I would have imagined her differently. Blonde and blue-eyed, with a round and open smiling face, she did not look like a typical southerner. German, maybe, or Scandinavian, I thought. “Madame Thomas-Caraman?” I asked cautiously. Neither the door nor the bell indicated the name of the inhabitant of this small two-story house, number twelve on a street off a boulevard that separated the historic town center from more recent neighborhoods. “Mais oui, c’est bien moi,” she replied warmly, ushering me into the hallway. From archival documents, I had calculated that she must be sixty-three years old, but she looked younger. A face without wrinkles, carefully enhanced with makeup, a necklace and patterned blouse matching the color of her eyes.