She made a note of the fact on a sheet of paper that already contained a long list of names. I retreated to join other supplicants on a row of seats along one wall of the echoing space of marble and pillars that was the reception area of the town hall. The clock ticked away while we waited on the mayor’s convenience. Men in important positions often like to play games with time, and I hoped Monsieur le Maire was not one of them or I could be here all day. I pictured my father’s gardians digging down into the black earth while I sat staring at my white sandals.

But in exactly forty-five minutes the secretary walked over, the heels of her brown pre-war shoes tapping on the veined marble floor and, without actually looking at me, led me to a pair of large double doors. An official crest at the top and a doorknob that looked more like a cannonball announced the importance of the man behind the oak panels. The secretary knocked discreetly.

‘Enter,’ came a man’s voice.

She opened the door. I entered and she shut the door silently behind me. I was in a beautiful room, the kind of room that makes your thoughts grow into something bigger than you expected, with its high ceiling, cornices and gilded curlicues, and tall elegant windows of perfect proportions. No wonder they put the mayor in it. He certainly needed his thoughts to be big and elegant and in proportion. But it pained me that the furniture was so ugly.

‘Bonjour, Eloïse.’

The man behind the black desk rose to his feet, strode across the room with arm outstretched and shook my hand with sufficient force to impress on me how important he had become since I’d last seen him.

‘Bonjour, Monsieur le Maire.’

There. His full title. He could release my hand now. Under the cover of smiles, we studied each other. He was still a handsome man, in his fifties now, but lean and upright with a bearing that hinted at a military background. His hair was dark with silvery threads but a little too carefully groomed for my liking. His smile was a politician’s, broad and welcoming, but could not erase the permanent crease of irritation that crossed his high forehead. His suit was exquisite.

He paid my scar no more attention than he would a bramble scratch. I asked myself why he had agreed to see me, this busy man, with a queue of people outside his office waiting for his attention. The answer came easily – it was because I was the daughter of Aristide Caussade.

What did he want from me?

He stepped back with a light laugh. ‘I remember a time when you ran round in grubby riding trousers and a black gardian hat, but now look at you. Très chic.’