The man wasn’t trying to mystify Franck; he just assumed Franck would know what he meant, when in fact he had no idea. Franck suggested they have a coffee but the younger one declined, claiming they had to go before it got too warm. Clearly the dogs were hot. The older man wasn’t even looking at him any more. The two men got into the 4×4 and the driver asked Franck, ‘Are you on holiday?’

‘Yes.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘Near Mont d’Orcières.’

The young guy seemed surprised, almost shocked.

‘At the top?’

Franck didn’t know what to make of this reaction. He didn’t dare say exactly where it was, and, besides, the engine started up loudly at this point.

‘No, below. Why?’

‘No reason. But don’t spend too much time up there, it’s full of beasts!’

The older one was making no attempt to hide his annoyance now and urged the driver to leave, taking his arm and telling him to drop the subject. The younger man started to manoeuvre, but Franck persisted, holding on to the car door, ‘Beasts … What do you mean by that?’

‘Once you’re up there it’s a straight line to the Massif Central and the Alps … Directly east! So there’s everything – wolves, wild boar, lynxes – it’s a savannah, and there are some people with strange hunting habits, if you know what I mean …’

‘No, I don’t.’

The older one finally lost his temper and shouted at the driver: ‘For God’s sake, Julien, let’s go!’

‘It’s the Wild West up there, the real Wild West!’

Franck still had his hands on the frame of the car door when the Land Rover pulled out, leaving him standing there. The exhaust pipe belched out a large black cloud and the pickup drove off, backfiring hoarsely and making an unpleasant raucous noise. The dogs were standing tall in the cage in the back, keeping their balance, with their fluorescent collars and rather unwelcoming expressions.

Franck felt just as lost as a character in the kind of film he might have produced, the naïve wanderer who has just been done over by two cowboys, two locals who had said too much. And now he would have to fear them, to worry about bumping into them or their cronies. In fact, he felt threatened.

Franck turned back to the café. The owner behind the counter, a tall guy with a nose piercing, who hadn’t said a word to him until now, caught his eye. Franck sensed disapproval, as if he’d just been speaking with criminals.

‘Do you know them?’ asked the owner.

‘I’ve just met them … Do you?’

‘I don’t talk to meat men. Haven’t you seen the menu?’