wedging between a retired gendarme and a cheerful baker from Bordeaux. Within minutes, she stopped shivering. Within ten, she was laughing at the baker’s joke about a frozen figgy pudding. By the time the lights flickered back on, Chantal was flat on her back, one leg draped over a yoga instructor, telling everyone about her first nude Christmas.
“Ah, zut,” said Jean-Paul. Then he had an idea. nudist french christmas
“Everyone! To the grande salle ! We shall use the only heat source left—the human body!” With a sigh that fogged the air, Chantal untied her robe
The room erupted in groans and laughter. Jean-Paul, still in his hat and boots, raised a glass of champagne. Within ten, she was laughing at the baker’s
“To Chantal,” he said. “May she always remember—at the Domaine de l’Évidence, the only thing we dress is the tree.”
