I saw them coming, hand-in-hand, Mathieu with his neck craned to see if I was on the balcony, Sébastien, good Lord, so small, trotting along at his side. In his free hand Mathieu was carrying a tiny blue suitcase. I don’t know why—or rather, I do know, I was probably too uncomfortable to ­really look at Sébastien—I focussed my attention on that suitcase. I imagined the flannelette pyjamas, the teddy bear, maybe a couple of puzzles, twelve pieces depicting happy animals, some other favourite toy, a change of clothes. I wanted to cry. In panic.

I watched them come up the outside staircase. I was ­hoping my smile wouldn’t look too forced. Sébastien, a breathtakingly beautiful child, gave me a “bonjour” devoid of embarrassment, then added, his eyes wide with greed:

“Am I really going to have my own room here too?”

He seemed to think “his” room was just fine and immediately lunged at the huge stuffed animal that had the place of honour on the chair by my desk.

“Wow! Is that ever neat! What’s his name?”

It was a goofy-looking dog that you could make talk by slipping your hand inside its head. I’d found it at Toutalamain on Laurier. It had cost a fortune but I’d told myself it would probably be just as well if there was something in the room that would make an impression on Sébastien when he arrived and would help make him accept the rest. My knowledge of child psychology was very rudimentary then, and I’m afraid it still is.

“He hasn’t got one yet. You’ll have to find one for him.”

Mathieu leaned towards me, frowning.

“This is new . . .”

“I just bought it.”

Sébastien was already holding the dog.

“I’m going to call him . . . I’ll call him . . .”

His father bent over him and picked them both up.

“You don’t have to give him a name right away, you know.”

Sébastien appeared surprised.

“I don’t? Why not?”

“A name’s important. After you find one it’ll be his name all the time . . . So think it over carefully.”

I took my courage in both hands and came over to them. Sébastien had that good smell of baby soap. He held out the doggy with amazing straightforwardness.

“How does it work?”

I’d slipped my hand inside the dog’s head and assumed a voice I hoped was comical.

“Hello, Sébastien, how are you? So you want to give me a name, eh? Let’s try and think of one together. I’d like to do that, pick my own name . . .”

Sébastien was absolutely thrilled.

“He can talk! He can talk!”

My throat was already sore.