Everyone prepared for the event; even the aunts came down from their room. Madame de Cazalle became nostalgic as Florence helped her on with her apron.

‘I remember when Odette and I did the pig-killing. There were no men left at Bonnemort by 1917.’

Micheline made a doubtful face. Twenty-five or thirty years ago the old ladies might have had more strength than today, when sitting at the table to cut up the meat was all that could be expected of them. The killing was to take place in the winepress, chosen because there was a pump there with fresh water from the spring. Lou Moussou was an illicit pig, his presence hidden from the Requisition, so the butchery had to take place out of sight, for fear of a visit by the authorities, or even a casual caller who might make a denunciation. In the farmyard Sabine and Suzie were set to stoke the fire under the boiler that had been filled with water early in the morning. Florence set out large numbers of metal receptacles for different purposes: bowls and basins, cauldrons and pans were piled up inside the winepress. Micheline unrolled her clothful of special knives, testing each one, and sharpening them all with her steel. Finally, Henri and Micheline placed a low wooden trough upside down in the middle of the winepress.

In the valley the sun was just beginning to melt the frosting of ice on the grass of the orchard, as they made their preparations.

‘It couldn’t be better,’ Florence said. ‘A fine day in the waning moon. It’s perfect. I remember the first winter of the war, we had four pigs to kill and it rained for a week, by which time the cycle of the moon was wrong. It was hard to know what to do.’ Perhaps because her mother was so rigorous a pessimist, Florence was always cheerful.

‘We’ll say it was perfect when we’ve got through today without the requisitioning folk turning up unexpectedly,’ Micheline warned.

The official pig-killing was set for next week and for that occasion Florence did not care about the phase of the moon. The bureaucrats would carry off the pigs for slaughter and nothing would be left for the household.

‘Too cold for me to wait out here,’ said Madame Veyrines, turning on her cane towards Micheline’s door. As they all followed her, Madame Ariane observed Suzie’s dejection and was suddenly smitten with the significance of the occasion.

‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘Oh Suzie, I’m sorry.’

No one paid any attention to her exclamation, for at that moment the Jouanels came into view on their bicycles, rounding the corner of the drive. Madame Ariane drew Suzie to one side.

‘Perhaps you don’t feel well,’ she suggested. ‘If you had a headache, you could spend the day resting in your room.’

Suzie could not take the escape route offered to her. She had too much fear of what Sabine would do if she disappeared from the ceremony. And she could not leave Lou Moussou to suffer on his own.