‘No bus, but Maurice in the bar has a taxi. If you ask him tonight he’ll be almost sure to take you. It’s the quiet season.’

He left, and went across to the couple from Paris and placed the menu before them on his way out to the kitchen.

The morning light was brilliant, sparkling on the chrome-work of Maurice’s Citroën, dusting the poplars and plane trees along the road in soft greens and pinks. In the ditches, clusters of primroses, and a small blue flower I could not name. Perhaps borage?

‘At Saint-Basile-les-Pins there is nothing but forest, you know?’ said Maurice over his shoulder. ‘Unless perhaps you go to see the little chapel? Saint-Basile’s chapel: it is a ruin now, but the memorial to the Resistance is very fine.’

‘A memorial?’

‘The Nazis shot eight of our Resistance fighters there. One by one; the bullet marks are still in the door. Holes in the wood. You go to see that?’

‘No. I don’t actually want to go to Saint-Basile. I’m looking for a house called Le Pigeonnier. Madame Mazine said it was near Saint-Basile. Do you know it?’

Maurice, watching me in the driving-mirror, looked away when he caught my eye.

‘I know it. It belongs to the Prideaux. Her father bought it years ago, gave it to her as her “dot”. It was part of the estates of the Duc de Terrehaute … you know this? Destroyed in the Revolution and carved up for the people. The château is all ruins now. Only the pigeonnier still stands. But no one is there, it is empty.’

‘It was rented by an Englishman, wasn’t it? A Mr Colcott. You knew him?’

He coughed, or grunted. ‘Went away.’

‘He was my brother. My younger brother. He sent me the key – I have it here. Apparently he has paid the rent for the house for the next three years, so he said.’

‘Your brother? My word! Yes, I knew him, he came sometimes into the village … walked all the way, or came on his cycle for provisions. In the bar he would have a petit rouge, or a pastis … cigarettes. He was pleasant enough. We knew him as Jimmie because his name was difficult for French people to say. So he said, “I am Jimmie, it is easier.” He painted, but we didn’t really see him very often. He was about. It takes a long time, even in a small village, to be, shall I say, “known”. But he was all right. Spoke good French, caused no trouble, paid his bills …’

The Citroën began to slow down. On the right-hand side the beginning of a wall, tall weeds, bushes, a mossed stone pillar. Maurice turned right past the pillar up a dirt road.