His world had not included unmarried women like her, whose wealth gave her enough power to count, almost, as a man. Certainly she was deferred to, not with gallantry, but with respect, and not only for her money. He was used to women who were smiling and complaisant, who did not discuss politics or contradict men. No woman that he knew would have telephoned a man to arrange a lunch, as she did the following day, with the excuse of introducing him to a friend, a certain Socialist, anti-Munich member of the National Assembly, who wanted a military light thrown on the situation. After that, things moved with such speed that they were married within seven months. He had never been so happy.

He turned from the view of the oily water and his shoes rang on the cobbles, slicked with the mild rain. He felt he could not wait until he returned to Bonnemort; he must do something even at a distance; he would speak to his father-in-law.

Although they could not have been more different in their characters or backgrounds, Theo had always found Ariane’s father a sympathetic figure. When they had announced their marriage, his own family had been horrified. Pascal Wolff, on the other hand, had made no protest, even though, on material grounds, he had every reason to question the choice of his only child. He was an immensely rich industrialist, inhabiting a huge villa in the XVI arrondissement, amid hideous and valuable collections of Compagnie des Indes porcelain and baroque bronzes. What had become of them, of him, Theo wondered.

He telephoned one evening. A maid answered. He was put through and heard the dry familiar tones, ‘Pascal Wolff.’

Theo spoke formally, as to a stranger. ‘Theo de Cazalle speaking.’

A pause before the old man said, ‘Welcome back to France and welcome back to life, which is more or less the same. It must have been deathly, I imagine, living for four years in London.’ Theo laughed. ‘We were in Algiers for some of the time.’

‘A different climate, not much better.’

‘No.’

‘It’s been a long time.’

‘Yes.’

‘We’d better meet, eh?’

‘Whenever you’re free.’

‘We can meet tomorrow for lunch. One has to eat, after all.’

They met at a cafe near the Ministry and sat down at one of the small tables in the room behind the bar. Around them clerks from neighbouring offices were eating the plat du jour.

‘What is it today?’ Pascal Wolff asked the waiter. Then, turning to Theo, ‘You know already the condition we have sunk to here, but perhaps you have access to all sorts of good things, to make up for our deficiencies.’

Theo denied any privileges. ‘It was just as bad in England,’ he said. ‘And there they couldn’t make good food even when they had everything.’

‘The misfortunes of others are always a comfort,’ Wolff said. ‘To know that someone is worse off has kept many of us warm in cold weather.’ They handed over their ration coupons for the meal.