Jeanne set down her cup of coffee, slowly, as she does everything. She wiped her mouth meticulously, then folded her napkin almost the way it had been when she sat down. This signified that the meal was over. We all rose together and made our way to the living room where there awaited, we knew, a vast selection of liqueurs: from a simple Amaretto to a very rare Hierba, which comes from Ibiza and tastes like Thrill chewing gum if you ask me, along with a complete assortment of the most exquisite cognacs and the strongest vodkas. I slouched in an armchair and continued my account.

“We were sitting there like fence-posts, staring at the
TV . . . We were still drinking Coke, the new kind, a bottle I found in the back of the fridge, and eating popcorn. Romantic, eh!”

After she’d given her little bark, Mélène touched my ­forearm.

“And you mean nothing happened?”

“Nothing, my dear, not even rubbing elbows!”

Johanne, one of our partners in the house, who smoked cigarillos that stank up the room, said in what was meant to be a light tone but in which I detected a hint of contempt:

“Did you sing Feu, feu, joli feu?”

To which Marguerite, her lover, added contemptuously: “What’s wrong, Jean-Marc, have you lost your famous touch?”

That did it as far as I was concerned: the two of them were absolutely despicable. Previously, I hadn’t liked them, but now what I felt was hatred pure and simple. I appreciate irony and even sarcasm—they’re my own weapons, I use them freely and don’t mind when they’re used against me, but venomous persiflage disguised as friendly ribbing, especially from people who aren’t even my friends, that makes me livid, it disgusts me, and I let them know by ­simply not reacting. My eyes didn’t leave Mélène’s face and I went on as if nothing had happened.

“The worst is, I’m seeing him tomorrow and who knows if the same thing won’t happen again.”

Jeanne brought over the cognac and set the bottles down very carefully so as not to damage her fine Italian coffee table.

“I think it’s a good sign.”

Mélène gave her a swat on the rear, friendly and affectionate.

“Look who’s talking . . . You take yourself too seriously, kiddo.”

“If I wasn’t here to take certain things seriously the place would go to wrack and ruin . . .”

Mélène smiled, her head resting against the back of her chair.

“There she goes again, playing indispensable!”

Jeanne offered her a snifter of cognac.

“I’m not playing indispensable, I know I am!”

Laughter and applause. Especially from Johanne and Marguerite who thought, wrongly, that they had ringside seats for a domestic squabble, whereas the other two were just teasing each other in their usual way, with no ­bitchiness.