‘Yes. He was the late arrival.’

She laughed again, not an amused laugh. ‘I know! Oh I know. Poor James … You speak very good French.’

‘Thank you. I try.’

‘Very well. In the taxi –’ She stopped suddenly. ‘Maurice brought me here, you understand, he came to the house and said that he had taken an Englishman to Saint-Basile: news like this moves like a forest fire in a small village. I knew you had arrived last night. Madame Mazine from the hotel telephoned, most discreetly, you understand? Someone was asking questions about “Jimmie”, she thought I must be informed. And this morning, when Maurice told me, in a great state of excitement, that he had brought you here, I decided to come back with him. And here I am.’

‘I apologize for causing you any trouble.’

‘Not at all. Not trouble. But when we are in the taxi I think it would be wise to speak in English; only my English is very, very dreadful! You will forgive me? But for the ears of Maurice it is best.’

She turned away and continued down the track, calling out to him, leaning against his car, plaiting a piece of grass. He opened the doors at the back and we got in almost together, one at each side. She had good legs, and pretty ankles.

‘To Bargemon?’ said Maurice.

‘To Bargemon, to the hotel,’ she said, taking charge quietly and firmly.

She sat upright, her hands on her thighs. Good, what they call ‘capable’ hands, short nails, a wedding ring. These were hands which could very well scrub out a studio, string beans, knead bread, pour milk, cover everything in newspapers against the dust.

She sensed that I was looking at her, and that the silence was straining. She was, I felt, shy of starting a conversation in English, so I gave her the opening lines.

‘You are the girl in the paintings? In the studio.’

‘Girl! Alas, I am the woman! Not girl now. You like them?’

‘No, truthfully, not very much. You are far prettier.’

She smiled, head on one side, shrugged lightly.

‘He must have someone to paint, you see. So I do it.’

‘When did he … when did he leave? I got a letter without a date in the packet which you sent me and I could not read the postmark.’

She looked lost for a moment, repeated the word. ‘Postmark? Is what?’

‘Ah. The stamp, the date from the post office.’

‘Si, si, I understand. In January. It was a bad time, cold, we had snow also, not so much, but snow. On the ten day of January he left a letter for me. I was in the village to make the food and things, you understand?’

‘Shopping?’