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…’
    He was speaking quietly, whispering broken words, as if in a dream.
    ‘The day I asked you to marry me, the seed of it all was there. And what lies in store for them? Ah, ask the maid to bring me a nice warm cup of camomile tea, will you, Marthe? I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I’m having trouble digesting my food.’ He rubbed the spot between his stomach and his heart. ‘All of this, you know, all of this …’
    He fell silent. Madame Hardelot wiped her eyes and went into the kitchen to ask for the tea. She didn’t understand what Charles was feeling; she was irritated and upset. She couldn’t see beyond tomorrow and the scene her father-in-law would make, and then Pierre’s wedding, which would have to be very small and private if Julien Hardelot refused to attend. The rest belonged to the world of men.

5
    They were coming out of the church: the newlyweds, their parents and the witnesses. It was a small group, made up of people who felt sad and lost on this Parisian street, beneath the rain. Monsieur and Madame Hardelot had been driven to near distraction by the stubbornness of Julien Hardelot, who refused to see his grandson, and by Pierre’s determination to get married as soon as it was legally possible, ignoring his mother’s advice (‘Just wait a while … Everything will sort itself out. Good things come to those who wait …’). To Madame Hardelot, this wedding in Paris was a disgrace, a scandal, but what else could they do? She didn’t feel she could face the people of Saint-Elme, the congratulations of her friends. And Simone’s presence there made things even more difficult. So they had conferred an imaginary relative upon Agnès: an elderly woman who lived in Paris, who couldn’t travel and demanded that thewedding take place in the capital. The newlyweds would spend three months with her, said the Hardelots. ‘Afterwards, we’ll see,’ thought Marthe, who still had hopes that everything would work out and that her father-in-law would see reason. All of Saint-Elme knew that the Hardelots were lying, and the Hardelots knew that all of Saint-Elme knew, but they had to keep up appearances.
    It was a November day; the skies wept softly; the wind danced in the bride’s veil; the carriages crushed the last reddish leaves. What a shame that there was to be no reception, no ‘buffet luncheon’ thought the two mothers with deep, sorrowful regret. Each of them believed that her own child had been sacrificed in this marriage and that never had two people been united under such sad circumstances. Madame Florent was bitterly disappointed. Right up until the very last moment she had expected the classic theatrical ending, the kind that happens in books and on the stage: the grandfather softening, opening his arms and showering his grandson with great wealth. But the horrible old man was obstinate. ‘We’ll have to be patient and wait until they have their first child,’ thought Madame Florent, who was resolute and optimistic by nature. But for now, Agnès’s small dowry and the savings that the Hardelots had given to their son were all the young couple had in the world. Pierre was abandoning hope of any legacy. The thought that he had been snatched away from the factory, from Saint-Elme, made his mother miserable, and especiallythe idea that he could possibly be happy so far away from her.
    Happy? Were the young couple happy now? They had eaten lunch in the little pied-à-terre rented by Madame Florent; they had changed their clothes; they had leaned forward so their relatives could kiss them. They had listened to their familiar voices, so sweet despite the hint of bitterness that comes with maturity (just as milk turns sour with age): ‘As long as you have no regrets, my darling … Never forget everything he has sacrificed for you …’ They were alone.
    They were to spend their first night together in a hotel. They were embarrassed, ashamed of the shiny new wedding rings,