Franck found himself in a long dark corridor where it felt cool. Madame Dauclercq emerged from another room and shook his hand, no friendlier than before. She gestured towards a crate on the floor.

‘There you go, your beans. And your twelve eggs.’

Franck looked surprised.

‘It was beans and eggs that your wife asked for yesterday, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, that’s right. Perfect.’

Franck paid them what he owed; he didn’t have time to do the maths or work out if it was cheaper than at the market, but she only gave him two coins in return for a twenty-euro note. He left hurriedly with his crate, and his eggs wrapped in twos in newspaper. They hadn’t asked him to sit down or offered him a drink, and to be honest, it was better that way. He didn’t want to spend any time with them. He put the beans in the boot, feeling almost guilty about all the La Vie Claire bags piled up inside; guilty for having bought so many vegetables from competitors. Franck felt the man’s eyes on his back. He had stayed on the doorstep, watching from a distance. Franck paused before getting in the car, turning around and waving goodbye. ‘Well, thank you.’

The man didn’t say anything but came towards Franck, scratching his head. He gazed at the car, studying it as if it was something extraordinary. In some ways, it was. Then he pointed at the new scratches and marks on its bodywork.

‘Tell me, isn’t it too big to get up there?’

‘Yes, there are some places where there’s only just enough room to get through. Mind you, there’s three hundred horsepower in that engine.’

Franck thought that would be a conversation starter and the man would follow up with another question. Three hundred horsepower should have impressed him, but, no, he just walked around the car, evidently doubtful, and placed his hand on the bodywork as if it was some livestock he was weighing up. Franck felt obliged to say something.

‘How long has the village at the foot of the hill been deserted?’

‘Since the war.’

‘The war? Which war?’

‘The first of course.’

‘You’re not telling me that the war came to this region in 1914!’

‘Not here. But to Orcières, yes.’

At that point, Madame Dauclercq came out of the house with a tea towel and a knife in her hand. Her husband looked at her. She took a moment before saying, calmly: ‘Paul. Come and eat.’

Monsieur Dauclercq didn’t reply. He looked away from the car and straight at Franck.

‘It was carnage, let me tell you, carnage.’

‘Oh really? What happened?’

‘You know it’s animal territory up there; it’s not made for man. Do you know that?’

‘What do you mean?’