She shook her head and sighed like an old woman. It had come upon her so quickly, at such a sad time, this age she had dreamed of being, in Nice, when she was little, when Mademoiselle Rose was still alive … A wave of pain rose in her heart. She took a few steps, opened a door, saw a shabby little sitting room where some young women were dancing. They looked at Hélène coldly. She went back into the hall where two little boys with blond hair and fat rosy cheeks were playing.

A young man, his shoulders covered with snow, appeared on the doorstep. The children shouted ‘Papa!’ and ran towards him; he took them in his arms. A very beautiful woman opened a door and smiled; she had a calm face and black hair held neatly in place by a headband.

‘Good Lord, Fred, just look at you!’ she said with mocking affection. ‘Let go of the children, you’ll get snow all over them.’

The young man shook himself free and laughed; he removed his fur hat, noticed Hélène and smiled at her. Then he walked over to his wife, who took his arm. A servant came to fetch the children; they hung off their mother’s skirt, a full, wide, black taffeta skirt that rustled softly. She leaned down to kiss them. Hélène noticed her long gold earrings with pearls at the ends that sparkled against her dark hair. She had beautiful hands with no jewellery and wore a pleated linen collar. She sensed Hélène was staring at her and gave her a smile. Then her husband opened the door and they disappeared. Hélène could hear the heavy silk dress swishing and the sound of the piano as it echoed through the house; the woman began singing a French love song in a warm, soft voice. Hélène stood very still, listening, lost in happy thoughts. She barely heard her father calling her: he was leaving. She ran towards him; he kissed her with the restrained, defiant affection that was the only emotion he allowed himself to show her; the sleigh that had brought them was waiting in front of the house; he sat down in the back and was gone.

Hélène rushed into the garden. She ran around it, panting and breathing in the snow. The frozen white path beneath her feet glistened faintly, lit up by a lamp near the steps. What a joy it was to run like this. Her legs were already womanly but had lost none of their agility. The dinner bell rang. The simple fact of this delightful, calming routine filled Hélène with extraordinary pleasure. The shabby little piano sent the notes of the ballad ringing into the still night while the tender voice rose effortlessly, like the song of a bird, like an arrow, up towards the icy sky.

A big yellow dog came out of the darkness and put his wet nose in Hélène’s hand. She hugged him and gave him a kiss. She could smell hot soup and cakes made of the potato flour they had to use instead of ordinary flour.

‘I’m hungry,’ she thought and ran back towards the house. Even this hunger was a new sensation for her, different from the nagging, odious need to eat she’d felt in St Petersburg when food, though still available, was getting harder and harder to come by. She walked around the house, looked at the glowing stove, the lit lamp, a woman in a white apron standing by the light of the fire … How peaceful everything was! Once again she thought of Mademoiselle Rose, but the memory of her, despite being so recent, had already begun to fade.