At the moment of their arrival, when the motorcycles had roared into the courtyard, she had had only one thought: that the house would be set on fire and the family summarily shot. She and Odette could not flee, so they remained in their room. Odette even continued with her gros point, but she, Marguerite, moved from window to window, watching what was going on in the courtyard. She studied the Germans’ uniforms as they strode purposefully about. The officers wore black, the jackets buttoned up to the neck, belted, decorated with a number of mysterious insignia, of which she only recognised the swastika and the double lightning bolts: the SS. One had a cross at his neck and four gold studs on either side of his collar. On their caps, she could just make out the blank eyes of the death’s head. The men were wearing the pudding basin helmets that made them so sinister: featureless and inhuman. Their movements were swift and businesslike. They had never been to Bonnemort before, yet they occupied the space immediately.

‘Marguerite, come and sit down. It’s undignified to be peering out of the window.’

‘I’m not concerned with dignity at the moment. I want to know what they’re doing.’

‘They’ll do it whether you’re watching or not.’

‘I want to be conscious of what is happening to me.’

‘Well, what do you see?’

The men, who had scattered on their arrival to search the outbuildings, were returning. A non-commissioned officer was shouting new orders, pointing. The trucks reversed through the gates and lumbered into the field; the men unloaded their packs.

The midsummer sun beat down from a radiantly blue sky. The air in the valley trembled. Marguerite could hear through the open window a high-pitched mewing above the bass notes of the machines, and looking up, she saw a buzzard, circling on the air currents, hanging on its outstretched wings.

Ariane had gone out to meet them. She was wearing the breeches and boots that were her everyday clothes. The aunts both felt it was unsuitable to dress in this way, but had to admit that it was practical. Now she looked feminine to the point of caricature alongside the soldiers’ uniforms. She was calling the dogs to her.

‘Oh, oh, he’s killed her. He’s hit her.’

At that even Odette’s composure broke. ‘Ariane?’ she cried.

‘No, no, the dog. Oh, the brute.’

One of the terriers, more persistent than the rest, had continued to yap at the heels of the soldiers. An officer with a peaked cap had turned on it. A casual stamping blow with a rifle butt caught it behind the ears and broke its neck.

‘Ariane’s speaking to one of them, now. Or rather, he’s speaking to her. The one that killed the dog. He looks as if he is giving her orders. She’s looking at the ground. She’s shaking her head. Now she’s pointing at the farmyard.’ She suddenly drew back behind the curtains. ‘She’s pointing at the house. What can she be saying?’