Advancing slightly, she discovered the little building, the much-discussed winegrower’s house that everyone said was under a magic spell. It was a simple, modest house, but splendid in its isolation. It nestled proudly on its hill, a house that did not seem to fit the man who lived there with his imposing beasts.

By coming this far she thought her mere presence would be enough to set things off, that it was enough for her to set onto his land for the lion tamer to welcome her or turn away from her. No matter: she would take the slightest gesture or acknowledgement from the man as an act of love. Even if he pushed her away, the sensation, although fleeting and disappointing, would be more invigorating than a life spent beside a dead body, a husband now even more absent in death.

The absence of humanity weighed heavily on the place; it was too hot for the big cats to be in the display cage, and the growling of the eight felines hiding in their house, in the shade of the two big red-and-gold caravans parked under the oak trees, made the atmosphere rather eerie. Because of the blinding light, Joséphine could not see the animals clearly now, but she could make out their bulky shapes, and she felt their presence all around. The meat-eating monsters made silken but terrifying noises. The large round cage at the back was empty. Joséphine recognised it; it was the one he had had at the circus, the one in which he performed his acts. There was a dismantled cage nearby, the extension gates flat on the ground. When she saw that, she wondered if one day he would join a circus again, if life, including the performances of these captive lions, would start up again as if nothing had happened.

She found it strange that he was not there. It would have been improper to call him – besides how would she address him? She couldn’t call him Wolfgang – perhaps Monsieur. Or she could just call, ‘Anyone there?’ She went closer to the house; it was as scary as going up to the lions. She was astonished to find window boxes of bellflowers and gardenias at the windows for she knew how much delicate care it took to make those flowers grow. She leant forward to sniff them; the smell of gardenias was as complex as any of the best perfumes, a perfume so subtle and gentle that it was like a personal statement. The shutters were folded over the window, a little open, to create a draught. Through the small gap she could tell that the house was in darkness; it seemed that no one was there. Even so it would be rude to knock on the shutter.