‘When I say she’s a good kid, I mean really good. If it hadn’t been for you, and out of respect for your mother’s memory, if it hadn’t been for this house, and us having lived here, the three of us, I’d have brought her home here and married her, no question. Listen, listen, my boy. I could have made a will but I didn’t. Didn’t want to. Never put things down in writing. Not that sort of thing anyway. Upsets the family. Makes everything too complicated. Everybody at each other’s throats. Who needs legal documents? Don’t ever use them. That’s how I’ve made my money, such as it is. Understand, my boy?’

‘Yes, father.’

‘Listen again, carefully. So I haven’t made a will. Didn’t need to. Because I know you. You’ve got a good heart, you’re not … careful … tight-fisted, you know what I mean? So I thought when the end came I’d just tell you how things stood and I’d ask you not to forget the girl: Caroline Donet, rue de l’Éperlan, number 18, third floor, second door, don’t forget. Listen again. Go straight there when I’ve gone … and make sure she’s seen all right by me. You’ll have plenty. You can do it. I’m leaving you enough. Listen. She won’t be there most of the week, she works for Madame Moreau, rue Beauvoisine. But go on Thursday. That’s when she expects me. That’s my day, has been for six years now. Oh the poor girl! She’s going to be so upset! I’m telling you all this because I know you, my boy. Not the sort of thing you tell everybody. Not the lawyer and not the curé. It happens, everybody knows that, but you don’t discuss it. Not unless you have to. So, no strangers in on it. Just the family that’s all. You understand?’

‘Yes father.’

‘Promise?’

‘Yes father.’

‘Swear?’

‘Yes, father.’

‘I beg of you, my boy, please. Please don’t forget. You mustn’t.’

‘I won’t father.’

‘Go in person. You’re in charge of everything.’

‘Yes, father.’

‘Then you’ll see what she says. I can’t talk any more. Swear to me.’

‘Yes father.’

‘That’s good, my boy. Come and give me a kiss goodbye. I’m nearly finished. This is it. Tell them they can come in.’

Moaning, the younger Hautot kissed his father and, obedient as always, opened the door. The priest appeared wearing a white surplice and carrying the holy oils. But the dying man had closed his eyes and refused to open them again. He refused to reply and refused to give any sign that he knew what was going on.