“Cool,” Julie said. “Did you contact him?”

“Certainly not. He’s undoubtedly forgotten me.”

“Does he still live here?” Julie asked, her eyes alight with curiosity.

“I believe so, yes.” He stopped at a crossroads and thought for a moment, then turned down a sunny cobblestoned street. “That was Michel’s house,” he said, indicating a stone residence surrounded by shade trees, with a small garden in back and a tailor shop next door, marked with a metal sign in the shape of scissors. “He was apprenticed to a tailor, and he later took over the shop.”

“You should pay him a visit,” Camille suggested.

Her father shook his head. “It’s an old and painful situation. He wouldn’t welcome me.”

“How do you know?”

He didn’t answer. Camille wondered what memories were hiding inside her father. Later, when they were rested, she would try to talk to him about it. They drove through the winding alleyways of the village, passing colorfully painted old doors studded with iron rivets, windows rimmed by climbing roses, hollyhocks, and geraniums, people walking to and from the shops with their straw panniers. The atmosphere was utterly charming, and it was hard to imagine what this place had been like when it was overrun by Nazis and their war machines.

After passing through the town, they drove along a narrow lane bordered by plane trees and surrounded by vineyards and orchards. The fields were dotted by unmortared stone huts, many of them collapsed and overgrown. “That is Sauveterre,” Papa said, indicating a large property in the distance, dominated by a stone manor house. Sun-gilded dry stone walls enclosed gardens exploding with growth. The ocher-washed manor house, terraced fields, and surrounding forest hinted at a warm and gentle lifestyle from a forgotten era. The building showed its age. At one end of the main house, a blue tarp covered the gray slate roof. That was probably where the cave-in had occurred, prompting Madame Olivier to send the box of Lisette’s belongings.

They passed through the wide iron and stone entry gate. There was a row of beehives in a meadow along a tall hedge, numerous sheds and barns, a henhouse, and a pond. The manor house was surrounded by lavish gardens, walkways draped with wisteria and clematis, and a sunny garden with wrought-iron furniture and lounge chairs.

“It’s very much the same,” Papa said. “I remember it just as it is now—the house and pathways, the vast fields where I could run and hide, the barns. I used to sit for hours watching the magnanerie.”

“What’s that?” Julie asked. “I don’t know that word.”

“The silk barn. We raised silkworms.”

“Ew. Are they really worms?”

“Larvae, the caterpillar before the moth. I spent most of my time outdoors, though. The gardens were magical to me, my special place, where I could find peace and quiet.”

“It’s incredible, Papa,” Camille said. “So ancient and beautiful. I can’t believe this property is yours.”

Drenched in late afternoon sunshine, Sauveterre was a world unto itself, with its gardens and surrounding fields and vineyards. “It is not so grand as a bastide,” he said. “That is a true manor, like a small castle. Still, I’m told Palomar was very proud of it, because it’s the largest mas in Bellerive. See how everything is oriented to the south. That is to protect the house and gardens from the mistral wind. It’s a cold wind that blows from the north in the winter months.”