It was bucketing down. Utterly exhausted, Clothilde was recovering with her feet up, having once again traversed the length and breadth of Paris to snaffle up the last remaining tins of Australian lamb, sardines or pâté from the grocery stores.

‘Oh, some post. And here I was thinking we had been cut off from the rest of the world. Thank you, Rosalie.’

‘Madame, I will need some money for tomorrow’s dinner.’

Her employer pulled her purse from her sleeve, looking for a handful of coins.

‘Oh no, Madame, I should only be able to buy one leek and an onion with that, and only if I went all the way to the markets at Les Halles to find them. And with Monsieur’s greens and eggs, believe me, shopping is becoming a terrible headache.’

Auguste lifted his eyes from his paper. The Sorbonne was closed or, more precisely, had been transformed into barracks, so that was all he was doing now: reading the paper.

‘I am not an imbecile, Rosalie! I know how to make do. Given the circumstances, I shall eat whatever is given me . . . This war has forced me to drink down to the dregs, so a little more or less, really, given the current state of things —’

‘There are soldiers dying for France as we sit here and speak of your diet, my dear nephew,’ commented Clothilde, dryly.

‘What can I say? There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of him, my man from Brittany! I dream about him every night. And since we’re in the process of confounding diet with patriotism, you should be aware that while you are out paying a visit to your suppliers of comestibles for your Tuesday gatherings, the men who are really doing something for Paris, the National Guard who are protecting our city walls, are doing so on an empty stomach because their wages do not permit them to buy any such victuals.’

Seeing that he had offended his aunt, he resumed in a more gentle tone.

‘I’m only telling you this because I don’t want your friends to come to your lunches simply to receive a plateful of food.’

Clothilde rummaged around in her purse.

‘The Prussians shall not stop me from hosting my Tuesday gatherings . . . How much will a rabbit cost?’

‘I saw some for 50 francs!’ said Rosalie, sighing. She, too, was tired from this constant running around for a head of celery or a piece of meat. ‘I’ve heard tell of some pigs being reared in an apartment. I’ve been promised a trotter, but it won’t be immediately.’

‘But how ghastly!’ said Auguste, sighing. ‘That’s all we need in our building.’

‘Well, actually, they’re in the Blins’ apartment.’

‘But how ghastly!’

‘Now you’re irritating us with your how ghastlys! Fifty francs for a rabbit, but that’s twenty times the normal price! How will those of less means cope?’