I tugged on the bell and heard it ring deep inside the house. At first, nothing happened. Then I heard footsteps inside, coming closer, and the sound of a bolt being drawn back.

A snaggle-toothed old man, in a flat-collared shirt, a waistcoat and heavy brown country trousers peered out. White hair framed a lined, weather-beaten face.

‘Oui?’

I asked if there might be a room for the night. Monsieur Galy, or so I assumed, looked me up and down, but did not speak. Assuming my French was at fault, I pointed down at my wet clothes, the wound on my cheek, and began to explain about the accident on the mountain road.

‘Une chambre – pour ce soir seulement.’ One night only.

Without taking his eyes from my face, he shouted over his shoulder into the silence of the corridor behind him.

‘Madame Galy, viens ici! ’

From the gloom of the passageway, a stout middle-aged woman appeared, her wooden sabots clacking on the tiled floor. Her greying hair was parted in the centre and pulled off her forehead into a tight plait. It gave her a somewhat severe look, an impression reinforced by the fact that, save for her white apron, she was dressed entirely in black from head to toe. Even her thick woollen stockings, visible beneath the hem of her calf-length skirt, were black. But when I looked at her face, I saw she had an honest, open expression and kind brown eyes. When I smiled, she smiled warmly back.

Galy waved his hand to indicate I should explain once more. Again, I began to recite the litany of mishaps that had led me to Nulle. I did not mention the hunters.

To my relief, Madame Galy seemed to understand. After a brief and rattling conversation with her husband in a heavy dialect too thick for me to follow, she said of course they could provide a room for the night. She would also, she added, arrange for someone to accompany me into the mountains tomorrow to retrieve the automobile.

‘There is no one who could help now?’ I asked.

She gave an apologetic shrug and gestured over my shoulder. ‘It is too late.’

I turned and was astonished to see that, in the few minutes we’d been talking, dusk had stolen the remains of the day. I was on the point of remarking upon it, when Madame Galy continued to explain that, in any case, this particular day in December was the most important annual celebration of the year, la fête de Saint-Etienne, observed since the fourteenth century. I did not catch every word she said, but understood she was apologising for the fact that everyone was caught up in preparations for the evening’s festivities.

‘Il n’y a personne pour vous aider, monsieur.’

I smiled. ‘In which case, tomorrow it is.’

And I was reassured. No doubt, here was the reason for the strange, hushed silence of the village, for all the shops being closed, for the queer burning flambeaux in the square.

Beckoning for me to follow, Madame Galy clattered down the corridor. Monsieur Galy shut the front door and bolted it behind us. When I glanced back over my shoulder, he was still standing there frowning, his arms hanging loose by his sides. He seemed unhappy about the appearance of an unexpected guest, but I wasn’t going to let it bother me. I was here. Here I would stay.

There was a round switch for an electric light on the wall, but no bulbs in the ceiling fittings. Instead, the passage was lit by oil lamps, their small flames magnified by curved glass shades.

‘You have no power?’

‘The supply is not reliable, especially in winter. It comes and goes.’

‘But there is hot water?’ I asked. Now I was out of the cold, I was able to admit how utterly done in I was. My thighs and calves ached from my trek down into the village and I was chilled right through. More than anything, I wanted a long, warm bath.

‘Of course. We have an oil heater for that.’

We continued down the long corridor. I glanced into rooms where the doors stood open. All were empty. There were no sounds of conversation, of servants going about their duties.

‘Do you have many other guests?’

‘Not at present.’

I waited for her to elaborate, but she did not, and despite my curiosity, I did not press the point.

Madame Galy stopped in front of a high wooden desk at the foot of the stairs. I caught the smell of beeswax polish, a sharp reminder of the back stairs leading up to my childhood attic nursery that were so dangerous for boys in stockinged feet.

‘S’il vous plaît.’

She pushed an ancient register towards me. Leather binding, heavy cream paper with narrow blue feint lines. I glanced at the names above mine and saw that the last entries were in September. Had there been no one since then? I signed my name all the same. Formalities accomplished, Madame Galy chose a large, old-fashioned brass key from a row of six hooks on the wall, then took a lighted candle from the counter.

‘Par ici,’ she said.

I followed Madame Galy up the tiled staircase, twice catching the toes of my boots on the timber nose of the treads.

On the first landing, she held up the candle to illuminate a second flight of steps, and we stumbled on in Indian file, until she stopped in front of a panelled door and unlocked it.

‘I will have a fire made up.’

The room was bitterly cold, though it was clean and serviceable, with the same lingering smell of polish and dust as downstairs.

While Madame Galy lit the oil lamps from the candle, I looked around. A small writing table and cane-seated chair stood adjacent to the door. Straight ahead, two tall windows, floor to ceiling, filled one side of the room. Against the left-hand wall was an old-fashioned bed on wooden pallets. Brocade curtains, of the kind my grandmother used to have, sagged round the bed on brass rings. I tried the mattress with my hand. It was uneven and hard, with a hint of damp from lack of use, but it would do me well enough.

On the opposite side of the room was a heavy chest of drawers, a lace runner draped across the top, on which stood a large white china bowl and wash jug. Above it hung a gilt-framed mirror, its bevelled surface scratched around the sides.

The cut on my cheek had started to sting. I put my fingers up to the wound and felt the blood had congealed and hardened. I asked if I might have some ointment.

‘The smash,’ I said, feeling the need to explain. ‘Bumped my head on the dashboard.’

‘I will bring something up for it.’

‘It’s good of you. There is one more thing. I need to send a telegram to my friends in Ax-les-Thermes. ’

‘We have no telegraph office in Nulle, monsieur.’

‘Somewhere closer by, then? Is there perhaps someone with a telephone?’

Madame Galy shook her head. ‘In Tarascon, of course, but such conveniences have not yet come to the valley.’ She pointed at the table. ‘If you care to write a letter, I will send a boy to Ax in the morning. ’

‘Ax is closer?’

‘A little, yes.’

It still seemed an awfully long way to go, but if it was the only option, then so be it.

‘Thank you,’ I said, then shivered. ‘I don’t want to be a nuisance, but I was obliged to abandon my suitcase. In the car. So, if you had something I could borrow for the night, I’d be grateful.’

Madame Galy nodded. ‘I will find something for you to wear while your clothes are drying.’ She paused. ‘Should you wish to join us, monsieur, the celebration for la fête de Saint-Etienne will begin at ten o’clock. You would be most welcome.’

‘That’s kind of you, madame, but I would hate to intrude.’ Given the day I’d had, I thought it unlikely I’d even still be awake at ten o’clock.