‘She’s going and now he’s going.’

Suzie, who was reading The Misfortunes of Sophie with the book propped up against her raised knees, did not respond.

‘They’re going to meet somewhere.’

‘We can’t follow them if they’re on horseback and in a car,’ Suzie said thankfully.

‘If we were somewhere like the ridge above La Peyre, we could see the road from there almost all the way to the village.’

‘Suppose they don’t go that way.’

‘It’s worth going, just in case.’

‘Sabine, let me stay and read.’

‘No, you’re coming too.’

Suzie was forced out and marched off into the forest. When after thirty minutes’ climb they reached their vantage point on the bare ridge they could see nobody in the whole expanse spread out in front of them. The road, intermittently visible through the trees on the other side of the valley, was empty. The woods and the folds of the hills hid all life and all movement.

They sat while Sabine raked the road with the binoculars. Eventually abandoning their fruitless wait, they made their way back down the hill into the forest. Suddenly, as they reached an open clearing cut through by a cart track, they saw the Hispano-Suiza. Suzie’s reactions were quicker than Sabine’s. She ducked into the bracken, dragging Sabine down to join her. No shout or movement. They had not been seen. Suzie thought at first that it was because there was no one to see them. Then a voice came to her ear.

Standing on the track well clear of the car was the major, unmistakable in his black uniform and peaked cap, and beside him a smaller figure, a man. Not Madame Ariane. Suzie felt a wave of relief wash over her. The likelihood of coming across Madame Ariane and the major together had been remote, but she had feared it nonetheless, a scene so culpable that even she would not be able to defend her any longer.

She listened to the voices floating faintly in incomprehensible snatches across the pasture. She could only just make out what they were saying, but it seemed to her that they were speaking German. Then, she thought, of course it would have to be: the major doesn’t speak French. So the other, a Frenchman, must speak German. The men had their backs to them, facing the view. They began to walk towards the car and Sabine grasped Suzie’s arm.

‘It’s Mr Vernhes,’ she said.

Suzie in the same instant saw that the major’s pistol was in his hand, not aimed but pointing at the ground. He held it easily, as if it were a natural growth from his fist, a replacement for his lost hand. The stories she had overheard in Micheline’s kitchen came back to her. The major must have caught Mr Vernhes and any moment now he would lift his arm, place the gun at the schoolmaster’s head and fire.

Vernhes’ voice reached them. He had a strange accent in German; his tone was defiant rather than pleading. The two men went round to the far side of the car. The major climbed in and slowly the Hispano-Suiza moved off down the track. When it had gone there was no sign of Vernhes.