At their father’s words all three jumped up from their chairs.

The old lady did not sit down. As Mouret was turning round to see where she was, he saw her standing in front of one of the half-open windows in the sitting room. She was craning her neck, quietly finishing her inspection, like someone visiting a property for sale. The moment Rose lifted the small trunk she came back into the hall, saying simply:

‘I’ll go and help her.’

And she climbed the stairs after the servant. The priest did not even turn his head. He was smiling at the three children standing before him. His face could assume a most gentle expression when he wanted, in spite of the harshness of his brow and the hard lines around his mouth.

‘Is that your whole family, Madame?’ he asked Marthe, who had drawn near.

‘Yes, Monsieur,’ she replied, embarrassed by the uncompromising look he gave her.

But he was looking at the children again and said:

‘These two great lads will be men before long… Have you finished your studies, young man?’

He was speaking to Serge. Mouret butted in.

‘This one has finished, though he’s the younger. When I say he’s finished, I mean he’s passed his exams, but he’s gone back to school to do his year of philosophy. He’s the brains of the family… The other one, the eldest, this great lump here, isn’t up to much I’m afraid. He’s already failed his baccalaureate twice, and he’s a bit of a rogue as well—he couldn’t care less.’

Octave listened to this criticism with a smile on his face, while Serge had bowed his head at the praise. Faujas appeared to consider them for another moment in silence. Then passing on to Désirée, he resumed his air of sympathy and asked:

‘Will you allow me to be your friend, Mademoiselle?’

She made no answer. As though afraid of him, she went over and hid her face against her mother’s shoulder. The latter, instead of disengaging herself, put an arm round her waist and squeezed her tight.

‘Please forgive her,’ she apologized, somewhat sadly. ‘She is rather weak-minded and she has remained a child… She’s very unsophisticated… We don’t torment her with studying. She’s fourteen years old and so far all she likes is animals.’

Désirée took heart at her mother’s comforting words. She looked up and smiled. Then, daringly:

‘I’d like you to be my friend… But… tell me you never hurt flies?’

And as everybody found that funny, she went on gravely:

‘Octave squashes flies. It’s naughty.’

Abbé Faujas had sat down. He seemed very tired. He gave himself up briefly to the peace of the terrace, letting his eyes range slowly over the garden and the neighbour’s trees. This great sense of calm, this deserted corner of a provincial town occasioned a sense of wonderment in him. The darkness fell in patches over his face.

‘It’s lovely here,’ he said softly.

Then he was silent, as though absorbed and lost in thought. He started slightly when Mouret said to him with a little laugh:

‘If you don’t mind, Monsieur, we shall have supper.’

And when his wife gave him a look:

‘Please join us and let us offer you a bowl of soup. That way you will not need to go and have dinner in the hotel… Please do, you are welcome.’

‘Our sincere thanks, but we are not in need of anything,’ the abbé replied in tones of extreme politeness that did not encourage a second invitation.

The Mourets then returned to the dining room and sat down at the table. Marthe served the soup. There was soon a joyful clatter of spoons. The children chattered. Désirée laughed out loud as she listened to a story told by her father, delighted that they were finally about to eat.