Watching his opponent recoil, Thomas wondered what was coming next. He didn’t have to wait long. Bertrand’s hand suddenly clapped down to his pocket. Thomas saw the hand starting to come out again, and knew what it meant. If things weren’t going to get really ugly, he had one second, and he must not miss. The hand was out. The razor was opening.

He kicked. Thank God he was fast. Dalou’s hand jerked violently up as the razor flew into the air. With a cry of pain Dalou looked up, to see where his razor would fall. And that was his mistake.

It was time to end the fight. One more kick. A big one. With perfect speed and balance, Thomas struck. His heavy workman’s boot swung up into Bertrand’s groin with such a mighty impact that it lifted the eldest Dalou brother clean off the ground so that he seemed to hang in the air, like a rag doll, before falling to the ground.

Thomas circled him, looking down, ready to strike again, but there was no need. Bertrand Dalou was staying down.

It was over. Order, such as it was in the Maquis, had been restored. The Dalou gang wouldn’t be bothering his little brother anymore.

The Gascon family were happy that night. When Thomas had returned earlier in the day, his mother had fussed over his eye, which was rapidly turning black, but his father had understood. “It’s done?” he had inquired, and after Thomas had nodded, his father had said no more. Then his mother had informed them that she would be cooking a large meal for that evening, and disappeared with Nicole to the market. Luc had fallen asleep for a couple of hours.

By late afternoon, the rich smell of a ragout was filling their lodgings, and long before sundown they were sitting down to a feast. Onion soup, the food of the poor, but delicious for all that. Fresh baguettes from the bakers. Madame Gascon’s ragout would usually consist of pig’s trotters, vegetables and whatever seasoning she had, food that was as cheap as it was healthy. But today there were morsels of beef swimming in a sauce that was thicker than they had tasted in a long while. Then there was a Camembert, and a goat cheese, and a hard Gruyère, all washed down with cheap red wine.

Luc had quite got over his ordeal, and gave them an imitation of Antoine Dalou that had them all in stitches. Thomas told them about his encounter with Monsieur Eiffel, and what he had said about the Statue of Liberty. And then Luc suddenly piped up again.

“I want to live in America.”

This was met with protests.

“Will you leave us all behind?” asked his mother.

“I want you to come too,” said Luc. But nobody wanted to go.