The eleventh week of the Occupation. She had not counted the time at the beginning because she had not understood how long she would have to endure. They had borne it now for ten weeks and two days. She had begun counting when the major had grasped the hair at the nape of her neck and forced his tongue into her mouth. She counted back to the day they came, and forward to infinity, for it seemed as if they would never go.

The first thing that she thought of every morning was of his presence or absence. The last day, the day that Henri died, he had left early in the morning with the lieutenant and most of the unit. When the sun rose through the mist that hung in the walnut trees in the valley, she watched it with a mixture of relief at his absence and dread of his return. The morning was routine. She rode before breakfast and then spent two hours in the tower teaching the children. August should have been the holidays, as Sabine continually reminded her, but Ariane had remained firm on the need for study every morning, because it was a refuge for her as well as a discipline for them. After lunch, as the Germans were still absent, she had succumbed to the girls’ pleading and the heat, and they had slipped down the cliff path, past the tents and storerooms occupied by the troops, to the dark earthy waters of the lake, to swim.

Henri had not been at Bonnemort for the last two days. She knew that there had been fierce debates between him and Vernhes about plans for a demonstration at Lepech. Each day the desire for local action grew as the Allies inched towards Paris. When they had heard two days earlier of the landings in Provence, frustration in the Maquis camps in the forests reached an almost unbearable pitch. Henri remained convinced that they should be patient. The occupiers were contained within a narrow compass. Soon the Germans would withdraw of their own accord. All they had to do was wait patiently. But patience was intolerable for Vernhes, who wanted a victory and a public triumph. Whatever they decided to do, Ariane had told Henri, she could not be there. She would remain at Bonnemort with the girls and hear about it afterwards. Her sympathies were all with Henri on this subject. She longed for the country truly to be free, the Occupation to be at an end, to regain her own freedom. Yet a demonstration while the major’s back was turned, leading to reprisals later, seemed pointless.

In the early evening as they climbed up towards the house, refreshed by their bathe, she thought that she heard a shot, a single crack, as if a solitary farmer were out after vermin. She listened attentively, hearing nothing but the restless cawing of the rooks in the elms. Nevertheless, she hurried the girls up the path. Soon the sound of gunfire was unmistakable. They had never heard shooting before. Suzie sat huddled in a chair with a cat on her knee, stroking it rhythmically, less for its comfort than her own. Micheline plodded round the kitchen, refusing to acknowledge what she heard or what it might mean.