“Yes. I know I have. But nobody knows me because I ­didn’t go to theatre school, so I have to fight harder than the others . . .”

Mélène, visible pleased at his reply, lit a cigarette. “Is that really necessary? I mean the theatre schools, the conservatory, whatever . . .”

I didn’t hear the rest of the conversation, I was literally assaulted by Arielle, whom I hadn’t seen for several weeks, who’d moved her chair between Lucie’s and mine. Lucie didn’t object. She never does and if you ask me, she’s much too tolerant. She’s the silent member of our group, discreet and to some extent our Patira, as my mother, a ­fervent reader of Raoul de Navery, would have said. She’s Michèle’s lover, and Michèle takes tremendous advantage of her, too much in fact: she’s demanding, temperamental, almost inquisitorial with her, and gets nothing in return but consent and submission. We call them the Babin sisters and we sometimes amuse ourselves too cruelly at Michèle’s demands and Lucie’s indulgence. Just now, Lucie had pushed her chair aside without even a sigh, while Arielle, tipsy after a single glass of white wine, collared me with her unique brand of familiarity.

The cat-smell she’s left in her wake for years caught in my throat right away and I recoiled slightly. She didn’t even notice, sure as she was of my undeniable interest in the escapades she was about to recount. It was a long, raunchy, rambling, incomprehensible story. After what seemed like hours, I heard Jeanne give the signal to leave and I was grateful.

On the sidewalk it was all noisy kisses and affectionate hugs. Arielle, Zouzou, Lucie and Michèle were going to a bar on Saint-Denis. Jeanne and Mélène, who have a car, offered us a lift.

When he found out that they lived in the apartment above mine Mathieu seemed first surprised, then very uneasy.

Well, I saw thirty-four films in eleven days, but I never reached the “plateau” Mathieu had talked about. Towards the middle of the second week, though, he began to flag; his concentration wavered a little, headaches made him grouchy—especially since I was still fresh as a daisy—he traded his contact lenses for a pair of glasses I hadn’t seen him wear before, which I found very comical. They made him look like a pointy-headed intellectual and, fortunately, a little older too, so I didn’t feel so much as if I was tagging along with my oldest child.