Our location two miles away from the nearest village normally insulates us from local gossip. But news reaches me of a tale so gripping I feel I cannot ignore it. Besides, it says a lot about life in rural France.

The story centres on the most important building in the community — no, not the bank, nor the bar; not even the post office. It’s the bakery.

It is not my favourite bread shop in the area — the range is a bit limited — but, occasionally, I have glimpsed the baker in the back room. Rather a handsome, muscular chap, covered in flour. His wife, a bohemian figure with long, highlighted hair and a penchant for grungy outfits, sold the baguettes and croissants. We were quite friendly, partly because she shares a name with one of my daughters.

However, last weekend, when I went to buy a loaf, I was served by a rather pretty youngster with long, blonde hair. Where, I asked a friend, was the baker’s wife? “You mean you don’t know? The whole village has been talking about it!” She steered me towards the local bar and over a cup of coffee outlined the sorry tale.

It turns out that a couple of years ago, a Parisian moved into the village with her husband. She became best friends with the baker’s wife. They spent many happy hours together, talking about fashion, food and other French obsessions. But as Coco Chanel was fond of observing: “My friends, there are no friends.”

For when the baker’s wife went to visit her ailing mother, the baker took the opportunity of getting close to the Parisian woman. He may not be the first baker to be caught with his hands in the wrong bag of flour, but when his wife discovered what had been happening in her absence, she took it badly. She repacked her bags and left. Nobody knows where she went.

The Parisian thought this might leave her free to move in with the handsome baker, but he apparently rejected her kind offer.

The Parisian’s husband was not impressed. He went along to the bakery with his shotgun and loosed off a couple of rounds into the windows. Whether he was aiming at the baker, we don’t know, but it does seem a bit of an odd reaction to take it out on an innocent building.

What we do know is that the baker has got rid of two women who were beginning to show their age and, apart from the damage to his windows, has come out of the whole saga unscathed. Moreover, he now has a younger woman handling his baguettes.

“As long as she doesn’t end up with a bun in the oven, he’s had a result,” said my friend.

What interests me, though, is the reaction of the rest of the village. They are delighted to have something to talk about. It’s the biggest thing since Jean-Marie Le Pen beat Lionel Jospin, the French prime minister, in the race for the French presidency in 2002. (Zinedine Zidane’s World Cup head butt pales in comparison.) There are now regular pilgrimages to gawp at the gunshot-blasted windows — much more interesting than the normal evening pastime of going to the bus stop in your slippers, carrying a deck chair and sitting there watching the traffic go by.

“You’ll notice the police haven’t been involved,” one village senior told me. “That’s the French noblesse oblige. If a man has been cuckolded, then he is perfectly entitled to take a few pot shots at your window.”

Not that there is much sympathy for the wronged wife. “She was always very grumpy,” said another villager. “She would look at me and say, ‘What do you want?’ when I came into the bakery. ‘Some bread,’ I felt like responding. ‘Isn’t that bleeding obvious?’ ” Many locals hope the removal of female distractions might make the baker more inclined to spend more time on his bread, thus improving its quality, although foodies in the village will still have to make the journey into the local town for their banette moissons and apple tarts.

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