“Jean-Marc and Mathieu weren’t slobbering over you or making vulgar remarks about your figure, but those ­brothers of yours, as soon as I walk into the room . . . You nearly had a fight with Paulot over it once, remember . . . But that, oh that’s just fine, it’s normal! They’ve got every right in the world because I’m a woman and they’re straight men! They even make cracks about your little niece’s breasts . . . But that’s not sexual I suppose. Or sick. By God, it makes me furious! I’m heterosexual too, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to make a grab at Sébastien some day because I like men! You can tell them from me, there’s things in life besides sex . . . No, better not, they’ll just laugh in your face . . .”

They were silent for a while. Louise was afraid her ­argument hadn’t been clear because she’d let herself get carried away; Gaston, on the other hand, could find nothing to say because all her arrows had struck home.

He’d been brought up, along with his brothers, with a horror of homosexuality, he’d made jokes about it all through his adolescence—his repertoire of fag stories was virtually unlimited—he’d occasionally even gone queer-­bashing in Parc Lafontaine, which activity consisted of ­getting together with a bunch of guys to go and beat up the anonymous silhouettes who haunted the park at night. When he had to acknowledge to his family that his ­girlfriend’s son had a homosexual father, then, it had been terrible: the male members of the clan had shrieked and talked about heredity, disease, deviation, danger; they ­couldn’t understand why Louise even let Mathieu see Sébastien . . .

This time it was he who approached her, very gently. He knew how she could be, he was afraid of being rejected with one of those cutting remarks that were her specialty, and that always left him totally defenseless.

“Don’t take it out on them . . . The family really likes Sébastien a lot, you know . . .”

“They can damn well like him a little less and leave us alone! Do I interfere with their lives? Your sister-in-law Céline’s always crying on my shoulder because Paulot’s such an animal, but do you hear me giving her advice? I think we’d better go to sleep; we aren’t going to settle ­anything tonight . . .”

Docile, Gaston switched off his bedside lamp again, then snuggled against her.

“Louise . . .” She turned her head towards him, a vague smile drifting on her lips.

“When you use that voice I know you’re going to ask me something important . . .”

Once again she’d read him perfectly and he chose his words carefully.

“Maybe this is a bad time . . . We’ve never talked about it before . . . but . . . I’d like us to have a baby . . .”