I loved this part of the world with a passion. It is one of those places the very sight of which brings an almost sensual pleasure. For those of us who love landscape, to conjure up in one’s mind’s eye certain springs, certain woods, certain pools maybe, or certain hills is like recalling some of the happiest events in one’s life. Sometimes the thought of a particular forest glade, a patch of river bank or an orchard carpeted with flowers seen maybe just once on a lovely day, is as poignant and unforgettable as the sight of a woman dressed in sprig-muslin for spring, and glimpsed in the street for an instant. Body and soul are left with a feeling of longing, as if happiness were for once just within arm’s reach.

At Virelogne, I loved every aspect of the land, the forests scattered here and there and the rivers criss-crossing its surface like so many veins carrying life-blood to the earth. With crayfish, trout and eel for sport, it was a fisherman’s paradise. There were places to bathe, and snipe were often to be found in the tall grass growing on the banks of the narrow rivers and streams.

I was bounding along like a mountain goat one day, some way behind my two dogs which were snuffling about in the undergrowth. A hundred metres to my right old Serval was beating in a field of lucerne. I had just reached the hedge at the boundary of the Saudres woodland when I came across the ruins of a cottage. All of a sudden I remembered the last time I had seen it. This was in 18691 when it was completely intact, covered with vines and with a few hens pecking round the door.

Is there any sight sadder, I wonder, than a dead house with its sinister, broken skeleton exposed to the wind and the rain? I also remembered that the woman who lived there had given me a glass of wine one day when I was extremely tired and it was then that Serval had told me about her family. Her husband, an inveterate old poacher, had been killed by the police. And the son, whom I had sometimes caught sight of on my wanderings, was a big, tall fellow and an equal force to be reckoned with when it came to bagging game. The family was called Sauvage, and we wondered whether this was their real name or their nickname.

I called Serval and he came towards me with his long, wading-bird stride.

‘What happened to the people who used to live here, then?’ I asked.

He proceeded to tell me the following story.