“She’s doing well. The girl knows how to go about it.”

Since Séverine doesn’t answer, the old woman adds, “She gets respect, don’t kid yourself.”

“I don’t kid myself.”

“You think you’re better than her. You think you’re better than everybody.”

Séverine is suddenly overwhelmed with extreme tiredness, more extreme than the kind caused by lack of sleep, the lack of peace that sometimes afflicts her in the middle of the night. She looks up into her mother’s eyes, pale blue and hard. She sighs. The old woman glances at the clock.

“What time do you start work?”

“Half an hour.”

A silence, to estimate the small bundle of minutes, work out if there’s enough time to spit out a few home truths, spoil the taste of the coffee.

“Let me remind you, you weren’t much older.”

“So? Did you jump for joy?”

“No.”

“Were you proud? Were you happy?”

The old woman does not reply, her wrinkled smile frozen like a mask.

“It happened, that’s all.”

“It happened, so it might as well happen again, right?”

“There’s nothing you can do about it now, can you? It’s not like this child’s going to swim back up into his father’s balls.”

Her eyes search Séverine, looking for an answer nobody has except Céline.

“We don’t know who it is. She won’t say. And you know something? Maybe she’s right. Maybe he’s not worth knowing.”

“That’s not the point,” the old woman replies cuttingly.

“Then what is the point?”

“Dishonour, my girl. Tongues wagging, neighbours. The child, have you thought about the child?”

Séverine shakes her head, searching for help in a sip of coffee that’s already lukewarm and revolting. Cheap coffee, always the same, because every little helps. And a rolling stone gathers no moss. And better a bird in the hand than two in the bush. And shit!

She downs the rest of the coffee from the pottery mug like a shot of vodka, throat open, elbow sticking out.

The old woman takes advantage. “Manuel married you, at least.”

“Fuck, Maman, we’re not talking about me, we’re talking about Céline!”

“You’d better not use that tone with me, otherwise —”

“Otherwise what?”

“Otherwise I’ll call your father.”

She’s walking – practically running – to the car when Pascal catches her by the arm. She frees herself with a violent jerk.

“Idiot! You scared me.”

“It’s only me.”

“Well, give some kind of warning. You can’t leap on people like that.”

He smiles sheepishly. “I just wanted to know how you’re doing.”

“All right.”

She opens the car door, dismissing him abruptly. The man pulls his head into his shoulders but cocks it to the side, smiling at an angle. He has the morning light in his eyes, making them look more bronze than brown. She remembers she used to be quite fond of him.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re on edge. Is it your daughter?”

Behind Pascal, the workers are setting off to the field of apple trees.

“You should go. You know what my father’s like.”