Later, before a last drink in the bar, I walked down to her house and put the card, in an envelope, through the letterbox. I did not expect her to come at such short notice, perhaps not to come anyway, notice or not. But nothing ventured, nothing gained. I had questions to ask which only she could answer.

If so she chose.

I found Saint-Basile-les-Pins in the green Michelin tourist guide which Madame Mazine loaned me with a pleasant smile. It was, as Maurice had said, about twenty kilometres away. A camping-site and extensive views, three pointed little trees indicated woodland near by. There was a ruined chapel, sixteenth-century, in the park of L’Hermitage. A Resistance memorial, 1940–44. No visit.

I had a final Scotch in the bar, which was almost empty by this time, returned the Michelin to Madame Mazine and said that I would not be in for luncheon the next day.

Florence was less timid than Maurice had been. She forced her green Renault up the track almost to the gate of the house and jerked to a stop in a rather lop-sided fashion. It was half-past three, earlier than I had suggested. Annette got out first, then Florence and, from the back, the dumpy young woman I’d seen in the hall, holding Thomas.

I was on the terrace, sitting on one of the little tin chairs as they came up towards me, Thomas wobbling, pointing, lolling his head about in apparent delight. The dumpy woman held him fast. Florence waved; a slight gesture as if she had brushed aside a bee.

‘We are early, I did not think you would be here yet. I brought Thomas, you see? He loves the garden.’ She took his other hand and, with the dumpy woman, came up through the abandoned garden, past the dead cabbage stalks.

A bird suddenly spiralled up from the tumbled grasses and Thomas screamed with excitement. When he saw me, which he did as soon as he had got to the terrace under the thrusting vine, he tugged at the hands which held him, and as I went towards him Florence let him go and he and I and the dumpy woman collided lightly. His arms went round my legs and held me tightly; he had wrenched himself away from restraint.

Florence said, ‘This is Celeste. She looks after Thomas.’

Céleste nodded towards me, and started to prise Thomas away from my legs, so I lifted him up, and held him. He was spitting and laughing and crying, ‘Pfffp!’, which appeared to be his short-hand word for Papa.

Annette was standing a little way off. Watching. Polite, anxious. There if needed. I called a greeting, and she raised a hand in salute.

Florence took the second little chair, asked me to release Thomas and let him go back to Céleste and Annette, and told them to go and see the garden.