And Louise was sure he’d been reading her mind, because she’d been obsessed by the thought for some time now, but she thought no, it’s just coincidence, a lucky chance, we thought about it at the same time . . .

“Okay!”

“Okay let’s talk about it or okay let’s do it?”

“Okay let’s do it. Right now if you want. I didn’t take my pill yet . . .”

Gaston sat up in the bed, throwing back the covers.

“You mean, like, right now?”

Slowly she ran her hand over his stomach, lingering around his navel.

“It might be the best thing that could happen to us . . . I’ve actually been thinking about it too . . . A baby, a little ­monster who’d have all the faults of both of us—wouldn’t that be fantastic!”

She saw his head droop.

“Are you crying? My God, if the men in your family could see you now . . . Where does that fit in with your simplistic ideas about humanity—a macho chauvinist who bursts into tears because his wife says sure, she wants to have a baby?”

“I’m not crying!”

She ruffled his hair, gave him a push, then started to ­tickle him, exclaiming:

“Honest to God, Gaston, you’re hopeless!”

Sébastien was trying in vain to sink his Froot Loops. He’d seen a TV commercial that claimed nobody could do it: not children, not mummy or daddy. He’d been intrigued and asked his mother to buy a box, even though he didn’t even like cereal that much. And yes, the Froot Loops were unsinkable: he’d tried with his fingers, with the back of his spoon, he’d tried blowing on them; they always rose to the surface of the milk, floating back and forth and forming concentric circles, like little wavelets, and it always made him laugh.

His mother told him for the fifth time not to play with his food. He gave her a look of feigned innocence.

“They do it on TV, the whole family, and they all have fun!”

Louise came over and tweaked his nose.

“On TV they’re supposed to be selling Froot Loops; but you’re supposed to be eating them . . . Understand? If you keep pretending you don’t understand I’ll take them away and you’ll have toast and jam for breakfast . . . Gaston’ll be glad to eat them, without trying to make them sink . . . At least I hope he will . . .”

He ate a few spoonfuls in silence, then with the same guileless look asked:

“Mummy . . . D’you know Jean-Mak and Daddy sleep in the same bed?”

Gaston looked at him over his Journal de Montréal. Louise leaned against the refrigerator door, which she’d just opened.

“Yes, I know. Why?”

She was sure her tone had been wrong, that Sébastien would guess how awkward she felt.