It must be her decision.’

He was supposed to see her that very evening, for they were going out together. It was the 14th July and they were going to watch the dancing at the Place de la République. Adolphe Brun was very strict about everything Thérèse saw or read: she was not allowed any popular novels; he went through her reading with a fine-tooth comb and only allowed her to see matinees of classical French films; but to him, the streets of Paris held no danger. Its sights, its atmosphere, the gaiety, the hustle and bustle – he allowed Thérèse to enjoy these things as an old Indian brave would allow his children to play on the prairies. To outsiders, this was a wild place full of perils – but to him, it was the most peaceful countryside.

Standing in front of the carousel with its wooden horses while the orchestra played, or perhaps in the dark street they would take to walk home – the youngsters in front, the parents behind – he would say to her … What would he say to her? ‘Thérèse, I have loved you for a very long time …’ or ‘Thérèse, you alone can make me the happiest, or the most wretched of men.’ Perhaps she would say: ‘I love you too, Martial, I do.’

Martial could feel his heart pounding at this idea; he took a little mirror out of his pocket and anxiously looked at himself, hanging his head down even more than ever and almost sweeping his long eyelashes against the mirror, for he was short-sighted. He had taken off his pince-nez so he could see himself: ‘She has to be able to see my eyes,’ he thought, ‘my eyes are really my best feature …’ For a moment he studied his terrified eyes, his pointy red nose and the black beard that hid his cheeks. Then he sighed sadly, put the mirror back in his pocket and walked slowly down the stairs.

‘She’s a serious young woman. Respectable women do not care about good looks. We’ll make a family together … We have to have the same likes and dislikes …’

Then he weakened:

‘I’ll love her so much,’ he thought.

He had dinner with the Bruns. Nothing had changed at their house. Nothing would ever change. Her father sat in his shirtsleeves reading the newspaper in his usual place, at the head of the table, the same table, the same armchair, the same newspaper, the same Uncle Adolphe that Martial was used to seeing, with his bald head, his wide blue eyes, his long red moustache. Grandmother was in the kitchen; Thérèse was setting the table. In the future, he would come to this dining room with his wife and children. He felt very happy. He took Thérèse’s hand; she pulled it away gently but she smiled at him, and that knowing smile, somewhat mocking but friendly, filled his soul with hope. Of course she had guessed everything.

After dinner, Thérèse went to put on her hat.

‘Are you coming with us, Mama?’ asked Adolphe, winking mischievously at his nephew to encourage him to hear what he said next: ‘Aren’t you afraid you’ll get too tired?’

‘Me? Get tired?’ the elderly lady protested with indignation. ‘Speak for yourself with your varicose veins! I have strong legs, I do, thank the Lord! And besides, someone has to keep an eye on Thérèse.’

‘Well what about me? And Martial? Don’t we count?’

‘You … when you see those Chinese lanterns, you stand there like a child with your mouth hanging open. And Martial is too young to look after a young woman.’

‘Oh, I’m too young,’ protested Martial, delighted. To hide his lack of composure, he picked up the newspaper that his uncle had just put down. ‘Anything new in the paper?’

‘The Caillaux trial is starting on Monday.’

Martial leafed absent-mindedly through the Petit Parisien, and read out loud: ‘Monsieur Maurice Barrès was elected President of the League of Patriots’; ‘In Sarajevo, after the assassination, attacks on the Serbs …’

He folded up the paper, carefully smoothing it out. He shuddered slightly, his shoulders twitching as if he felt a chill run through him. He even thought: ‘What could be wrong with me? I’m shivering. I must have stopped wearing my flannel underwear too early this year.’ He made it a rule to keep wearing it until the 15th August, because you can never be certain at the beginning of summer. Certain … this little word suddenly resonated in his mind. What had made him shiver was not the early signs of a cold, but something within, something that had nothing to do with anything physical … Anxiety. No, that was too strong a word. Sadness … Yes, that was it; suddenly he felt sad. He had been beaming all day long and now suddenly … Mere mortals knew nothing of what was thundering through every Embassy in Europe, and yet he sensed a kind of agitation in these high places, something feverish, the shock of opposing electric currents that struck him every now and then, just as you sometimes see sheep safely sheltered in their folds anxiously raise their heads when they sense a storm raging in the distance. The assassination of that Austrian prince … The crowds the day before yesterday, demonstrating in front of the Statue de Strasbourg at the Place de la Concorde … Words, rumours, talk, words … one word … But a word that doesn’t belong to our century, thank goodness.

‘It smells of gunpowder,’ he said out loud, showing the newspaper to Uncle Adolphe and trying to sound as if he were joking.