Older men are already starting to notice her,’ she continued thinking, for she was an ambitious mother who could foresee the future.

Emerging from the depths of the underground, the little group came out of the metro at the Place de la Concorde and walked down the Champs-Élysées. The women carefully lifted the hem of their skirts a bit as they walked; you could see a respectable ruffle of grey poplin under Madame Jacquelain’s dress, a reddish-brown sateen for the elderly Madame Pain, while Madame Humbert, who had an ample bosom and made the most of her ‘Italian eyes’, was accidentally showing off a dapple grey taffeta ruffle that rustled silkily. The ladies were talking about love. Madame Humbert let it be known that she had driven a man wild with her strict morals; in order to forget her, he had to run away to the colonies, and from there he had written to tell her that he had trained one of the little natives to come into his tent at bedtime and say: ‘Germaine loves you and is thinking of you.’

‘Men are often more sensitive than we are,’ sighed Madame Humbert.

‘Oh, do you think so?’ exclaimed Blanche Jacquelain. She had been listening with the same haughty, sharp expression as a cat eagerly eyeing a saucepan of hot milk (she stretches out her paw then pulls it back with a brief, offended miaow): ‘Do you really think so? It’s only we women who know how to sacrifice ourselves without any ulterior motive.’

‘What do you mean by ulterior motive?’ asked Madame Humbert; she lifted her chin and flared her nostrils as if she were about to whinny like a mare.

‘My dear, you know very well what she means,’ replied Madame Jacquelain in disgust.

‘But that’s human nature, my dear …’

‘Yes, yes,’ said the elderly Madame Pain, nodding her head and jiggling her jet-black hat covered in artificial violets, but she wasn’t really listening. She was thinking of the bit of veal (left over from the blanquette) that she would serve that evening. Just as it was or with a tomato sauce?

Behind them walked the men, holding forth and gesturing grandly.

The peaceful Sunday crowds walked down the Champs-Élysées. Everyone strolled slowly, no doubt feeling heavier because they were digesting their meals, because of the heat – early for the time of year – or simply because they felt no need to rush. It was an amiable, cheerful, modest group of ordinary middle-class people; the working classes didn’t venture there, and the upper classes only sent the very youngest members of their families to the Champs-Élysées, supervised by nannies wearing beautiful ribbons in their hair. Along the avenue, they could see students from the Military Academy of Saint Cyr walking arm in arm with their lovely grandmothers, or pale students in pince-nez, from the prestigious Polytechnique whose anxious families gazed lovingly at them, high school students in double-breasted jackets and school uniform caps, gentlemen with moustaches, young girls in white dresses walking down to the Arc de Triomphe between a double row of chairs where other students from Saint Cyr and the Polytechnique sat, with other gentlemen and ladies and children identical to the first group, wearing the same clothes, the same expression, the same smile, a look that was cordial, curious and benevolent, to such an extent that each passer-by seemed to see his own brother by his side. All these faces looked alike: pale-skinned, dull-eyed, and nose in the air.

They walked even further, right down to the Arc de Triomphe, then to the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, to the Boni de Castellane Villa whose lilac silk curtains fluttered out on to the balconies in the light breeze. And then, at last, the horse-drawn carriages arrived in a glorious cloud of dust, returning from the races.

The families sat on their little metal chairs. They studied the foreign princes, the millionaires, the famous courtesans. Madame Humbert feverishly sketched their hats into a notebook she took out of her handbag. The children watched in admiration. The adults felt contented, satisfied, without envy but full of pride: ‘For the pittance we paid for our chairs and the price of the metro, we can see all of this,’ the Parisians thought, ‘and we can enjoy it. Not only are we spectators at a performance, we are also actors (though with the most minor of roles), with our daughters so beautifully decked out in their brand-new hats, and our chatter and legendary gaiety. We could have been born somewhere else, after all,’ thought the Parisians, ‘in a place where even seeing the Champs-Élysées on a postcard would have made everyone’s heart beat faster!’

And they settled back comfortably in their chairs.

‘Did you see that pink parasol trimmed with lace roses?’ they said, slightly critically, as if they owned the place. ‘It’s too much; I don’t like that sort of thing.’

They recognised the celebrities that passed by:

‘Look, there’s the actress Monna Delza. Who’s she with?’

The fathers told their children stories from the past:

‘Five years ago I saw Lina Cavalieri having lunch with Caruso over there,’ they said, pointing towards the windows of a restaurant. ‘Everyone was gathered round them and looked at them as if they were curious animals, but that didn’t dull their appetite.’

‘Who’s Lina Cavalieri, Papa?’

‘An actress.’

Towards evening, the children were starting to drag their feet. The powdery sugar from the waffles fluttered through the air. A fine dust rose slowly towards the sky, a golden dust that crunched between the teeth; it veiled half of the Obélisque in mist at the Place de la Concorde, shrouded the pink flowers on the chestnut trees; the wind carried it towards the Seine and it gradually fell to the ground while the last of the horse-drawn carriages and the Parisians headed for home.

The Bruns, Jacquelains, Humberts and Raymond Détang sat down on the terrace of a café for a drink:

‘Two grenadines and eight glasses of wine.’

They drank in silence, somewhat tired, rather light-headed, pleased with their day. Raymond Détang fiddled with his little beard and began showing off for the benefit of the woman sitting next to him. It was a hot evening. The first street lamps were being lit and the sky was turning a pale mauve, almost sugary, you could say, like the colour of violet sweets. It looked good enough to eat. ‘Ah, this is so nice …’ the women sighed, and ‘It’s almost too nice to go back home, isn’t it, Eugène?’ But Eugène or Émile (her husband) shook his head, looked at his watch and simply said: ‘Time for supper.’ It was nearly seven o’clock and all the little Parisian families would soon light their lamps and sit down to dinner. The delicious smell of stew and fresh bread would do battle for a few moments with the scent of the perfumed dust that the expensive ladies had left in their wake; it would compete with it and, in the end, win the battle.

The Bruns and their friends parted at the Étoile metro station. They settled the bill – ‘And I still owe you some money for the waiter’s tip … Yes, I insist; the man who pays his debts is richer for it …’ Then everyone went back home.

2

In 1914, Martial Brun ordered a bronze plaque for the door of his future home on the Rue Monge; it was engraved with these words:

DOCTOR MARTIAL BRUN
EAR, NOSE AND THROAT

The apartment would not be available until the end of October; it was now the 14th July.