I followed her gaze. The gardener was cleaning the rake out front of the gatekeeper’s house. He was pulling off the dead leaves and dry grass. So his name was Daniel.

“Daniel, yes.”

I saw her making up her mind. Something clicked and she went into a different mode of hospitality. “What an amazing coincidence. I wasn’t always a Vaugeois.” She showed me the ring. “I married Gilles Vaugeois. So, I wouldn’t have known your mother.” Her mouth turned down. “Gilles is poorly at the moment. You’ll forgive me, but he is probably best left alone.” She placed her hands on my shoulders. “But you stay for lunch. You will meet the priest. I must prepare. Please come in. Father Bousquet will be arriving. I’m sure he will be happy to speak with you. Come.”

I retrieved my backpack from over by the rocking chair. Vaugeois saw it. “Are you staying?”

“No. I’ve got a train to catch tonight.”

She relaxed. “Bon. We will send you away with a very nice lunch.” A modest white Volkswagen pulled up behind the Mercedes. She lifted up on her toes and back. “Voila. The priest.”

* * *

Father Bousquet stabbed at a roasted potato. He was tall and broad and around Simone’s age. He had a full head of white hair and a wild look, subdued by the years. He was dressed casually in a blue shirt and slacks. He was scrupulously clean-shaven.

Madame Vaugeois said, “Father Bousquet visits every week. He likes to look in on us.”

Bousquet said, “I enjoy your company, madame, that’s all.”

Vaugeois said, “And to make sure I’m still around.”

“Not at all.”

Simone had already put down quite a few glasses of red. She turned to me, happy to explain things. “Father Bousquet and I have a special project. Don’t we, Father?”

Bousquet put down his fork and looked up from the plate. “We organize a small charity for the migrants up north. Madame Vaugeois is a most important supporter. Many people from the southern countries are currently attempting to reach the United Kingdom. They cannot easily cross the Channel and we end up with large amounts of refugees in makeshift camps and rather terrible conditions. I’m sure you have heard.”

I said, “Alencourt is pretty far from the coast.”

“A few hundred kilometers. But the train station here is a hub for the region. We often have people passing through. Quite a few of them migrants.”

Simone Vaugeois waved a silver-plated fork in the air. “It’s a human tragedy. The tragedy of our time. We already have enough of them here and no one knows what to do with the new ones.”

I said, “You have migrants in Alencourt?”

Father Bousquet shook his head. “No, we don’t have camps here.”

Simone Vaugeois said, “I hate to say it but the cité is not far from being a migrant camp.”