There was no answer. In all his enquiries at Bonnemort, he felt, he had sought facts and been given feelings. He would approach this with logic. The first hypothesis was that the attack was a chance encounter, having no relation to what had happened last year. This seemed unlikely, unless the police could show him that there was a history of violent attacks in the area. His heart and thoughts seemed to stop simultaneously at this point. Had she been raped? Ariane had not said so. Florence would surely have given her that cardinal information and Ariane would not have held it back from him.

If the attack was not random, why would anyone bear a grudge against Sabine? For who she was? For whom she was connected to? Himself? Ariane? Henri? For what she knew? His ideas grew wilder, but none of them so wild as to be rejected. He recalled that just over six months ago the house had still been occupied by the SS. Frenchmen had been living rough as guerrillas in the woods roundabout. Ariane herself had been stripped and shaved. He realised now that there was something here that, obsessed with his wife’s supposed guilt, he had failed entirely to grapple with last time.

Henri. It must come back to Henri. But how could Sabine be connected with this? He knew from Ariane that the children had never been involved in her Resistance work, had been given no idea of Henri’s role until she had ridden with them to Lavallade for the Fourteenth of July celebrations. Even that risk, so late on, she had regretted.

The questions revolved, unresolved, until he fell into a heavy dreamless sleep, from which he was woken before it was light by the crowing of the cockerels in the farmyard. As soon as they were dressed, he accompanied Ariane to see Sabine again. The nurse had already left and the patient was awake, lying supine on her pillows. Her arms were extended at her sides on top of the bedcover, one of them in plaster. The bandage that wrapped her head served as a frame to emphasise the condition of her face. One eye was so severely bruised that she could barely open it.

Ariane gave a little moan of horror and put her hands to her own face in empathy. She sat down on the edge of the bed and took the ends of her stepdaughter’s fingers, where they emerged from the cast, into her own. Theo stood at the end of the bed. She was changed as well as injured. Her round face had been hollowed out in some way. Her shoulders were visible, like a metal coathanger holding up her nightdress.

‘Sabine, how are you, little one?’ Theo asked.

Sabine made no response. He knew that she had heard him, but she made no effort to reply.

‘Have you had breakfast yet? I hope you ate well. It’s very important for you to get strong, so that you feel well enough to tell us what happened to you.’