Rose and Louise were having a long talk: they were making up for lost time, huddled in an armchair, Rose seated ­comfortably, almost slumped against the cushions, while Louise was perched on the arm, which must have been very uncomfortable, to judge by the contortions it required. They were chatting like two little girls reunited after their ­holidays. Their heads were almost touching and, after the tears, now forgotten, came frequent bursts of laughter.

It was a little harder for us, the three men. Gaston had done his best to start a conversation about hockey, but in the face of our flagrant lack of interest, not to mention our total ignorance, he’d turned his attention to a second beer and fallen into a silence from which it was hard to extract him. Sébastien was visibly delighted to see us all together and went from one of us to another, a gratified child who doesn’t know how to thank his benefactors: he had kisses and cuddles for everyone, and affectionate words, and I really don’t think that the prospect of Christmas presents provided any ulterior motive; he was just glad to have us all within reach and he was letting us know.

Mathieu was rather pale. He kept looking towards his mother and his former wife; I thought I could detect, not regret or nostalgia but a sort of guilt, perhaps at having come between two women who were so fond of each other, unintentionally causing them pain. He told me much later, when we were alone and exchanging our impressions of what had happened, that the deep understanding between Louise and Rose had been one of the only successes in his marriage and that witnessing it again had infuriated him. Just now, though, what I saw in him was very different from fury; instead, it seemed a sort of fatalism mixed with ­resignation.