The conversation was mainly about films, of course. The girls had seen one from China, with French subtitles, and Michèle, the youngest, who was a bit lazy but very funny, with a cat-like slyness, complained about having had to spend two hours reading instead of concentrating on the images. It was an old quarrel that will never be resolved because all the arguments are worn-out by now. Michèle repeated once again: “I don’t care what you say about ­subtitles, I still need a course in speed-reading . . . All they did in that film was talk!” and Mélène replied: “But it’s so much better than listening to the same damn Paris accents all the time! Sometimes I think if I had a rifle I’d go to France and shoot Nadine Alari point blank!” A few shrugs, some knowing smiles.

Mathieu leaned across the table towards me.

“Who’s Nadine Alari?”

Triumphant applause. The girls envied him his youth, they extolled his good fortune at being unacquainted with Nadine Alari’s nasal voice, they officially christened him “the kid.” He blushed to the roots of his hair, nearly choked on his garlic spaghetti, then wiped both his brow and his mouth. I smiled my encouragement as best I could, but I could see that his discomfort was very deep, that he ­probably thought he was being laughed at, while the truth was that we were making fun of our own advancing years. It was Michèle, finally, who put an end to the incident by telling him: “I’ll gladly pass you the sceptre of youth, Mathieu. But let me warn you: it’s no picnic, being the scapegoat for these old fogeys who deal with their fear of aging by laughing at anything younger than them! Just remember, they aren’t laughing at you. Ever! Or you’ll be as paranoid as I used to be. Remember, it’s not you, it’s your age!”

Loud applause greeted her outburst. Mélène stood up, grasped Michèle’s shoulders and kissed her, clasping her ostentatiously to her bosom.

“Welcome to the golden oldies, my child!”