There, gathered in that railway station – built, not without irony, by Casimir de Rigny himself – was a microcosm of French society. A woman in clogs, burdened with a brood of grubby children, was rubbing shoulders with a grande dame flanked by her maid and doll-like offspring, all heading home from an outing. A respectable husband from Saint-Germain-en-Laye, off to the capital to breach the conjugal monotony, offered his seat to a young dancer from the Opéra Comique who was on her way back to her aged patron. A host of aspiring millionaires and young artists, loaded up with masterpieces, crossed paths at the station with their down-at-heel counterparts heading home and cursing Paris. There were thieves about too, one eye on that handbag somebody had forgotten to watch, the other on a wallet poking out.

All these social theatrics were a world away from Auguste’s preoccupations; in his mind, he was already dead, absurdly alone, his body impaled on a Prussian bayonet in the middle of a field.

No sooner had the carriage doors opened than the compartments were stormed. The young man, having purchased his ticket at the last minute, ended up in the third-class carriage, precisely as he had anticipated. He began his journey jammed between two stocky workers stinking of sweat, who were greatly amused by their proximity to this young, sweet-scented chap. Upon arrival in Pecq, people took pity on him, seeing as he was blue with cold, and he was shoved into the second-class carriage. There he was able to warm himself up, drowning in a gaggle of young women being scolded by their mothers. They were returning from an arranged rendezvous with attractive potential Saint-Germain-en-Laye suitors, but despite the photographs sent in advance, the train tickets, the money spent on outfits and ribbons, no understanding had been reached. ‘No, truly, you simply make no effort at all!’ railed their mothers. The young ladies were not listening, content to giggle as they pretended not to eye Auguste all the way back to Gare Saint-Lazare.

Chapter 1

1

FROM THE MINUTE I BOARDED the TGV, I had the shits with everything.

I don’t like having people in my space, so I never sit in my allocated seat. I can’t stand my legs touching my neighbour’s, not to mention having to do battle over the armrest. I prefer the flip seats near the doors, even if you rarely get any peace there because the space is often crammed with idiots letting rip or old people who, having just got on, are busy phoning to say they’re on their way – I can’t hear you anymore, can you hear me? Hello?