The train had barely got up steam when the accident happened and there were neither fatalities nor casualties apart from a few cases of concussion. We all looked sadly at the poor crippled iron beast2 incapable now of carrying us an inch further. It was going to obstruct the rail for some considerable time since more than likely an emergency locomotive from Paris would have to be sent for.

It was ten o’clock in the morning and I decided immediately to walk back in the direction of Gisors where I might possibly find some lunch. As I walked along the track I thought to myself, ‘Gisors … Gisors … don’t I know somebody in … haven’t I got a friend living in Gisors?’ Suddenly the name Albert Marambot flashed into my mind. He was an old schoolfriend of mine whom I had not seen for at least twelve years and who was now practising medicine at Gisors. He had often written asking me to stay. I had always said I would one day, but never had. Now was the time to take him up on it.

I asked the first person I met where Dr Marambot lived and got an immediate response in a Normandy drawl. He lived on the rue Dauphine. And there indeed, on the door pointed out to me, I could see a brass plate engraved with the name of my old chum. I rang. The young, blonde servant girl who answered looked a little dim and kept repeating, ‘ ’E’s not in.’ However, in the background I could hear the clink of glasses and cutlery. ‘Hey Marambot!’ I shouted. A door opened and a fat man with whiskers appeared, holding a table napkin in his hand and looking not best pleased.

I would never have recognized him. He looked at least forty-five, and in one second I could see reflected in his face all the dullness and tedium of provincial life. In a single flash as instantaneous as my own handshake I knew everything about his way of life, his approach to existence, the sort of mentality he would have developed and his views on the state of the world. I could visualize the lengthy meals contributing to his paunch, the after-dinner snoozes in a cognac-induced haze, the cursory examinations he would give patients while his thoughts strayed to the chicken roasting on the spit at home. I could hear all the conversations about food, about cider, about brandy and about wine; about the best way to cook a certain dish, to blend a certain sauce. All was revealed to me as I took in his florid complexion, his thick lips and his dull, lacklustre eyes.

‘You don’t recognize me, do you?’ I said. ‘I’m Raoul Aubertin.’

He opened his arms wide and nearly crushed me to death. His first words were: ‘You haven’t had lunch yet, I hope?’

‘No.’