They stopped for their first night in the camper van outside the little village of Laugnac, twenty or so kilometres from Agen. Anne was as excited as when she was a little girl opening her presents on Christmas morning.

‘Bit of a step up from your old-man wagon, you have to admit.’

‘It’s nice, yes.’

‘We’re at home wherever we go! Tired? You can go to sleep. Hungry? Have something to eat. Fridge, hob – it’s got everything! What else could you ask for? Look how happy Boudu is!’

Curled up in the corner of the bed, the cat’s fluffy tail beat to the gentle rhythm of his purrs.

‘No more grovelling waiters, no shitty Van Gogh prints on the walls, no thank you, hello, goodbye, we don’t owe anything to anyone. More soup?’

‘No, thanks. It was lovely.’

‘Go and give your finger a soak outside then while I make the bed. We’ll be snug as bugs in a rug!’

The pharmacist had advised him to repeat the procedure three times a day for three days. If, as he feared, his finger showed no sign of improvement, then he could go to see a specialist. Perching on the edge of the step with the cup wedged between his knees, Marc watched the flickering, graceful curve of an aeroplane crossing a field of scattered stars. How could he be rotting to death under a sky like that? That crazy Dr Blanchard had put the wind up him, but he was nuts, a decrepit old thing turned mad by malaria or some other fever. The pharmacist, buttoned up in his neatly ironed white coat, had merely diagnosed a harmless inflammation, not even whitlow. And he was clearly right. What was more, it was barely a year since his last tetanus injection (having scraped himself helping Chloé change the knob on one of her nightstands), which would guard him against complications. Voodoo? Yeah, right. Savage superstition. A nail is a nail, Togolese or otherwise. As for the stupid talisman, he would throw it in the nearest tip tomorrow and that would be the end of it. He now felt perfectly serene and confident, in complete symbiosis with the vast night sky surrounding him, the resounding clang of the village bell striking ten times and the distant barking of a dog pulling on its lead. He stood up and went to empty the contents of the cup onto a tuft of dandelions, which immediately withered like an old lettuce heart forgotten in the bottom of the fridge. His camper van really was a thing of beauty. It was Anne who had encouraged him to choose it. He would never have dared go for something like this by himself, yet it was exactly what he needed. A set of wheels like this could take him to the end of the world. It gave him a feeling of invincibility that made the prospect of adventure undaunting. Nothing seemed beyond reach now, the proof being that Agen was now only twenty-two kilometres away. Not that he gave a toss about Agen now. He had far more exotic destinations in his sights, and he wouldn’t be holding back!