Franck needed to print out scripts the old-fashioned way in order to read and make notes on them. Rémy only had one old inkjet printer in a little nook behind the bar, and more problematically, only half a pack of paper. But he told him about Sören, an illustrator who lived on an isolated old farm ten kilometres from Limogne, and who would be happy to print everything he wanted for him, as long as he offered to pay. Franck gathered that this was the kind of place where people helped each other out and made do. When he explained that he worked in the film industry, that he was a producer, Rémy’s eyes lit up. Franck regretted saying this, especially as people could see him driving around here in an Audi Q7, not because he was worried about them noticing him, or thinking he was loaded, but because he was worried that they would come to him with their proposals and make demands of him. They would talk to him about such and such a project or actor who needed a role. But no. Rémy simply noted down the name of the place where Sören lived on a Post-it, adding a little drawing of the route, because it was tricky to find. He even called the illustrator while Franck was there to find out if he could print the scripts. He could. Three euros each, which indicated that they were not trying to rip him off but just to help him out.

Franck asked Rémy what he thought of Mont d’Orcières, whether the place had a particular reputation.

‘Orcières? Well, there’s nothing there any more.’

‘Yes, there’s a gîte.’

‘The one at the top? They’re renting it out? That’s a first.’

‘You didn’t know?’

‘No. Nobody ever goes up there, the road’s terrible, and there’s nothing in that shack – I don’t even know if there’s water. How did you find it?’

‘An internet ad.’

‘On the internet? That’s crazy; the old woman must be more than a hundred years old.’

‘Do you know her?’

‘No, she’s lived in Spain for years, I’ve never met her. Anyway, once you’re up there there’s nothing, not even a river, and the paths aren’t well looked after; you couldn’t even go dirt biking there when we were kids … No, that place is wild. Apart from the dodgy hunting there’s nothing there; it’s all abandoned.’