‘It smells of war …’

‘Well, if there is a war, we’ll fight,’ said Adolphe, twirling his moustache and puffing out his chest. ‘We’ll eat rats, like during the siege.’ Then he turned towards the women and asked impatiently: ‘Well, are you coming? We’re going to miss the fireworks.’

‘Tonight, I’ll ask her, I’ll definitely ask her,’ Martial said to himself, and, oddly enough, this time he knew he actually would do it, he wouldn’t shy away. The feeling of sadness remained in his heart, but not only sadness, a sort of extreme awareness of his entire being, as if he were alone in a room and could hear footsteps outside.

Thérèse found him standing in the small entrance hall. He was staring at the door, his neck straining forward, his nose red and his forehead covered in sweat. She started laughing:

‘You frightened me. What are you doing standing here? Come along, let’s go, Papa is going downstairs. Close the door. Don’t step on my skirt. You’re so clumsy! You’ll tear the hem.’

All four of them went out on to the street; it was already alive with the sound of celebrations. Violinists were tuning their instruments at the intersections. In front of the small cafés, the squares were marked off for the dancing, a rectangle of pavement lit by paper lanterns and the moon. They could see the swaying shadows of the trees on the ground. The night had something gentle about it, something soothing and sensual that intoxicated the young men and women. Young girls wearing boaters and white blouses raced by, raising their skirts up to their calves. Soldiers danced with chambermaids. On the Avenue de la République, there was a fair, stalls, the smell of hot oil, gingerbread, gunpowder, circus animals, noise, shouting, gunshots and fireworks.

Martial took Thérèse’s arm.

‘Here, right now, immediately,’ he thought.

He shouted into her ear and later on, she would recall his hoarse, anguished voice, merging with the roaring of the captive lions, the sound of the Marseillaise and the hum of the carousels.

‘Thérèse, I love you. Will you marry me?’

She couldn’t hear what he was saying. She gestured to him to say no more, then smiled and pointed to all the people around them. He looked at her with terror in his eyes, gasping with anguish. She felt sorry for him and gently squeezed his hand.

‘Is that a yes?’ he cried. ‘Oh, Thérèse …’

He could think of nothing else to say. He put his hand under her elbow and supported her with respect and infinite care, as if he were carrying a priceless vase through a great crowd. She was touched by his gesture. ‘He wants me to understand that he will always protect me, always love me.’ He wasn’t handsome, he wasn’t eloquent, but he was a decent man and she felt affection for him. She had always known that she would end up marrying him. Yes, even when she was still a very young girl, when he let her ride piggyback … Once, when she was nine, he had carried her all the way to the top of the Colonne de Juillet at the Place de la Bastille. She had felt safe in his arms, and occasionally opened one eye to look down at the square, very far below … Yes, that day she had thought: ‘When I grow up, I will marry Martial.’

They had left the broad avenue now. They walked down the calmer, darker streets. They crossed the Seine. The adults walked behind them.

‘He’s asked her,’ they said.