“Now they rose above the corpse which was still hidden from view, now they settled on it. And in the stillness of an early summer’s afternoon, their sound was constant. Alarmed, St-Cyr held his breath. Nothing stirred but those damned flies. ‘Hermann, a moment,’ he breathed. ‘Be my guest,’ softly grunted the Bavarian in guttural French that was still improving. ‘She’s all yours.’ ‘She?’ ‘It’s just a thought. Rape and then silence, eh? That hangdog truffle hunter who reported this should have tak...en a closer look.’ ‘Perhaps he did but was afraid to admit it.’ ‘Perhaps that sow he uses to find his truffles stuck her snout into something she shouldn’t have.’ Ah merde, must Hermann? ‘In the Dordogne, as elsewhere, my friend, the fall is the time for truffles. Don’t tempt the pig before the fungus is ripe. That hunter might just have been checking the ground but not with his pig!’ The forest canopy had opened, ferns giving way to saxifrage and vetch whose soft blue and pale purple flowers were tangled among the tall grass, swaths of which had been beaten down.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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