What was to stop you going there again?’

Séverine was becoming increasingly uneasy. She avoided looking him in the eyes.

‘I didn’t fancy it,’ she said. ‘You can’t force me to do something I don’t want to do.’

Roubaud opened his arms, as if to say that he wasn’t forcing her to do anything. There was something she was keeping back, and he knew it.

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘you’re not telling the truth, are you? When you went last time, was Madame Bonnehon unpleasant to you?’

Not at all! Madame Bonnehon had always made her very welcome. What a lovely person she was — tall, well built, with beautiful blonde hair, and still remarkably good-looking, despite her fifty-five years. People said that since becoming a widow, and even while her husband was still alive, she’d had quite a few romances. Everybody at Doinville adored her. She made the château a place of sheer enchantment; and the whole of Rouen society used to come for visits, especially those in the legal profession. Many of Madame Bonnehon’s gentlemen friends were lawyers.

‘Were the Lachesnayes unkind to you? Come on, tell me.’

She had to admit that, since Berthe’s marriage to Monsieur de Lachesnaye, their friendship had not been what it used to be. Poor Berthe! Her looks didn’t improve. She was so plain, and she had a red nose! The good ladies of Rouen spoke very highly of her; she was a woman of distinction, they said. Being married to such an ugly, intractable, tight-fisted husband could so easily have rubbed off on her and made her as insufferable as him. But no, Berthe had been perfectly civil to her old friend, and Séverine wouldn’t hear a word said against her.

‘Well, then, it must be the President who’s done something to upset you,’ said Roubaud.

Séverine had been answering his questions quietly and calmly, but at this she suddenly flared up.

‘Don’t be stupid!’ she said sharply.

Her voice had suddenly become more agitated, and she spoke more quickly. You hardly ever saw him. He hid himself away in a cottage, in the grounds of the château, with a gate that opened on to a deserted country lane. He came and went as he pleased. No one ever knew whether he was there or not. He didn’t even tell his sister when he was coming. He took a carriage at Barentin, had himself driven to Doinville in the middle of the night, and then spent days on end shut up in his cottage without anyone knowing a thing about it ... He never bothered anybody!

‘I only asked because you’ve often said that when you were a child he used to scare you stiff.’

‘He didn’t scare me stiff, as you put it. Why must you always make things sound worse than they are? He didn’t laugh much, it’s true ... He had a way of staring you in the face, with his great big eyes ... it made you look away. I’ve seen people so nervous they couldn’t say a thing. Everyone was frightened of him because he was strict and very clever. But he never spoke unkindly to me. I always thought he had a soft spot for me ...’

She had begun to speak more slowly, with a dreamy, faraway look in her eyes.

‘I remember ... when I was a little girl, the children used to play together in the grounds. If we saw him coming, we’d all run away and hide; even his daughter, Berthe. She was always frightened she’d done something wrong.