The Germans.
They came in a tidy black car, quiet and efficient, just like them. A German couple, passing through on their way to somewhere else. He wore a suit and she had a colourful dress. They spoke softly, but with purpose.
They chose the bench near the linden tree, unpacked a neat picnic—rye bread, cheese, hard-boiled eggs, potato salad, and something in a glass jar. Everything arranged just so, on a clean cloth. A proper German picnic, someone said.
They ate in silence, glancing now and then at the shuttered windows.
Then they packed up, nodded politely to no one in particular, and drove off.
That was the summer Saint-Mystère stopped appearing in brochures.