“This will be a perfect spot to sleep,” she said.

“Aren’t you afraid of the cold?” he asked.

“Not in the least.”

“I can lend you the long johns if you want.”

“That’s very kind, but . . .”

“They’re thermal,” he insisted. “They’re guaranteed, even for the Far North.”

“Thank you,” she said gently. “My sleeping bag’s very warm. I could even use it in the snow if I wanted.”

The cat had gone, but from time to time they could see his blue eyes gleaming among the tombstones. The moon had risen and a few stars were already glittering in the sky.

“Good night,” she said. “Thank you for bringing me here and for not asking questions.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. “Good night!”

He took a few steps and then came back.

“If anything happens, do you know how to get to the campground? You take the road that follows the river and . . .”

“I know,” she said.

“Good night!” he said. “Sleep well!”

“You too!”

He hesitated briefly, then he said, “Good night to old chief Thayendanegea!”

“Good night!” the girl murmured, like an echo.

“Good night to his son Aheyouwehs and to his wife who has no name! And good night to Pauline Johnson!”

“Good night!”

“Good night to all those who sleep here!” he said again before he left.

“Good night to you and the old Volks,” she replied.

THE CAMPGROUND was on the shore of the Grand River. It was actually a huge park, one section of which had been fitted out for camping, with water, electricity, picnic tables and toilets.

Jack was parked close to the river, and he had no close neighbour. He spent an hour at the picnic table doing nothing but listening to the murmur of insects in the dark, dreaming vague dreams and munching chocolate cookies. Finally the mosquitoes and black flies forced him back inside the minibus. He turned on the radio and listened absently to the nine o’clock news and the weather forecast while studying a road map to see how far it was to the American border. Then he started reading one of La Grande Sauterelle’s books, The Indians of Canada, but that reminded him that he still didn’t have the faintest idea what his next novel would be about, so he closed the book, lowered the bench and lay on the bed with all his clothes on.

The man was very fond of the old Volks.

When he’d bought it, the year he’d won a literary prize, the Volks was already four years old and pitted with rust. He had rebuilt almost the entire underside of the body, using sheets of galvanized metal that he had cut, bent and rivetted in place, then he had repainted the vehicle with antirust paint. The thick metal and the heavy rivets made the minibus look like an armoured truck. Under the new metal, however, the rust continued to do its work, as you could see whenever the Volks drove out of a parking space: it left a fine powdering of rust on the ground.