Forty-sevenAfter they watched the pigeons disappearing into the distance, Françoise and Philippe took what they could from the house, including some fruit, wine and bread, as well as water. They packed their saddlebags, Françoise rigging up a kind of sling to hold the massive sniper rifle in place. He examined each animal before choosing the best two. He set the third free and it galloped off, kicking and bucking, elated.
“Have you ever ridden a horse?” Françoise asked, the question coming to him with a sudden surge of concern. The horses were their only means of escape.
Philippe shuffled his feet around, “Once, at a village fair down in my home town of Guingamp. My parents put me on the back of a pony, but I didn't do so well.”
Françoise smiled, “How old were you? Ten?”
“Eight.”
“Oh.
