After six months in Paris, George was in no way immune to stories from antiquity, and the écrivain-manqué in him enjoyed the fanciful explanation for the naming of the mountains to the more prosaic offerings of the men of science. But the most romantic part of the story was yet to be told. What was peculiar, Sandall added, was that there was one cave within Lombrives where a limestone deposit had formed a structure in the shape of a tomb or a sarcophagus. And although, as he had said previously, the temperature was constant within the labyrinthine networks of tunnels and openings, in times of drought the water that dripped constantly through the caves did dry up – except in this one chamber. As if, or so the local people said, the mountain itself was mourning.

‘The Tombe of Pyrène?’ George suggested.

‘Quite so. A tribute to the endless grief of Heracles for his lost lover.’

As the two men lingered on the ancient mountainside a while longer, George thought of his fiancée waiting for him in Sussex: Miss Anne Purfew, pretty and flighty. And though he knew his love was not equal to that of Heracles for his Pyrène, he would be a constant husband, steady. He smiled, then, his thoughts moving quickly to the son they would have, then the daughter too. Of how hard he would strive to be a better father than his own had been to him. Less distant, more affectionate. How he and young George would go walking, on the Sussex Downs and perhaps in the French Pyrenees. Of how he would instil in his boy a love of France. And, at home, as the winter evenings drew in, how his little girl would play the piano and he would be charmed. It would be a quiet life, no surprises, but a contented life. Safe in hearth and home. Away from the dust and the blood and the flies that had marked his youth.

George thought of his mother’s wedding ring patiently sitting in a vault in the family solicitor’s offices overlooking the West Door of the cathedral in Chichester. He was resolved now. The decision was made. He would present himself to Colonel Purfew at the first opportunity on his return to England. And from that all of his life would follow. It was time to go back. January 1892 would find him at home.

Sandall stood up. ‘Are you ready to go on, sir?’

‘How much further?’

‘Quite a way, sir. Pretty steep from here on.’

George looked up at the bare rock. Suddenly the sadness of the story seemed too real. A chill came over him, despite the warmth of the afternoon. He shook his head.

‘No,’ he said. Going further felt impossible. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

Sandall nodded, as if not surprised. They turned their backs and walked away. Leaving the place where, still, the mountain wept for Pyrène.

Kate Mosse Sussex, August 2009