As the siren that sounded noon began its soaring whine over the town, Bruno stood to attention before the Mairie and wondered if this had been the same sound that had signalled the coming of the Germans. Images of ancient newsreels came to mind: diving Stukas, people dashing for aid raid shelters, the victorious Wehrmacht marching through the Arc de Triomphe in 1940 to stamp their jackboots on the Champs-Elysйes and launch the conquest of Paris. Well, he thought, this was the day of revenge, the eighth of May, when France celebrated her eventual victory, and although some said it was old-fashioned and unfriendly in these days of Europe, the town of St Denis remembered the Liberation with an annual parade of its venerable veterans.

Bruno had posted the Route Barrйe signs to block the side road and ensured that the floral wreaths had been delivered. He had donned his tie and polished his shoes and the peak of his cap. He had warned the old men in both cafйs that the time was approaching and had brought up the flags from the cellar beneath the Mairie. The Mayor himself stood waiting, the sash of office across his chest and the little red rosette of the Lйgion d’Honneur in his lapel. The gendarmes were holding up the impatient traffic, while housewives grumbled that their bags were getting heavy and kept asking when they could cross the road.