They reach the field of battle, the boulevard de la Fonçére, where, on either side of the immense avenue, a double row of flower-bedecked coaches weaves back and forth in an endless ribbon. Flowers are thrown from one side to the other, flying in a shower through the air, landing on fresh young faces, then swirling and falling to the ground where a crowd of urchins swarms to pick them up.

A different, dense crowd standing on the pavements is held back by mounted police who roughly boot back the over-curious, making sure none of this riff-raff mixes with the quality. Noisy but good-humoured, the onlookers watch from the sidelines. From the carriages friends call out greetings and pelt each other with a hail of roses. All eyes are drawn to an attractive carriage full of young women all dressed in Mephistophelian red. A gentleman resembling Henri IV is having the time of his life tossing back and forth an enormous bouquet he has attached to a length of elastic. The young women shield their eyes against the barrage and the men bow their heads; the elegant missile describes a graceful curve and returns to its owner, who immediately aims it at yet another target.

The two young women empty their arsenal by the handful and receive another onslaught in return. After an hour or so of exchanges they are by now a little tired. They order their coachman to take them along the coast road, the Route du Golfe Juan.

The sun disappears behind the mountain of Esterel and its long, lace-edged silhouette is etched in black against a blazing sunset. A calm, bright blue sea stretches as far as the horizon where it merges with the sky. Ships of the fleet, anchored in the middle of the bay, ride motionless on the water like a flock of hunchbacked and armour-plated beasts of the Apocalypse, crested with slender, plume-like masts, and with eyes that glow in the dark.

The two young women, stretching out under the heavy rug, languidly survey the scene. Finally one speaks. ‘Everything’s so lovely, isn’t it, Margot? Specially on a beautiful evening like this!’

‘I suppose so, yes,’ the other replies, ‘but there’s always something missing, don’t you think?’

‘Like what? I’m perfectly happy as I am. Can’t think of anything else I’d like.’

‘Can’t you really? Then you’re just not thinking. However relaxed I feel, my heart always yearns for …’

‘A little love?’ says the other, smiling.

‘Yes, a little love.’

They fell silent looking directly ahead. Then the one called Margot murmurs: ‘Life’s just not worth living without it. For me, anyway. I need to be loved, if only by a dog. I’m sure we’re all like that, whatever you might say, Simone.’