‘Come on in if you want to see him,’ she said, then yelled: ‘M. Duchouxe! Visitor!’

The Baron walked into a large room in semi-darkness with its shutters half-closed. He got a vague impression of squalor in both the people and the things inside. Standing in front of a table cluttered with all sorts of objects a short, bald man was drawing on a large sheet of paper. He stopped working and came forward a couple of steps. Judging by his open waistcoat, unbuttoned waistband and rolled-up sleeves, he was feeling very hot. The muddy shoes on his feet suggested rain in the previous few days. In a strong Midi accent, he asked: ‘To whom do I have the honour … ?’

‘Monsieur Merlin. I’ve come about a plot of land to build on.’

‘Ah! ah, very good!’

Duchoux turned to his wife who was knitting in the shadows.

‘Joséphine, clear a chair will you?’

Mordiane then saw an already old-looking young woman. Twenty-five is old in the country where there is no time to primp and preen, to clean or generally titivate. In the country there is little tradition of preserving youthful charm and beauty well into middle age. Wearing a fichu4 about her shoulders, her thick, dark hair all over the place, she removed with work-worn hands a child’s frock, a knife, a length of string, an empty flower-pot and a greasy plate from the seat of a chair which she then offered the visitor.

He sat down and noticed that on Duchoux’s work-table as well as books and papers there were two freshly picked lettuces, a bowl, a hairbrush, a table napkin, a revolver and several dirty cups. The architect intercepted his glance and said laughingly: ‘Sorry about the mess in here. Children, you know.’

He drew his chair closer to the customer.

‘So. You’re looking for a plot on the outskirts of Marseille?’

His breath, even at a distance, wafted over to the Baron a strong smell of garlic which is as natural to a southerner as fragrance to a flower.

Mordiane enquired: ‘Was that your son I met under the plane trees?’

‘Yes indeed. My second.’

‘You have two?’

‘Three, monsieur. One a year.’

Duchoux seemed proud of the fact. But the Baron thought to himself: if they all reek like this I shudder to think what the bedroom smells like. He continued: ‘Yes, I’d like an attractive little plot by the sea near a relatively secluded beach.’

Duchoux began to expound. He had twenty, no, fifty, possibly even a hundred plots like that, at all kinds of prices and to suit a vast variety of tastes. He spoke nineteen to the dozen, smiling confidently and swaying his round, bald head this way and that as he spoke.