‘I’m sure I will,’ replied Annette, and with the key safely in her pocket she shook his hand and left his office.

They boarded a second omnibus, which took them to Les Halles, from where Annette was able to lead Hélène to the apartment house with its butcher’s shop at the street level and three storeys above. They were there. Simon Barnier was left behind and Hélène was free.

It was Annette who continued to take charge. She led the way upstairs, unlocked the apartment and threw open the front door. It smelled musty, and the heavy furniture was still in place, filling the rooms, but they could lock the door on the outside world.

*

Rosalie woke that morning with an unaccustomed heaviness in her heart. Hélène had been abnormally quiet at the family dinner last night. Was it prewedding nerves? she wondered. She thought of Hélène’s nightmare two nights ago. Had that been triggered by something Simon had said or done when they were at Gavrineau? Surely nothing could have happened there with Annette in attendance. Simon was surely too cultured, too civilised, to have even mentioned the wedding night, let alone anything that might have sparked the return of the nightmare.

Thank goodness, Rosalie thought as she sat up in bed drinking the cup of chocolate Lizette had brought her, there had been no repetition of the nightmare last night. It would seem that Hélène had slept through, untroubled by dreams. Should she speak to Hélène again, explain a little more fully and try to get her to understand what her duties as a wife entailed, or was it better to leave it to Simon to teach her the ways of love? Rosalie took her breakfast in her room and considered the matter, but remained undecided.

She was not really surprised there was no sign of Hélène downstairs when she finally came down herself, but she wanted to be with her on her wedding morning and so she went back upstairs and knocked on the door. There was no reply to her first knock, nor a second one, so she tried the handle. The door, so recently mended, was locked.

‘Hélène,’ she called gently. ‘It’s Maman. Let me in, chérie.’

She knocked again and called more loudly, ‘Hélène, I need to talk to you.’ Still nothing. After one last knock, one further call, Rosalie gave up and went downstairs to find Emile.

‘Hélène’s locked herself into her bedroom again,’ she told him. ‘She doesn’t answer and she won’t come out. What are we going to do?’

‘I’ll deal with her,’ Emile said. ‘She’ll open the door to me.’ His knock was loud and long and echoed through the house, his voice strident with anger, but there was still no response from inside the bedroom. Frustrated at being defied and being seen to be defied, he turned on Rosalie.

‘Get Pierre up here and tell him to bring that crowbar.’

Moments later Pierre appeared carrying the crowbar and before long, for a second time, he broke the lock so that the door swung open. Emile pushed him aside and strode into the room, only to find it empty, the bed unslept in, the ashes in the fireplace cold. He flung open the wardrobe door as if Hélène might be hiding inside, but all he found was the fur coat and the other clothes she had left behind.