Occasionally we came across a car crawling along the road in the snow. Helene looked anxiously inside and shouted "Francois!" but no one answered. She didn't seem tired. She walked on, undaunted, striding along the icy road, in the dead of night, between two banks of snow, without stumbling or losing her footing a single time. I wondered what her face would look like if we got to Buire and Francois wasn't there.

But she wasn't wrong. It was indeed his car that had crashed near the lake. In the farmhouse, stretched out on a large bed near the fire, we found Francois, with a broken leg and burning with fever. When we came in he let out a weak cry of joy. "Oh, Helene . . . Why? You shouldn't have come . . . We were going to wait for a horse and cart to take me back home. It was very silly of you to come," he said again.

But as she uncovered his leg and began to dress it with her skilful, gentle touch (she'd been a nurse during the war), I saw him take her hand. "I knew you'd come," he whispered. "I was in pain and I was calling out your name."

FRANCOIS HAD TO STAY IN BED all winter; his leg was broken in two places. There were complications, I'm not sure of the details . . . He's only been up and about for a week now.

WE'VE HAD A VERY COLD SUMMER and not much fruit. Nothing new has happened locally. My cousin

Colette Dorin gave birth on 20 September. A boy. I'd only been to the Moulin-Neuf once since their wedding. I went again when the child was born. Helene was with her daughter. Now it's winter again-a monotonous time of year. The Oriental proverb that says "the days drag on while the years fly by" is truer here than anywhere else.