As they passed the A l’Aube d’un Hôtel, three boys on the verge of manhood tumbled out of the front room and crowded around Yves. His friends were so quickly introduced that Jane only caught the name of M. Giroux, a slight, bookish fellow who was the only one to pause long enough to acknowledge the introductions. The other boys were all for charging ahead into the centre of town.

Their enthusiasm was infectious, and the Chastain party quickened their pace, soon arriving in the square at town’s centre. A stage had been erected and glamours hung from it, making it seem to glow in the night. Added to that were lanterns to light the speakers, and that, along with the orange banners, made a sort of pyre of spectacle. The bourgmestre approached the front of the stage with M. Chastain directly behind him, in position to amplify his words to the crowd. The substance of the speech was what one might expect at such an occasion, full of rhetoric about glorious history and unity and other empty phrases which politicians bring to any ceremony, stripping the meaning from even the most important events. Jane peered around, seeking Vincent, but he was not immediately obvious, so she fixed her attention on Yves.

One of the boys asked how long the speeches would last. Yves shrugged in response. ‘The old man only talked about the glamour. I found out about the fireworks from Giroux.’

They spoke some more of wishing to see the fireworks, but their words carried no shocking disclosures. As the bourgmestre wrapped up his speech, Yves nudged M. Giroux with his elbow. ‘Fireworks now, eh?’

A shout rose from the crowd. Rather than fireworks, an enormous glamour blossomed almost directly above them. A massive French tricolour flag as it had appeared under Napoleon’s reign waved over the crowd. Honeybees swarmed around it, dancing a beautiful fleur-de-lis in the air, and the French national anthem seemed to trumpet through the square, overpowering the last of the bourgmestre’s words. Shocked into silence, the bourgmestre could only stare at the phenomenon. The glamourists on the platform were less sanguine. M. Chastain abandoned his place by the bourgmestre. Pointing, he shouted at his students to find the rogue glamourist and stop the display.

On a second-story balcony of the building in front of which Jane and her companions stood, a young woman leaned against the wall in a stance designed to mimic insouciance. From the stage, she must be obscured by the glamour, and even Jane’s position offered little but the woman’s chin and hands. Her fingers moved in familiar patterns, which made Jane certain that she was working the glamour, though to manage so large a display, she must surely have help.