In the bar Maurice was, as usual, installed at the far corner by the wall telephone. He had no telephone at his house so clients called the bar for his taxi. An extremely useful idea on his part, although his red face and raspberry nose might have deterred some. Especially with the kinks and bends in the local roads. The barman, whom I now knew as Claude, gave me my large Scotch and I took it to the table in the corner by the Dutch, who, mercifully, had walked themselves to silence and, with assorted haversacks scattered around them, were writing cards home to Deventer or Haarlem or wherever.

It was a comfortable feeling of belonging. Belonging without any kind of responsibility. Now and again, Florence drifted into my mind, was there, drifted out again. I had deliberately kept away from rue Émile Zola, feeling it wiser to get on with my jobs, leaving her to contact me. If she wanted to. All too obviously Madame Prideaux was keeping an eye on me and would, doubtless, report on my activities. That was all right: at least Florence would know that I was making a start on Jericho. Even if it was a limited one.

Eugène arrived, white napkin over his arm, menu in his hand. Gigot with haricots verts or, and this was extra, petit poussin ‘Eugène’.

‘Is what?’ I said.

‘Is in a small casserole, with chipolata, pearl onions, mushrooms and a touch of cognac. It would be wise to order now.’

I settled for a gigot. One nightmare was quite enough. I had no desire, after a day of such pleasure, to be haunted again by the pulsing hate which had made me so wretched two nights before.

I slept well in my feather valley, and slept well the next night. The daily drive out into the clear morning air, my work in the garden, opening up the house to sweep it clear of dust and odours, my solitary meals at La Source with my dispirited host, my evening bath and my meal in Eugene’s dining-room relaxed me to an almost zombie-like state. I hardly even read Var-Matin. The world could get on with itself without any assistance, or interference, from me.

On the fourth morning, just as I had finished my croissant and coffee and was about to get ready for Jericho, the telephone rang. Madame Mazine was cautious. A person was in the hall and wished to see me; a Madame Millar.

I took the car keys, my wallet, loose change, pulled on my jacket and went down to the hall.

She was a tall woman, taller than I had remembered her to be when she had slung gravel at me. Fair-white hair dragged back on each side of a good forehead by two cheap plastic combs, a bush jacket, slacks, boots. No eye patch. Instead a red, shiny scar round a milky eyeball.