Two minutes later, the fuss was over and it was as if it had never taken place. The happy clown was back and so was the happy child. As for me, I was wiped out. I’d lived through the drama in all its intensity, convinced at the worst moments that they truly hated one another, I’d been moved by their soggy reconciliations, then thrown for an ­emotional loop when the fight resumed. I was dripping sweat when Mathieu went to make a ham sandwich for his son, who blandly launched into the theme from “Passe-Partout” as if nothing had happened. Sébastien happily munched his sandwich while I heated up some shrimps for his father.

Dessert—an Italian cake I’d bought at Italissimo, across the street, along with a tartuffo—fortunately was received unanimously and the meal ended in harmony. Sébastien said a polite “Thank you, that was good,” then went and flopped in front of the TV set while Mathieu and I did the dishes in silence.

A very weighty silence, as a matter of fact, which neither of us dared to break.

Surprisingly, Sébastien went to bed without having to be coaxed. He let his father undress him, pretending to be a baby who can’t do it himself—I heard his father’s amused voice: “Stop going limp, I can’t get your pants off!”—and came to kiss me goodnight, triumphant in an old sweater of his father’s, a pair of socks that came up to his knees and a jacket of mine, the Prussian green one I haven’t worn for ages, as a bathrobe. He looked very funny and he knew it. After some antics around my chair he disappeared into my office, calling for a bedtime story.

I heard Mathieu’s voice reading a story about teddy bears and honey and bees and bee stings that cover you with bumps. Sébastien laughed a lot, shouting over and over, “Bees are mean!” and “Run, teddy, run!”—and probably fell asleep in the middle of the final punch line because he ­didn’t say a thing when the teddy bear promised he’d never steal honey from the bees again . . .

Mathieu came out of my office all nervous and tense.

Through the ceiling we could hear the laughter of our friends upstairs, who had just sat down to dinner. A ­clamour, the sound of chairs being shifted, an exclamation—Michèle, probably, who always goes into ecstasies over the arrangement of the table, even when nothing ­special has been done. I couldn’t refrain from glancing towards the ceiling. Mathieu put his hand on my knee.

“Go on up if you want. I’ll look after Sébastien.”

“No, no, I’m fine . . .”

“I don’t want you to stop anything because of him, Jean-Marc . . . I wanted you to meet him, but I don’t want to impose him on you . . .”