‘You think that he would?’

‘I can ask him. You have a licence, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘In France it is not permitted for a foreigner to drive someone’s car.’

‘Ah. I see.’

He shrugged. ‘We can fix that. You see. A week or two?’

‘Maybe three. Just to use in the area; not to drive to the coast or miles away.’

‘Where you go is not my concern if I don’t see you. Eh? You would like to do a deal?’

‘When you ask your brother-in-law.’

‘He’ll agree. Money in the hand is worth more than a Simca in the garage.’

We made a deal; I handed over a week’s rental in advance, ordered drinks, the atmosphere became convivial. Maurice said that I could come to his house – he gave me the address – after noon the next day.

‘The car must be cleaned up. Dusty. The seats. I’ll fill her up for you.’

His brother-in-law had been in the clinic for two weeks, no one knew what was wrong. But the car needed a good cleaning, the tyres were new this season. I’d need them if I wanted to go to Saint-Baume to see the cave of Mary Magdalene.

I wasn’t absolutely dead set on seeing Mary Magdalene’s cave, but knew it was wiser to show interest.

‘Ah yes.’ Maurice was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘She went to this cave to rid herself of her sins. Thirty-three years she was there! Hey! It is a very holy place, the roads are winding about like a mad serpent. But there is a fine view. You must visit the grotto.’

I suggested that all this area must be a very holy one; full of many strange things. The land was savage, secret. One could get lost here for ever.

Maurice’s companion agreed cheerfully. He explained that the road was not only zig-zagging but was dangerous. Seven hundred metres high! People could fall from that height! They could die from exposure! Easy.

I said that I would start off doing little trips, local ones so that I would not get lost or climb too high. I wanted to see the forest at Saint-Basile-les-Pins. That was not so far?

Maurice finished his drink, but I did not offer another, and he agreed that it wasn’t far, twenty kilometres about, but there was nothing to see there unless one liked trees.

After dinner among the roses and the trellis, and the heads of the small beasts, I wrote Florence a note on a postcard of the hotel, asking her if she could meet me the next afternoon at Jericho, about four. I said it was extremely urgent, that I’d wait until dusk there for her.