She lowered her head and choked back the tears.

During the winter the Hardelots and Florents rarely saw each other, even though they were neighbours. The people of Saint-Elme had a remarkable talent for ignoring whatever they didn’t wish to know. How well they knew when to become deaf and blind. How tactfully they side-stepped anything they found unpleasant! Families could live next door to one another for twenty years and never even glance at each other. But here, at Wimereux, it was different. In their youth, Agnès’s father and Charles Hardelot had each bought property on the seafront; their chalets were adjoining. It was unfortunate, but as this was a good location, it took precedence over any other factor. They couldn’t very well ignore each other. And besides, summer was of no consequence, the Hardelots thought; it was as if their habits, their prejudices, their preconceptions were all part of their environment, their habitat. Once away from home, they became more tolerant, just as certain insects lose their sting once outside the hive. But summer was nearly over. ‘And we’ll never see each other again,’ thought Agnès. ‘He’ll get married and as for me … Anyway, does he even love me? He’s never told me he does … He knows he can’t marry me, so it wouldn’t be right,’ she thought. ‘But if he did love me, I’d follow him to the ends of the earth.’

‘Look how beautiful it is,’ said Madame Florent, leaning towards her daughter.

‘Oh, yes, beautiful,’ replied Agnès, her voice trembling, seeing nothing.

A spray of shooting stars rose towards the sky, then fell back down again, lighting up the crowd; a long whistle sounded as it descended, like a jet of steam. Everyone looked up: Pierre, thin and suntanned, with his wide forehead, small mouth and light-brown moustache; Madame Hardelot, fat, soft and pale; Simone, with her heavy chin. Agnès automatically imitated the movements of the others; she had a young, thin face, pale skin and dark hair.

Flames, cornucopias, fiery wheels filled the skies. Then they went out. The night seemed even darker; the air smelled of smoke. Only one little green shooting star, as lost as an orphan, hovered for a moment in the sky before plunging at great speed towards the sand dunes. ‘Oh!’ the crowd sighed in disappointment, but then other fireworks lit up the east (a cockerel, a fountain, white at first, then tinged with silver, then with red, white and blue) and the crowd showed its joy by crying out a satisfied ‘Ah-ah-ah …’ while the wails of a child rose from the darkness.

The fountain exploded and fell silent. The last rockets disappeared into the sea. The fireworks were over. The Florents and the Hardelots set off for home. Charles Hardelot led the way. His spectacles, set low on his nose, glistened in the beam from the lighthouse. He held his shoes and socks in his hands; he had rolled his trouser legs above his knees. It was difficult to walk in the dunes unless you were barefoot; the hills and valleys of sand were constantly shifting, then re-forming, setting off fine white rivers that crunched inside stockings and ankle boots. It was a constant trial to these ladies; they walked with difficulty, grimacing, leaning against each other. Naturally, the idea of taking off their shoes would never have occurred to them, any more than the idea of removing their corsets. The young women walked alongside their mothers, in silence.