Father Destier continued, eloquent, nearly garrulous. ‘I know that it is wrong of me, and I pray to the good God to give me his forgiveness. But I didn’t like this Monsieur Uxbridge, God have mercy on his soul. There was that evening when we had gone up to the Resettlement Officer’s bungalow and found Crufts there and Uxbridge, arguing. Mr Crufts is young and well-meaning. He doesn’t know much, but he has the heart, and sometimes he would speak to me. I hope he will not be shot.’

‘Bonsoir, bonsoir,’ the voice of the little French priest had sounded; charity ordered him these courtesy visits, and, cassock flapping, big head on small body, outlandish among his own, he climbed the steps to talk to the Englishmen in authority. ‘Are you ready,’ he said, ‘for a little festivity, a little joy in this forsaken concentration camp of ours?’

‘Vous comprenez,’ he said to me, ‘I was only joking.’

Uxbridge had looked him up and down, and: ‘Bonsoir to you. What’s the racket now? You’re still not carrying a gun, I see.’

‘He was always telling me to carry a gun.’

‘You had better watch out,’ he said, ‘if you don’t you will catch it one day.’ Obviously Father Destier enjoyed the way Providence had turned the tables on Uxbridge, although he would probably repent, beating his heart in half-willed remorse.

‘I bring an invitation,’ said Father Destier, ‘an invitation from some of my Catholic squatters. You know we have three hundred of them in the village? They are inviting us to a dog feast.’

‘A what?’

‘A feast to eat dog,’ explained Father Destier happily. ‘Your police, they have killed a lot of pi-dogs in this village so tonight and tomorrow the people will eat them. They can’t cook tonight because of the curfew, but tomorrow,’ he rubbed his hands with glee, ‘but tomorrow c’est fête, c’est kermesse. I bring an invitation to you to eat dog.’

‘Monsieur Uxbridge turned livid, for he loved dogs.’

‘It’s frightful. I’ve never … They must be stopped.’

‘Oh no,’ said Father Destier, ‘it is quite the custom you know, besides it saves money. When I was in China I had a dog. Unfortunately one day he died, and my neighbours ate him. At first I hated them for it, but that is a long time ago. I assure you,’ he added earnestly, ‘it is a detestable dish, I really have to pray before I take a mouthful, but they would be so hurt if I refused.’

‘And after that,’ said Father Destier miserably, ‘Uxbridge would not listen to another word from me. Obviously a man who ate dog was beyond the pale to him.’

*  *  *