Immediately after they left Mathieu and I went to bed (it was only half-past ten) and after making love with newfound—or renewed—vigour, we talked. Till the small hours. He described his impressions, I told him mine, but in a much lighter tone than I would have expected. There wasn’t a minute’s heaviness and I was very relieved. Still, I concealed my existential anguish from him because I didn’t want him to panic for nothing. And I’m pretty sure I fell asleep when he was in mid-sentence because I dreamed of a winged Santa Claus who went from house to house ­gathering loot, taking what was best from each of them instead of leaving presents under the chimney.

“You’re snoring so loud Mélène just banged the floor!”

“Really?”

“Hardly. It’s the witches downstairs, they just pounded the ceiling with their broomsticks.”

“Really?”

“Jean-Marc, go back where you were . . . You left your brain behind . . . “

Louise and Gaston

Louise and Gaston

“I know you think my friends are totally square . . .”

“I never said that . . .”

“Maybe not, but I know what you’re thinking!”

Gaston was fulminating. He’d controlled himself for too long and now he felt as if he might explode right in front of Sébastien, who had fallen asleep on his knees as soon as the car started up, after they’d left Rose, still visibly shaken, on her doorstep. But Sébastien had opened his eyes at the first angry word between them. They tried as much as possible not to quarrel in front of him, keeping for their bedroom or his absences any recriminations (which in fact were fairly rare), any fleeting coolness or childish sulking, which always ended in precise and passionate caresses.

Sébastien had never heard Gaston talk to his mother like this. He huddled inside his brand new parka, which was a little too big for him, pressing his nose against the zipper and nervously licking its little metal rings. He was hot and his nose was running.

Louise, who was driving with exaggerated caution because she too could feel the anger creeping up her spine, gestured to Gaston to keep his voice down, but he didn’t notice, as he was busy trying to find words that wouldn’t terrify Sébastien. He shifted the child, who had a tendency to let himself slip down too low on his knees.

“Sit still Sébastien, or you’ll end up under the glove ­compartment!”

Sébastien wanted to laugh, but pretended to be asleep.

With an exasperated sigh, Gaston turned to Louise.

“Anyhow, my friends would never put on a scene like that . . . I’ve never seen a bunch . . .”

“A bunch of what? Eh? A bunch of what?”

Louise turned too abruptly onto Jean-Talon. Their bodies all tilted in the same direction. Gaston’s seat belt was squeezing Sébastien, but he said nothing.