“We’re not in the middle of nowhere. We’re on the D22 between Prasville and Voves, in the vast wheat-producing plains of the Beauce.”
The latter was certainly true. Fields stretched away from them into the night, heavy-eared stalks, ripe for harvest, rustling gently.
“The middle of the Beauce is the middle of nowhere,” Franck retorted. A chalky plateau about a hundred kilometres southwest of Paris, the Beauce was known for the fertility of its soil and its tedious flatness, relieved only – daylight permitting – by the distant spire of Chartres cathedral.
