Madame Yvonne came back, a tearful child straddled on one hip, a bowl of nuts and olives in her free hand which she slid on to the table. On her way out she just avoided collision with Marcel, her husband, who had served me on occasions and who set down a chipped plate with a large pale omelette fines herbes. At least, there was some parsley in the mixture, and with it a blue plastic bowl of salad. He extolled the virtues of the frisée which he had wrenched from his own garden soil, and set the oil, vinegar, sugar, mustard and spoons before us. Wishing us an excellent appetite, he went over to the truck driver who was picking his teeth with as much energy as he had consumed his cassoulet. They were sharing a carafe of red.

Florence began to mix her vinaigrette. ‘Your cod?’ she said.

‘Eat that. Before it gets cold. The cod is still frozen, I reckon.’

But Madame Yvonne arrived with my meal, shouting at Marcel to put on the TV for the Film Festival news. Which, unhappily, he did.

‘What day did you say your son arrives?’ Florence was forced to speak loudly to overcome the chattering woman with a lollipop-microphone talking to a busty blonde girl wearing diamonds in the sunshine.

The cod à la grecque was as disgusting as I had thought. I ate the bullet-olives, smeared the tomato around generally, forked at the sodden lump of fish, so that at least the plate looked as if I had made an effort. To complain would have meant a conversation; so I decided to carry on with the cheese and the bread. The cheese was a good Coulommiers, the bread fresh. We ate in silence.

Silence broken by the TV, of course, but after a short time it seemed that the constant chatter and twitter drove Marcel to anger; he was discussing some very hand-involved subject with the truck driver and suddenly sprang up and stopped the wretched thing. I thanked him. He looked bewildered, sat down again, casting uncomprehending eyes in our direction from time to time.

‘When does he arrive? This child?’ Florence had half finished her pallid omelette, set it aside, started to peel a wooden Golden Delicious.

‘Friday afternoon, I think. The sixteenth. Nice.’

‘Where will he stay? With you, obviously…’

‘With me obviously. Madame Mazine has a room. Almost next to mine. She was about to shove him in my room on a folding bed. But I drew the line at a nine-year-old sharing. With the lavatory down the corridor.’

Florence laughed. The first time in the morning. ‘He would probably sleep far better than you. At his age. At your age … well, the nights are broken, eh?’

‘It depends. Anyway, he’s got a room.’

‘I’m surprised. They are usually full at this time of year. Walkers. The elderly come here before the heat, you know? Archaeologists … there are places in the hills.’