When I left Louis’s room after telling him, with much forced laughter, about the lewd antics of his mother and grandmother at the Paul Éluard High School, I was exhausted.

I needed to sit down, right there in the corridor, on the fourth floor. Just for a moment. That morning, I’d become aware of a detail which, as the day went by, had taken on a growing importance in my mind. Louis had seen almost nothing of the month of January 2017. He’d spent it in this room – room 405 – the decor of which made me feel ill.

I was sick of the sight of that window that afforded nothing but a dismal vista of geometric concrete blocks overlooking a greyish boulevard. Sick, too, of the green lino floor, of those walls, where stickers of laughing birds, weird spaceships and delicate flowers were supposed to distract from the suffocating smell of disinfectant. I’d had enough of the forced poetry, the feigned cheerfulness with which I filled the room, those smiling photos that contrasted painfully with the cries and moans that could sometimes be heard coming from the other end of the corridor. I’d had enough of all those tubes preventing me from touching my beautiful son. And I couldn’t bear the thought that Louis might never see the spring again.

I found all these thoughts agonizing. Most of the time, I managed to keep them at bay, but the closer we were to 18 February – in other words, one month to the day from Dr Beaugrand’s grim ultimatum – the heavier my sense of dread. Louis had to wake up now. Later would be too late. The crushing coldness of his absence would gradually kill me. I would not survive the arrival of a spring without him. Spring would be my physical and emotional limit.

Slumped in that uncomfortable hospital chair, lost in my thoughts, I’d adopted a position that, at first sight, looked like one of despair. My bowed head was cupped in my palms, and my fingers were making slow circular movements over my scalp. I gave myself a massage to stop myself from sinking into hopelessness. This was only the beginning of February. I had seventeen days left to rouse my son; I had to keep going.

I hadn’t heard Charlotte approach and I jumped when she softly broke into my thoughts.

‘Are you all right?’

‘You gave me a fright . . . Yes, thank you, Charlotte, everything’s fine. Feeling a bit down, that’s all.’

‘I’m off duty now; would you like me to give you a ride home? I believe you live near the Saint-Martin canal – it’s on my way.’

‘Thank you, that’s very kind, but I don’t want to trouble you. I’ll walk – the fresh air will do me good.’