Julien waited until the dark began to sift down, then he came out from behind the hedge. There was already snow in the high mountains, and a chill in the air even here. He went up to the house and stood at the door listening. Nothing, so he pushed the door open, slowly, with the caution he’d learned over the last few years. The front room looked unexceptional, except when he raised his eyes he saw Monsieur Félix hanging dead from a rope thrown over the old wooden beam that crossed the ceiling. Julien covered his mouth and nose with his hand because of the smell. He was paralyzed, and for a moment the ringing in his ears overcame him. He thought he might faint. More than anything he wished Victor were with him. His brother would have known what to do. Now he had no choice but to pull himself together and go on through the house.

You are in a dream. And there are rules even then. In a dream you walk softly, you keep your eyes open, you’re ready to run, or do what you must. You stay alive.

The kitchen had been ransacked and was in wild disarray, the floor littered with powdery flour and dried beans. The Germans had been alerted to this place; perhaps the postman had been caught and interrogated, for they had clearly been searching for something. Julien did his best to find the papers, as he thought Monsieur Félix would wish him to. He tried to think as the old man might have, opening drawers, searching the pantry, daring to look through the front room, where the body was, avoiding glancing at it as best he could. He felt the weight of death, the deepness of it, the realness of it, how human people were, even in the throes of death, for the old man had soiled himself.

When Julien reached the top of the stairs, his chest was so tight he could hardly breathe. He went onward, opening the door to Monsieur Félix’s bedchamber, even though he was rattled down to his core, with the desire to run taking hold. Still, he went forward. He expected to see a murdered woman, or face a soldier who had been left behind, and he burst into wild laughter when at last he spied what was in the room. There was Bluebell, the farmer’s little goat, tied to the bedpost, kept out of the way to ensure she wouldn’t come to harm. She must have been silent, perhaps sleeping, when the soldiers had come. Now she was restless, confused as to why she’d been kept in the house for so long.

“Well, you’re definitely alive,” Julien said. He untied her, and the little goat leaned her head against him. She had green eyes and was very quiet. Perhaps she knew what had befallen her owner.