“Well sure . . . I mean I’ve got my pride too . . . Can you see me going and telling all this to Georgette? It’s been years now since her son told her he’s that way, and all that time I was feeling sorry for her, bragging about you, your success with girls, your big healthy son . . .”

Mathieu realized he was out of cigarettes. Another reason to panic.

“Mamma, stop just thinking about yourself, think about me for a change! The reason I told you is because for the first time in my life I’m happy and I want to share it with you . . .”

Abruptly, she leaned towards him, as if to touch him, but stopped in mid-gesture. She spoke more softly.

“You weren’t happy before?”

“Not really. But now I am, even though Sébastien could become a problem . . .”

“You mean he doesn’t want to see Sébastien?”

“Mamma, don’t keep changing the subject! Listen . . . I’m looking you in the eye and telling you, I love him . . . I don’t want you just to understand that, I want you to accept it . . .”

Visibly moved, she got up and left the living room. Mathieu thought it was all over now. Even here, he would find no response, no consolation. He knelt on the rug beside Sébastien and laid his forehead next to his son’s head. Rose came back almost immediately with a package of cigarettes, Mathieu’s brand.

“You run out every time you come over . . . I had these in the fridge so they wouldn’t dry out.”

She resumed her position, one hand on her grandson’s foot, but her back was slightly bent.

“Go on. And this time tell me everything. You’ve never told me you loved somebody before, and I want to hear all about it. And afterwards . . . afterwards I’ll think about it. Right now I can’t.”

Mathieu was still sitting on the rug next to the sofa where Sébastien was sleeping. His second version had been much more detailed than the first. This time he hadn’t merely skimmed over the subject, he had added details and ­emotion as he described something that, he realized as he told it, closely resembled happiness. This time his mother hadn’t taken her eyes off him. He felt himself being ­scrutinized, judged, sized up; she frowned a little at delicate moments or when she didn’t immediately grasp some detail, but she gave him her full attention; he quickly ­realized that his description of how he’d met Jean-Marc was as important to her as the thing itself: she was judging him according to the sincerity of his account.