‘Certainly.’

‘I’m afraid I’m not going to change my mind. I don’t approve of hitting children in any circumstances …’

‘You are a utopian, my dear Ariane. I am sure you don’t approve of the death penalty or war or anything else which, although violent and disagreeable, happens to be necessary.’

‘I don’t, but I wouldn’t object if it were just a question of the odd rap on the back of the hand, but this is out of all proportion. I’ll show you.’

When Sabine was summoned, Marguerite de Cazalle had to admit that it was not a pretty sight. The child submitted while her stepmother lifted her skirt to show the backs of her thighs, striped with blows. The switch used had been sharp and flexible enough to break the skin, so the whole extent of her upper legs was not just bruised but marked in blood.

As Ariane dropped Sabine’s skirt Aunt Odette said doubtfully, ‘Should we write and protest? He wouldn’t dare do it again.’

‘No,’ Ariane said forcefully. ‘She’s leaving. That’s that.’

The conversation broke up in a flurry of activity. Sabine was removing the bowls and spoons; Florence was laying out the plates. Micheline put the omelette, filled with black shavings of truffle, in the centre of the table and the erotic scent of the fungus, faint yet pervasive, filled the air.

‘Florence, where did you find it?’

‘Up the hill.’ She was cutting the omelette into six.

‘You have to have lived in Paris or London to appreciate this.’

‘We don’t get this every day.’

Micheline relaxed, became more like her old self when her food was praised.

‘I’ll let you take something back to Paris, Monsieur Theo, if you’re really so badly off there.’

‘We feed like animals; we have to eat swedes.’

‘Swedes?’ said Micheline doubtfully suspecting a joke. ‘How can anyone eat swedes? Eating chestnuts is bad enough. It’s what they used to eat here in the famine years. But even then they never ate swedes. How are they served?’

‘They’re cut into delicate slices, fried in a mixture of oil and butter, only the best unsalted butter, and served with a spoonful of caviar as a garnish.’

‘Well, now I know you’re joking.’

‘I’m not, I assure you. They’re pureed like potatoes.’

‘Do you remember all that food Madame Ariane took to give to the police chief in Racines?’ Sabine said suddenly. She had picked all the black shreds out of her omelette and was dividing her food into two piles, egg and truffle.

Theo put down his fork. Florence was laughing.

‘She wore her best suit and it didn’t fit. We had to work very hard at her decollete.’ She saw Theo’s face and stopped. ‘Even if we eat badly, the Germans are eating worse.’

‘How do you know that, Sabine?’

‘Madame Ariane told us. She learned it from the officers when they ate dinner together.’

‘She used to dine with the German officers?’ Theo asked. There was a silence, as if they had not intended him to have this piece of information.