Anton held out his hand. ‘Thank you.’

‘Will you join us for dinner tonight?’

‘No. No. I’m not hungry.’

‘I’ll ask the maid to take something to your room later. In case you change your mind.’

The diary was the size of an ordinary book with a soft black leather cover and lined paper. Delphine had written the date in blue ink at the top when she’d made an entry, of which there were no more than forty. It was a joy to see her handwriting. It was the first evidence of her that his eyes had had since the day he’d left for the Caillaux trial nearly twenty years before; he could almost hear her voice in the open vowels, see her smile in the swirl of consonants.

He sat on the metal-framed bed and held the diary in his hand, for a moment unwilling to open it, afraid of what he might read.

At least he knew why she hadn’t written. She had been held in a camp where letters were forbidden; then she had been watched in the village, still not allowed to write. He had the impression that things had become easier; that there had come a day when she could have posted a letter, even if she had had to ask one of the others to do it for her. But by then she had decided not to reopen communication. Would it help him to understand why she had made that choice? Or was this another box of pain better left closed? He knew what Martha would say. That only he could decide.

The other thing he had established was that Delphine was thirty-seven when they met, eleven years older than he was. He had thought the difference to be nearer seven or eight. But it hardly seemed to matter now.

He drank some schnapps from his travelling flask and opened the diary.