He fell asleep, exhausted, just after his father’s lemon pie had made its second triumphant round of the table. We put him in Jeanne and Mélène’s bed where he slept like a log, despite the racket we continued to make long into the night. The party for the child was gradually transformed into one of those family reunions we’d all been feeling the need of; the impersonations stopped, towards the end voices were muffled, damp effusions were exchanged, Mathieu was even solemnly admitted to the bosom of the family, a proof of affection and confidence that touched me deeply.

The Réveillon ended amid a comforting warmth, around one final cognac, a rare and delicious one that Jeanne had unearthed somewhere in the depths of Ontario, from a ­supplier who’d been holding on to his bottles for years without realizing their value. We took our leave of one another happy, some of us slightly tipsy and some of us more, swearing all sorts of things we’d, fortunately, forget the next day. Mathieu wrapped Sébastien in a blanket; I carried the presents—it took two trips, rather giddy ones as it happens, with the stairs dancing under my feet and the walls ­dangerously tossing and heaving.

Mélène and Jeanne held me in a long embrace, wishing me all those things that people who’ve had too much to drink wish to someone they suspect is very happy. The ­puzzle was finally complete, or so I thought at any rate: the last two pieces, Mathieu and Sébastien, were finally in place.

Sébastien had been with us for three days. The nursery school was closed, I was on vacation and Mathieu came home right after work; we were experiencing something that resembled a family life and I was finding it quite enjoyable. Sébastien no longer frightened me as he had during his first few visits; I knew now that I didn’t have to keep an eye on him every minute, that he could amuse himself ­perfectly well, especially with all the new toys he’d piled up around his bed and wouldn’t be separated from. In the afternoons we went to the movies or I rented videos. I saw Walt Disney’s Pinocchio again with delight but hated Alice in Wonderland, which I thought was too ­complicated for children and, especially, too Americanized. Sébastien much preferred contemporary animation films, those hideous monstrosities made to instill and develop in ­children an instinct for war, competition, hostility (oh yes, I was becoming every inch the concerned parent).

It was now the day before Christmas Eve and I’d promised Louise I’d take Sébastien home that afternoon. The three of them were going to spend a week with her parents, who now lived somewhere in Charlevoix County.