“Farewell Monsieur Marchand”: to Mollégès, last tribute to the crooner and his incredible destiny

Le Figaro Marseille

The sun rises over Mollégès, a small Provençal village hidden in the middle of the Alpilles, a stone's throw from Cavaillon. In front of the church, a handful of people are already there, coming to brave the freezing cold of this Wednesday in December. The condolence registers are gradually filling up in front of the Saint-Pierre-es-Liens church. “Good memory, great film.” “Hello artist!” “We danced to his melodies. He will remain in our memory as our favorite crooner. Goodbye Mr. Marchand. » This Wednesday was celebrated in the commune the funeral of Guy Marchand, who had taken up residence in this small village several years ago. The former actor died in Cavaillon on December 15. “He was very attached to the town,” confides the mayor, Corinne Chabaud. He was a very accessible person, who ate at the restaurant in Mollégès every day when it was still open. His family also frequented the village shops.”

Martine in turn takes up her pen to pay a final tribute, in the condolence book, to the interpreter of Destinée. “I don’t live very far from here, and we have a friend in common,” she explains. For me, he was above all a crooner with a magnificent voice. If he made films, it was more to fill his fridge! I saw him several times in concert. I ate with him five or six years ago. At the end of the meal, he kissed my hand. I told my friends I wasn’t going to wash for ten days! Guy Marchand was a natural, bon vivant, who was not afraid to say what he thought!” “He was my brother, and sometimes my father,” confides Mickey with tears in his eyes, his bodyguard for 45 years. He was a man with a heart like that. But today, it’s a part of me that left with him.”

Little by little, the church square fills up, and the hearse arrives in front of a small crowd of around a hundred people, made up exclusively of anonymous people close to the singer. “I have often eaten at Mollégès with Drucker or Reno,” sighs Michel, a twenty-year-old friend of Guy Marchand. And I see that today, there is no one... Maybe they are sick.... In any case, they are not there.” “I’m a little surprised that there aren’t more people from the entertainment world,” says Paul, another friend of twenty years. Afterwards, it’s true that he put himself a little on the sidelines of all that.” Guy Marchand’s last album was released in 2020. “And he didn’t like glitter,” adds Paul. He loved people.”

The coffin enters a full church, to the sound of a jazz piece performed by the singer's friends and former musicians, behind standard bearers. The family was keen to invite former paratroopers, to better recall Guy Marchand's attachment to the army, a memory of his military past in Algeria. At the entrance, two photos of the crooner, one of them showing him all smiles behind a guitar, the other, in black and white, immortalizing Guy Marchand on a motorcycle.

At the altar, her son, Jules, chokes back tears. According to his last wishes, Guy Marchand's funeral was intended to be “joyful and festive”. “Yes, we are not completely in the dark, as you can notice,” he says, swallowing back sobs. Dad always made it a point to not have a vampire ball on the day he disappeared. He always saved us the trouble of going to his friends' funerals for the same reasons. And besides, he always preferred to visit them afterwards, or leave a last message on the answering machine. Just talk to a friend and wish them a good trip.”

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Despite everything, the emotion grew stronger as the ceremony progressed. “I love my father deeply. This sensitivity he could have about things makes him incredible. He could seem like he didn't care about anything. But, in fact, he was very worried. Dad, I will keep everything you taught me within me. Good luck, Dad. I wish you a good trip."

Guy Marchand's son-in-law in turn salutes "an artist, a crooner, a mountebank, an adventurer as well as a father and a grandfather": "he who lived his entire life with unparalleled panache without ever getting caught up in serious. May all its melodies continue to vibrate within us.”

At the end of a sober ceremony, the coffin leaves the church to the sound of Fly me to the Moon and Besame Mucho. On the square, a wave of applause greets the hearse, and the crowd heads to a village bar, where the family has invited their loved ones to “have a drink, eat and listen to its musicians”. Like an echo of another party imagined by Guy Marchand’s son-in-law. A party which had just begun, during which Guy Marchand would be welcomed at the gates of paradise by his friends “Johnny, Serrault, Belmondo”. “No doubt it’s going to be quite a mess up there.”