Neither of us said anything. Colette phoned from the Moulin-Neuf; everything was fine there. "When are you going to go and visit Colette?" Helene reproached me for my laziness.

"It's far," I replied.

"You old owl ... No one can lure you out of your nest. To think there was a time when ... When I think about how you used to live among natives, Lord knows where . . . and now, to go to Mont-Tharaud or the Moulin-Neuf, it's far," she repeated, mocking me. "You must see them, Sylvestre. Those dear children are so happy. Colette looks after the farm; they have a model dairy. When she lived here she was a bit listless, she pampered herself. Now that she has her own house she's the first one up, pitching in, taking care of everything. Dorin's father completely renovated the Moulin-Neuf before he died. Naturally, it's out of the question to sell it: the mill has been in his family for a hundred and fifty years. They can take things slowly; they have everything they need to be happy: work and youth."

She continued talking about them, imagining the future and already picturing Colette's children. Outside, the great cedar tree heavy with snow creaked and groaned. At nine thirty, she suddenly stopped talking.

Then she said, "This is very strange. He should have been home by seven o'clock."

She wasn't hungry any more; she pushed her plate away and we waited in silence. But the evening passed and still he wasn't home.

Helene looked up at me. "When a woman loves her husband as I love Francois, she shouldn't outlive him. He's older than me and not as strong . . . Sometimes, I'm afraid."

She threw a log on to the fire.

"Ah, dear friend, when something happens in life, do you ever think about the moment that caused it, the seed from which it grew? How can I explain it . . . Imagine a field being sowed and all the promise that's contained in a grain of wheat, all the future harvests ... Well, it's exactly the same in life.