Just as Lucien, bent over until he was nearly on all fours, was getting ready to lock the restaurant door, they flounced in behind the Duchess, who was sporting her tragedienne’s expression. With their usual sense of drama, they’d dressed for the occasion, all in black needless to say, and looking like a chorus of weeping women paid to lament over the tragic passing of an important member of the royal family. The Duchess – a black and pink whirlwind reeking of Tulipe noire by Chénard – came up next to me and hurled herself at the booth as if the fate of the world depended on it. She was sweating bullets, her jet-black wig had shifted and was hanging over one ear, like a beret on the young leading lady in a French film. Suzy Prim. Or Sophie Desmarets.

“Hands off, Céline! Don’t touch! Don’t even think about it! He’ll turn into your own private Tooth Pick! He’ll put you through what Tooth Pick put me through!”

After the memories I’d just poured out to Janine, I didn’t want anyone to show me leniency, mainly because I didn’t think I needed it. Nor was I in the mood to be given advice on the lines of, “I, who have suffered more than you, don’t want to see you suffer the same trials and tribulations,” as the numerous woes of the Duchess, especially the latest ones brought back from Acapulco in February, were the least of my worries just then. So I held up my hand to silence her. After that I stood up on the seat to be at the same height as the other three who were already crowding around the table. I made eye contact with all four, one after the other, very slowly, then said loud enough to be heard all the way into the kitchen, “Do you mind if I live my life without everybody I know thinking they have to butt in? Can I? Thanks. And good night!”

Then I left to change my clothes.