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conducting an investigation into a soldier who is imprisoned in town, and whom you know.”
    Valentine understood perfectly but her only reaction was to blink. She was very self-composed.
    â€œHis name is Jacques Morlac.”
    It was rather stupid to name him because they both knew what this was about. The major was irritated with himself for playing this game, and to prove he could cope without it, he skipped a round and went straight to, “How did you meet him?”
    â€œHis farm wasn’t far from here.”
    â€œI thought . . . ”
    â€œYes, by road it’s quite a long way. But there’s a path that cuts through the ponds and gets you there in ten minutes.”
    â€œSo you’ve known him all your life,” Lantier stated rather than asking.
    â€œNo, because I wasn’t born here. I was fifteen when I moved here.”
    â€œI’ve heard your family was decimated by a measles epidemic.”
    â€œOnly my sister and my mother.”
    â€œAnd your father?”
    She looked away and clutched the fabric of her dress in her lap. Then she lifted her head and looked the officer squarely in the eye again.
    â€œAn illness.”
    â€œIs measles not an illness?”
    â€œA different one.”
    He could tell there was an embarrassment, a secret here, but didn’t want to push her confidences too far. After all, this was a meeting, not an interrogation. He had nothing to gain from putting her even more on the defensive.
    â€œSo you came here after your parents died. Why were you sent here?”
    â€œMy parents owned land in the area. And one of my great-aunts lived in this house. She took me in. When she died, two years later, I stayed on alone.”
    A fragrance hung in the air, not entirely successfully smothering the smell of saltpeter and of a wood fire gone cold. It was an eau de cologne, probably homemade, the sort you might associate with old maids and convents.
    â€œWhere did you live with your parents?”
    â€œIn Paris.”
    So that was it. Her misfortune was not to be living meagerly out here in the country, but to have experienced and hoped for another life. She was in exile in this isolated place. The books and reproductions were things she’d managed to save when the ship went down.
    â€œHow old were you when you met Morlac?”
    â€œEighteen.”
    â€œAnd how did you meet him?”
    Judging from her reaction, she thought this question intrusive. But she made herself answer it, as she had the others. Lantier got the impression she was a seasoned player at this game, and that her honesty was merely a screen, intended to hide what really mattered.
    â€œI still had livestock at the time, and I needed straw. I went to him to buy some. I guess we . . . liked each other.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you get married?”
    â€œWe were waiting for me to come of age. And then the war came along and he left.”
    â€œWith the dog?”
    Valentine burst out laughing. Lantier wouldn’t have guessed she could laugh like that, with such abandon and with a fleeting but very visible look of delight on her face. He thought she must love with the same intensity, and found the idea unsettling.
    â€œYes, with the dog. But what difference does that make?”
    â€œYou know what he’s been accused of?”
    â€œOh, that,” she shrugged. “He’s a hero, isn’t he? I don’t see why he’s being pestered over a trifle.”
    She said the word “hero” in an unusual way, as if using vocabulary borrowed from a foreign language.
    â€œIt’s not a trifle,” Lantier replied tartly. “It’s an outrage to the nation. But, granted, his merits in combat could be taken into account and the slate wiped clean. And that’s exactly what I’ve gone to considerable lengths to suggest to him. But we
would
need him not to be against the idea.”
    â€œWhat do you