She shrugged her shoulders and, like an indulgent old woman, thought, ‘Let them get on with it if it makes them happy.’

She climbed over the railings, undeterred by the brambles that covered them and scratched her calves, and took the long way back to the place where Mademoiselle Rose sat finishing some Irish embroidery on a collar.

They went home; Hélène was silent, resting her head against Mademoiselle Rose. In the dusk, you could still clearly see the statue of Nicholas I on his pedestal, his silent face menacing above the drowsy city; but the streets were now nothing more than fragrant shadowy shapes full of whispers, the last sleepy chirping of birds, the pale silhouettes of bats against the moon, the beautiful round, pink moon …

At this time of day the house was empty. ‘She’ was roaming about, Lord knows where. Her grandfather was eating an ice cream on the terrace of the Café François, thinking with nostalgia of Paris and the Café Tortoni. The fragrant ice cream melted in the heat of the early night air. The French newspapers he was reading flapped merrily on their poles in the light wind. Hélène may not have been thinking about him, but he was thinking about her with kindness and affection. She was the only one in the world he loved. Bella was egotistical, a bad mother. ‘As for her behaviour, well, that’s nothing to do with me any more, thank the Lord. Besides, she’s right: the only good thing in life is love. But the little girl … She’s so intelligent. The child will suffer … she already understands, she can sense it.’ Ah, well. What could he do about it? He hated confrontations, lectures, quarrels …

At his age he deserved to be left in peace. And then there was the money, the money … The money didn’t belong to Bella, but she knew only too well how to make sure he didn’t forget that it was thanks to her and her husband they were able to survive. And she always reminded him of how he’d squandered his fortune. His darling daughter … And yet, she loved him; she was proud of him, of how young he still looked, of his fine clothes, of his perfect French accent. They got along rather well living together, without annoying each other, without spying on each other. Everything will work out eventually. She’ll get older. She’ll be like the other women, keeping herself busy with gossip and card games, and she might even develop some affection for her daughter …

Anything was possible. Nothing was really that important. He ordered one last pistachio ice cream and ate it slowly to savour it, looking up at the stars.

Back at home, Hélène’s grandmother was pacing back and forth between the windows: ‘Hésslène … Hélène isn’t home yet. It rained this morning. But Mademoiselle Rose is bringing her up like a French child … French,’ she thought with hatred. ‘Exposing the child to risks with open windows and draughts …’

Oh, how she hated Mademoiselle Rose. It was a shy hatred, but a profound one. It filled her heart, yet she hid it even from herself, thinking only, ‘They couldn’t possibly love the child like we do, those governesses, those foreigners …’

Hélène walked in silence; she was thirsty. She thought longingly of the taste of the cold milk that was waiting for her in the old blue bowl that sat on the washstand in her bedroom. How she would throw back her head and drink it, how she would feel the sweet, icy milk flow past her lips and run down her throat … She even imagined the brilliant moon shining behind the windowpane, as if its cool light added even more to the delicious sensation of satisfied thirst.

Then, suddenly, when she was nearly home, she remembered the nightdress she ’d discovered in her mother’s bedroom, the nightdress, torn like the schoolgirl’s black smock … She let out a little ‘ah’ of surprise, experiencing the intense pleasure of intellectual satisfaction at understanding something; she grabbed Mademoiselle Rose’s hand and smiled, staring up at her with an intense, malicious expression in her brown eyes.