At the age of seventy, he had unscrewed the brass plaque on his gate and informed the villagers that he would no longer be treating them. In spite of their protests, Samuel Heymann had refused to change his mind: he was retiring, and his neighbors would now have to travel three miles to Mettet, where a competent, newly trained young colleague had just settled. For half a century, nobody had had any complaints about Dr. Heymann, but nobody really knew him. When I settled in the village, all I was able to find out about him was that after his wife’s death, he had raised his daughter by himself, and that he had always lived with the same dog. “The same one?” I asked in some astonishment. “Yes, monsieur, the same,” replied the owner of the Pétrelle, the only café, which was situated opposite the church. “A Beauceron.” Not knowing if he was pulling my leg, I cautiously said, “A Beauceron usually lives . . .
