He smiled and I glimpsed a ray of hope. This wasn’t the cynical smile with which he’d received every one of my arguments since the quarrel began; it was a genuine smile of amusement, a moment of respite I must take advantage of before it vanished. But what could I say?

“Mathieu, it’s not that I don’t care about your friends, I’m just afraid they’d find me boring! That’s the truth! I’d rather not meet them than risk disappointing you . . .”

“And meanwhile I’m supposed to change my life?”

The truce was over. The all too familiar vicious circle was creaking to a start again. I jumped in without thinking. “Mathieu, those women are my only friends, the only human beings aside from you who really matter to me . . . You can’t ask me to choose.”

I could see the end coming at breakneck speed; I could see Mathieu get up and tell me to go to hell, leaving me without a backward glance, without a wave, without regret; I could see a wall.

Then the doorbell sliced this vision in two. I didn’t move. I watched the profile of Mathieu who had started to tremble while I was contemplating the apocalypse. It had been so long since I’d seen someone cry because of me, at first I thought he was laughing. The bell rang again.

Mathieu put his hand to his forehead.

“Answer it, it’s likely one of them wanting to know what’s going on . . .”

It was Jeanne holding two plates of roast veal.

“This may be tacky, but I thought you’d be hungry . . .”

We had switched off the lamps and settled ourselves on the living room floor with all the cushions and pillows in the house. The dirty dishes were by the radiator; breadcrumbs pricked at our necks and bellies. I saw to it that our wineglasses were always half-full; I was getting a pleasant buzz and Mathieu would shut his eyes for long seconds before picking up the conversation, vaguer now than it had been early in the evening, because our thoughts were less clear— less aggressive too, because of the cozy atmosphere we’d managed to create. It was a time of confidences murmured in voices so soft that we both had the feeling the other ­didn’t altogether want to be heard, that he was talking to himself; it was a precious moment, a magical one, and I savoured it, pricking up my ear to grasp everything Mathieu said while trying to be as articulate as I could when it was my turn to talk.

Mathieu drained his glass and covered it with his hand to let me know he didn’t want any more.