Suddenly he became aware of chirruping sounds rising like a wave from the ground, and adding to his anxiety. It started with one cicada, then another over there, and then hundreds. The clamour enveloped everything in its repetitious hysteria of mingled song springing up from everywhere … Perhaps the horn had woken them up, but in any case, they all came together in one cacophony. When he had left that morning, he hadn’t noticed the frenetic noises now filling the air; in the morning cicadas don’t stir. But now in the sunshine, the waves of sound were like an extra element in the atmosphere, so high-pitched that they rushed into his ears like a stream of water and encircled his brain. Perhaps their song got ten times louder on the stroke of noon; perhaps that was when they were at their most powerful – or else it was just his own fear taking hold of him like a migraine. He tried to get a grip. He repeated to himself what Lise would have said had she been there: ‘Franck, calm down, don’t worry. Get everything out of the boot and put it in the shade or in the fridge. I’m coming …’