He had witnessed the Empire, the Restoration, the July Monarchy, the Second Republic, yet another empire and republic, and now this . . . But for the first time, he had the feeling that regardless of what transpired, all that he had loved in his life had been irreparably lost. When the war finished, the world would embark upon a resolutely republican era in which nobody would continue to abide by the social hierarchy conceived of by the Lord in his wisdom. An era where uncertainty, chicanery and poor taste would reign supreme. Sighing, he told himself that such a world was truly not one for a peace-loving old man such as himself.

He gave another sigh. He, too, was tired of being French.

Absentmindedly, he picked up the Allgemeine Zeitung, which von Gibintz had left lying on the small pedestal table next to his armchair. There on the front page of the paper, in large gothic typeface, was the headline: Was essen Sie denn?1, but as Casimir couldn’t understand German, he put it back down.

*

‘The Prussians must really be wondering what we’re still finding to eat . . . Well then, Rosalie, what will it be this evening?’

‘A gibelotte!’

‘Ah, very fine! A gibelotte made with what?’

‘That is what’s so wonderful about a gibelotte ... the white wine hides the taste of everything. I was assured it was dog’s brains, but I think I’ve been had.’

‘And these little round grey slices?’

‘Oh that – they come from a batch of tins sold by a peddler from time to time on Rue de Rivoli . . . He was unpacking them on the footpath just as I happened to be passing by. I managed to snaffle four of them. It spreads quite easily, but you’ll notice the bread has a taste of sawdust today.’

Auguste pulled from his mouth a sort of thread that bore a very strong resemblance to mouse tail. He grimaced, but said nothing.

‘In any event, one is left dissatisfied no matter what one eats. Thank you, Rosalie. Here, something to celebrate the first day of the year . . .’

And his aunt pulled from her bag a little makeshift parcel, knotted in a handkerchief.

The maid unwrapped the cloth to find a large tin of preserved beef.

‘Oh, Madame!’

Clothilde, who was dining in her overcoat due to the cold, covered her face with the two sides of her collar to hide a desperate urge to weep.

‘I cannot afford to offer you money, for the way things are going I don’t know how much longer I shall be able to keep all three of us. I shall make it up next year, if we are not all dead. In the meantime, how are you faring up there?’

‘We are all sleeping in the room with the fireplace, Madame, and a friend has brought us some wood taken from public benches so we might heat the place.’