Both the terrace and the restaurant of Le Train Bleu on Saint-Denis are very popular. It’s a meeting place for artists of all sorts: actors, writers and film-makers come there, noisy and often too comfortable, to eat mussels or French sausages as they settle the fate of the world. To their liking. Rarely for the common good and often to their own advantage. Trendy restaurants like that exist everywhere, in every city with even a hint of cultural life, and they attract a ­second clientele, who come to gawk—and be scoffed at by the first. And it includes me. I love to sit in a corner of the European-looking dining room and listen in on the conversations of those who make our culture. They often amuse but rarely surprise me. And I think that a lot of what they say is crap. They repeat themselves night after night, ­especially when they’ve been drinking. They’re always on display, like homosexuals in the bars, but theirs is a verbal performance, which is much more dangerous. And revealing. You can change your clothes every day but speech, especially when it’s tinged with bitterness or envy, evolves more slowly than fashion. By sniffing out rivalries I’ve even worked out the composition of the various clans; I’ve caught them in the act of hypocrisy or double-dealing, I’ve witnessed reunions that were a little too noisy to be ­genuine, I’ve watched some faces turn away, others flaunt themselves to be seen. But what I remember mostly is the truly awful things that are said after someone leaves. If I were ever invited to eat at a table of artists I’d make sure I didn’t leave first.

In the days when I was seeing Luc, my circle of friends bored him and his scared me, so we didn’t mix our two worlds much. That meant I wasn’t known as the “lover of” which is what often happens in that sort of misalliance.

Over a well-chilled kir I told Mathieu everything. I described the past three days in the most intimate detail, sketching a none-too-flattering picture of myself, even exaggerating some of my characteristics. Not to discourage him: on the contrary, I felt very comfortable with him. It was so he wouldn’t delude himself, so he’d know perfectly well who he was dealing with and what an ass I’d been since Friday night. I even confessed how relieved I was that we were eating on this terrace located above Sherbrooke . . .

What I said amused him. And, as he admitted himself, relieved him too.

“I’ve got something to tell you too, and it’s hard for me, so I’m glad you went first.”