Feeling slightly rattled, Franck headed for the next road down. He was following the instructions to the organic shop the waiter at the bistro had given him. Unlike the market, the atmosphere in La Vie Claire was monastic, meditative in fact. It was reassuring to return to the silence and packaging he recognised: white cartons of soya milk, packets of pasta and fresh ravioli. The vegetables here were smaller than in the market, and a little more faded, more tired perhaps. Or sad; that was the feeling that came to him as he sorted through soft aubergines, carrots with dull tops, bulbs of fennel and tomatoes of all different sizes. He knew Lise liked colourful salads, made up of a bit of everything. In her opinion, the most important thing was that vegetables were organic, no matter what they looked like. He also got oil, salt, bread, butter, everything on the list she’d written for him, the very basics for a house with absolutely nothing. All the cupboards were empty; there wasn’t even soap or toilet roll. He couldn’t believe the house had been rented out to other people before them; they were surely the first. Or else the owners cleared it out every time, taking everything and removing all trace of the previous guests. He thought maybe Madame Dauclercq came on the sly to pick up anything that was left in the cupboards once the holidaymakers had gone. He didn’t trust that woman. She seemed strangely annoyed by the rental property, a business that wasn’t hers.

He joined the queue. There was only one till, and the electronic scale wasn’t working, so the six disgruntled people that had been in the shop when he arrived were now in single file in front of him. He could be here for some time.