Whether because he felt awkward about entering the private realm of his parents, or else from some basic, animalistic psychological reaction in the face of death, he declined to cross the threshold, but encouraged me with a wave to make myself at home. Inside, it smelled musty. Dust particles danced in a ray of sunlight which filtered through the drawn curtains, revealing a dirty interior in very poor upkeep — but nothing, I estimated, that would defeat a Polish handyman. The cupboards, which I opened one by one, were filled with clothes and old bits and pieces covered in a patina of grime. It would all have to be thrown out, and I knew that once again I would be the one burdened with that task. It even entered my mind that the Légers were happy to offload their parents’ place just so they didn’t have to sort through their things.

First my father, then my husband, my mother and now other people’s parents: you had to wonder if I wasn’t somehow destined to clear people’s lives of their worldly possessions, one rubbish bag at a time. Regardless, the apartment was in a great location, only a few metres from the remains of the Arènes de Lutèce. I was delighted — at last I had something decent to pass on to my girls.

As we all sat around the notary’s large desk, I buried my hands into the side pockets of my summer dress and rolled my two fat wads of 20,000 euros around between my fingers and the palm of my hand. Like two fat pebbles. When the time came and everything had been signed, I laid my pebbles on the table. Luc Léger grabbed them, the way you might pick up something a little dodgy, swiftly offloading them into the hands of his sister and scrawling me a receipt for two months’ rent. He may have found it all distasteful, but it was clear from the sparkle in her eyes that she was fond of a bit of dough.

Summer flashed by at top speed, and then it was the start of autumn . . . Attacks, strikes, heatwaves . . .

My daughters returned from their holidays and went back to work. Philippe took three weeks’ holiday with his son to show him some African giraffes; and I busied myself with my new apartment which I cleared out and had completely renovated for 60,000 euros by one Mikolaj and his team.

I also took myself off for a few days to Switzerland, where, incidentally, they had just adopted a law against money laundering and had placed a ceiling on cash payments of . . . 90,000 euros per transaction. I went down to the Hotel Belvedere — the one in the photo of The Little Fireworks Collector — where, in days gone by, I had known my way around; I was determined to enjoy myself and to start my endless summer at last.