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I am even a little outraged on his behalf. What English male of nearly pensionable age bestirs himself to ensure that children are in beds of the proper sizes, even for a modest fee? Bertrand reappears and we are ushered inside. The house is as puzzle-like and perplexing inside as out. Its rooms all face different ways and seem to live in distinct eras. There is a kitchen out of a Victorian novel, with copper moulds and saucepans on the walls and an iron range in front of which I expect to see Mrs Beeton in a white apron and cap. There is a large, light,high-ceilinged room full of paintings and modern furniture like a Parisian atelier. There is a library like a cabinet, with a door concealed behind the shelves.
    Upstairs, at the end of a long, creaking passage, there is a semi-circular window that sheds a strange, spectral light. Our rooms are ghostly too: they have an air of occupation, with their antique beds and embroidered counterpanes, their oval mirrors and threadbare tapestry rugs. I stand at the window and see the dark, forested hill plunging downwards and the countryside far below that reaches on and on into its mounded, mysterious distances. It all seems familiar, though it is not: I feel that I have stood at this window a thousand times and looked out, as I am doing now. This was something I often felt as a child, when I would remember things I had read in books as though I had lived them myself. It never struck me that there was anything wrong with it, though it was disturbing. But sometimes I would read the book again to find what I had remembered so clearly, and discover that it was no longer there.
    Later, Bertrand invites us on to the terrace. The terrace has the same view as our bedroom upstairs: it is a view, Bertrand says, of the Ardèche, with its forests and gorges and massif . He goes back into the house and returns with an apéritif , an unlabelled bottle of effervescent rose-coloured wine. A friend of his, a friend who lives on the other side, towards the Rhône Alps, produces it. He thinks we will find that it is very good. Bertrand tells us that he is a native of Paris: until five years ago, he was a city banker. He retired early and bought this house. It was his dream to do so, aménagement included, for he needs to be active; besides, it seems natural to him to faire un succès with his time. He retains his Paris apartment: the friend with whom he shares this house is there now. Personally he does not like to go to Paris any more. He would rather be here. He gazes at his view with his melancholic childlike eyes. He has changed for dinner: he is wearing an immaculate white shirt and loafers and a navy cashmere sweater knotted round his shoulders. Hisfine white waving hair is combed back from his well-modelled face. He is tall and slender in his elderly cherubic beauty. The feeling of enchantment that pervades this house emanates, I now see, from Bertrand himself. He is like a maiden in a fairy tale, all modesty and correctness and virtuous industry, waiting forlornly in his tower.
    The children are in the garden with Nestor the dog. The blue pall of evening deepens around them in the trees. Finally, Bertrand suggests that we go in: it is getting dark. He is expecting more people but they have not yet arrived. It is irritating, for dinner must be at eight. He has informed these people of this fact: it is a shame they cannot be punctual. But some people are like that. There is no accounting for them. Distressed as he is, I venture to ask what he wishes me to do with the children. His large, orb-like eyes grow larger still. There can be no question: we will all eat together. The food is quite simple. It is merely a question of waiting for the reprobates to arrive. Shortly afterwards they do. They are a grey, narrow, pinched-looking couple: they have been walking all day in the Ardèche and misjudged the time it would take them to get back. It is a little inconvenient, cette loisir , is it not? And the