It sharpened the contrast of orange-tiled roofs in their jumble against the bleached grey-white of the ruined fortress perched on the summit. St-Cyr stood alone on that hillside. Frost was in the air. Smoke trailed thinly from the village. Goats foraged amid snow-dusted clumps of mimosa and juniper. Grey-green, the scattered ilex and olive gave to the landscape some semblance of the once luxurious forest that had stood here in ancient times. Solitary pines cast long shadows as if that same forest had now all but been forgotten. Dédou Fratani had brought them in the hearse. Now the girl, Josette-Louise and Hermann waited in the cottage below. He tried to put himself into the shoes of that girl’s mother. A birthday – she’d been exactly fifty-two years old. Some sixty metres from her, the assailant had held the crossbow. They’d exchanged a few words. The woman had extended the pawn ticket. Viviane, I’ve always loved you. Viviane, forgive me, please. Viviane, you don’t understand.
