“Ladies and gentlemen, and those somewhere in between!”
They protest with laughter. Gustave waits for silence around him.
“I would like to propose a toast.”
He raises his glass, then remains there, immobilised by alcohol.
“A toast to what, Gustave?” Hélène asks impatiently.
He sits down. She rises, exasperated.
“Ladies and gentlemen, and these charming butterflies.”
This time they readily raise their glasses before she has finished.
“Wait!” she cries, as drunk as Gustave. “Let us raise our glasses to Armand’s corpse, Gustave’s prostate and Marthe’s torments!”
Marthe wakes with a start.
“What?”
“What do you mean, ‘what’?”
She quickly recovers her awareness.
“Was I asleep?”
Beside her, newspaper in hand, Gustave scarcely raises his eyes.
“Looks that way… and you talk in your sleep.”
“I was dreaming.”
“Ah, it sounded rather naughty…”
“What?”
He turns the page.
“I was joking.”
She stretches to look through the window at the outdoor thermometer. At its zenith, the sun has not changed its mood and stubbornly refuses to warm this part of the country.
“It’s going to be a Siberian Christmas.”
“Like ’63.”
“You remember that?”
“No, but it sounds good in conversation.”
She laughs.
“I dreamed we were sitting at Christmas dinner, that you were completely drunk, as was Hélène, and both of you were saying outrageous things. Reality isn’t far behind… What time is it?”
“Three.”
“It’s very quiet here. Where is everyone?”
“Armand is asleep. I believe Hélène, Marie-Claire and Luc went for a walk. Rémi and Victor must be frolicking upstairs, as are Lucienne and her olive-eater. And I am bored beside an old woman who finds me so exciting she fell asleep.”
Marthe rubs her cheeks.
“I haven’t slept enough.”
“What is troubling you?”
“It feels like the calm before a storm…”
“They aren’t forecasting snow.”
“I don’t mean that kind of storm. I haven’t stopped all week—the errands, the paintings leaving, the papers to sign. It seems I am too old.”
“There, you’re beginning to be sensible.”
“What does sensible mean? The full moon is coming. Perhaps I’m like Armand; it doesn’t agree with me.”
“You’re a woman. Your waters are like the tides.”
“There isn’t much moisture in there,” she says, pointing to her body.
“You’re a beautiful woman, Marthe. Stop piercing your insides; the blood won’t come any faster. Your hour has not arrived.”
“Still… I haven’t stopped having these near-nightmares. As though the earth were beginning to tremble.”
“It’s only the Christ Child doing it all over again for the umpteenth time.”
“What are you reading that is so interesting?”
“Nothing. I’m too old to read. I only look at the pictures.”
“You’ve recovered your good humour.”
“You think?”
“Isn’t it true?”
He turns one page, then another.
“Lucienne forgave me, so I’m at peace.”
“Stop joking for a moment. I’m serious.”
“Do you want me to be serious or in a good mood?”
“You can be both!”
“Come now!”
“Will you answer me?”
“I don’t want to answer you, Marthe. I’m waiting for this damned Christmas evening to begin.”
“You never liked the holiday, did you?”
“Not particularly.”
“Yet you generally give the best or most beautiful presents.”
“Because I love my people.”
She presses herself against him.
“I like it when you cuddle me this way. It’s good to feel a woman close.”
“Why did you never marry?”
“Not for lack of trying, but perhaps my nature had too much punch. Why are you asking? That was the first question you asked when I came to see you.”
“True, but I don’t really remember. What happened in my consulting room almost never came out again. It was my box of horrors. I don’t mean your case, but the whole, the jumble that is humanity.”
“As though He, up there, had never taken a proper electrical engineering course. The wires must have touched when He created the planet.”
“Something like that.”
“And yet you never tired of putting your hands into the jumble.”
“I’m stubborn.”
“That you are…”
She rises, walks around the sitting room and stops before the Christmas tree.
“It doesn’t look as though there will be a celebration tonight.”
“We’re too old to make fools of ourselves.”
“But we have young people this year!”
“Oh, sure! A woman six months pregnant and two fairies.”
“Will you ever stop?”
He raises administrative eyebrows.
“Stop what? You know I don’t care what they do together. I spent more than ten years here, and with Léo alone we saw every colour of the rainbow.”
Despite the obvious uneasiness caused by her many dreams, she feels rather cheerful. She takes a few minuet steps.
“Someone wants to enjoy herself tonight.”
She smiles at him.
“I would indeed. It feels like the end of a long novel—or rather, the moment just before the end, when everything seems suspended, waiting for the conclusion.”
“What will the ending be?”
She stops dancing.
“Christmas and New Year’s Day, as usual. Don’t we all feel that way? That we are beginning again, even if it is the middle of winter and, when all is said and done, nothing has stopped?”
“It is like life in general, like your story. And like everything that has happened since October, when you decided to move. Should I add ‘at last’?”
“Are you pleased with what is happening?”
He sighs.
“I think I am beginning to feel tired. I’m not sure anything has truly changed. I’ll put it as you do: everything seems suspended. Perhaps you’re right. Something is going to happen.”
“Armand’s death?”
“That is almost a detail, isn’t it?”
She begins dancing around the tree again.
“I often played at being a little girl with Léo.”
He snickers.
“With the wicked uncle fondling the young miss?”
“You can be so crude when you choose…”
“I touched a sensitive spot. Poor Marthe, I have the impression that despite your good intentions, sometimes all you do is go in circles. The dust always falls in the same place. Perhaps your book is that, your returning unknowingly and endlessly to the same opening pages.”
“You’re mistaken, my friend,” she says gently. “My past remains what it is, that is all, but my gaze changes. I prefer stories without endings precisely because they allow one always to keep the book open.”
“You’re as mad as your Léo.”
“He is not my Léo.”
She sits again, leans against him once more and closes her eyes.
“It does not prevent my happiness, Gustave. I am happy among all of you.”
“I would never have left you like that.”
She smiles, keeping her eyes closed.
“Armand told me the same thing a week ago.”
“And I am certain Hélène, Lucienne and the others would have done the same.”
“You are kind.”
He gently frees himself from her embrace and stands.
“You see?”
“What?”
“I was serious!”
She laughs and rises in turn.
“Will you come travelling with us?”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Everywhere!”
“And what am I to do with you two?”
“You mean the three of us. Rémi is coming.”
“Isn’t he a little young for an old grandmother like you?”
“He isn’t my lover.”
“People will think he is.”
“They will be more likely to think I’m with Hélène and you’re bedding a young man.”
“How dreadful!”
“Don’t say that. You’ve never tried.”
“What do you know?”
“Don’t even try, Gustave St-Germain.”
“You’re right. I’ve sown my seed only in good grass.”
She laughs.
“How is Armand this week? I have scarcely seen him, I’ve been so busy.”
“He sleeps almost all the time, but he seems much better. Rémi does him good.”
Marthe stares at him.
“And you?”
He has approached the piano and presses a few notes at random. It almost resembles music. He does not answer immediately and continues playing what she interprets as sadness.
“Me? I play cards with him, but we don’t talk much. In any case, he would bore me if he began talking philosophy or astrology.”
“He is dying…”
“I know, don’t you think? But I am like his cat Katou. I stay on the windowsill and accompany him. Besides, he has Rémi and you to discuss such things.”
“What will you do when he dies?”
“What do you expect me to do, for God’s sake?”
“Why are you angry?”
“Because everything is complicated with you. Armand is my best friend. I savour his presence as he is. That is all he needs—my presence!”
He returns to the sofa and picks up his newspaper. Marthe makes no attempt to placate him. Instead, she watches Bruz run towards her.
“What is it, my cat? Have you seen a ghost?”
“Wooooooo!”
Rémi appears in the doorway.
“Were you listening at the door?”
“No. The walls aren’t insulated, as Lucienne would say.”
“Where is Victor?”
“In the shower.”
“Again?” Gustave says mockingly.
“He’s a clean fellow. You wouldn’t want him kissing you with the smell of my arse on his cheeks, would you?”
Gustave puts two fingers into his mouth and pretends to vomit.
“And why aren’t you in the shower?” Marthe asks.
“Would you like to smell me and see whether I smell good?”
Gustave laughs, followed by Rémi.
“Are you ready for tonight?”
“Yes. Nothing left but to wait and endure the evening.”
“There, another person who doesn’t like it! For once we share something,” Gustave taunts.
“We resemble one another more than you think,” Rémi replies.
“I doubt it!” Gustave retorts, returning to his newspaper.
“You never did tell us whether you had showered,” Marthe adds with a half smile.
“It isn’t my fault Victor likes water. He is clean and wears a tie, as you know! I’m quick at everything.”
“We are more different than you think. I could make it last as long as I wanted.”
“Make what last? The shower?”
Marthe bursts out laughing.
“Will you two stop? Save it for tonight. It will enliven the atmosphere.”
“Afraid you’ll be bored?” Gustave asks.
“Me? No. It is only our last Christmas with Armand.”
“Bah, for all we know, he’ll wait until spring.”
“It remains his last Christmas.”
“That’s it! It is only Christmas, only a celebration!”
Rémi looks at the Christmas tree.
“My presents aren’t all wrapped yet! I’d better hurry.”
“Indeed, if you want to arrive at Christmas at the same time as the rest of us.”
“I’ll go back upstairs, then.”
“Stay away from the bed, or you’ll have to wrap your presents in the shower,” Gustave says.
“Come and fetch me, my little rabbit,” Rémi replies, quickly leaving the room.
Marthe snickers.
“I like that young man.”
“So do I, would you believe,” says Gustave.
She turns towards him.
“I think we’ll save you yet.”
He gives her an almost sad smile.
“You should dress and make sure Armand is ready.”
“I’m going, my general!”
“My female general.”
“That isn’t customary yet.”
“Go away before I use you to feed the fire!”
6:00 p.m.
“Good evening!”
“Armand? You came all by yourself!”
Hélène and Marthe hurry to greet him.
“Well, yes. I’m not dead!”
“I told you not to joke about that.”
He shrugs.
“It’s cold outside, and I didn’t feel like staying home. You don’t mind my coming early?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“We were about to have a bite.”
“I’m hungry, as it happens.”
“You’re hungry?” Hélène asks. “Since when?”
“Since I was a little boy, my beauty.”
She does not look convinced.
“Wait, there must still be some soup in the fridge,” Lucienne calls.
“Soup again!”
“You can hardly eat anything else,” Hélène observes.
“It’s Christmas, holy Mother of God!”
“Don’t swear, boy. Save your strength for tonight. We’ll give you candy.”
Armand snickers. They take off his coat and sit him at the table.
“Where did you put all the food?”
“In the large dining room, as we do every year,” Marthe says. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Well enough. I think I took one pill too many.”
“There we are!” Hélène exclaims angrily. “You’ve been mixing everything up lately!”
“Don’t be angry, my lovely Hélène. It’s no longer worth the trouble.”
Hélène’s mood changes at once. Marthe notices her biting her lips; all of them are raw with emotion. Lucienne goes back and forth between the dining room and the kitchen, helped by Dimitri, who can only smile at them, unable to join the conversation.
“Whatcha doin’ here so early?”
“I was lonely, Lucienne.”
“Poor little thing,” the housekeeper says.
“He’ll have to learn French,” Armand comments as he greets Dimitri.
“And me, Greek. Sweet suffering Chrism—oh, pardon me, I didn’t mean to say that!”
Lucienne turns scarlet. Armand seems to find her rather funny. Marthe prays that this will not become an evening of slips of the tongue. She sits beside him.
“I haven’t seen much of you this week…”
“Indeed. Were you avoiding me? No, don’t answer. I was joking. I slept a great deal and put my things in order. And Rémi and Gustave kept me company.”
“You’ve lost more weight.”
“I don’t eat anymore,” he says, almost inaudibly.
“Well, we’ll put that right!” Hélène retorts, bringing him the soup she reheated in the microwave.
“Diet soup. What joy!”
Lucienne continues her rounds, still followed by Dimitri, who carries dishes and utensils.
“Would you like us to help, Lucienne?”
“No, I’m fine. I’m almost finished. I’m going back to my room to get ready.”
She leaves briskly, drawing her docile Dimitri along like a large planet pulling its moon.
“They’re charming together,” Hélène says.
“They are,” Marthe replies with a smile.
“Will everyone be here tonight?” Armand asks.
“Yes, our whole little crowd. I invited Henri too, since he’s alone now, and Victor’s father, but I don’t know whether they’ll be able or willing to come.”
“It would be lovely if we sang a little tonight,” Armand suggests, slowly swallowing his soup.
“Will you be able to?”
“Perhaps not sing, but I can certainly play the piano.”
“Luc is a tenor, I believe, like you.”
“Yes, and his voice isn’t bad. He can read music a little. Marie-Claire introduced him to it, brave girl.”
Rémi appears behind Victor, beaming, his arms full of presents.
“Where do I put these?”
“Under the tree. Where else?”
“There’s no room!”
“Make some!”
They leave behind a happy energy that brings a smile to Hélène’s and Marthe’s faces.
“I didn’t buy any presents,” Armand says.
“Don’t talk nonsense,” Hélène orders.
Marthe pushes away the plate holding her sandwich.
“I’m not very hungry.”
Armand stops eating his soup and looks at her.
“You could pretend I wasn’t here.”
“But you are here.”
“And I’m keeping you from eating?”
“Perhaps you are.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“It’s a feeling, my friend.”
Hélène tackles her sandwich.
“It’s very good,” she says, staring pointedly at Marthe.
Marthe pulls her plate back, picks up the sandwich and takes a bite.
“It really is good. No two ways about it, Lucienne makes damn fine mayonnaise.”
The two women press close against Armand.
9:00 p.m.
“Goddamn bra!”
“Let me help,” Marthe says. “Your breasts have always been too big for your little body.”
Hélène snickers.
“No, the bra shrank. I didn’t wash it by hand this time, and that’s what happens. This bra cost a fortune, and they can’t even use decent elastic.”
“There. Your bra is fastened. You’re armed.”
“Not many males tonight to defend myself against.”
“True, we’re short on males.”
“On our side, you mean.”
“On our side! Agreed.”
Marthe stands beside her and looks at herself in the mirror.
“I’ve always had small breasts… They’ve gone so soft! Look at that! What size do you wear?”
“A 44C! I once had a lover who often told me: ‘A for absent, B for bulging, C for colossal, D for spilling over, and E for enormous.’”
They laugh.
“Still, a 44C is heavy, girl! And even heavier now that there’s no firmness left! Remember when they stood up all by themselves?”
Marthe lifts one of her own breasts in one hand to gauge its substance, then one of Hélène’s in the other.
“I can’t compete. I’m a 36B.”
“Your breasts were just right. Of course, gravity has made them a little more serious now…”
Marthe sighs.
“I used to be beautiful. Look at me now; my skin looks like… I don’t know what.”
“It looks like the past.”
“You’re wrong. The past is prettier than this. Let’s say it looks like absence.”
Hélène smiles.
“That’s true. Absence. And old ladies like us wear old ladies’ dresses.”
Hélène takes hers from its garment bag, puts it on, then strikes a model’s pose to show herself off.
“Red suits you,” Marthe comments.
“I adore that colour. And that emerald green gives you dignity.”
They look at themselves in the mirror in silence.
“Black suits me best, though,” Marthe finally says.
“This wasn’t the time to wear it.”
“I know.”
“Right! Makeup now!”
“We still have three good hours. Do you think we’ll be ready in time?”
Midnight
“Ladies and gentlemen, and all those who aren’t certain which way they lean.”
Everyone laughs.
“I’d like to propose a toast to our Lucienne for all this delicious, fattening food.”
They stand and shout:
“To Lucienne!”
Only Armand remains seated, though he raises his glass of mineral water. Henri and Victor’s father have not come after all, but everyone else is crowded around the table.
“Why do we have to eat so much fat?” Gustave continues as he sits down.
“Because tomorrow we’ll have to get up early to milk the cows,” Hélène replies.
“Good heavens!”
“Don’t call on him so soon. He was only just born.”
“Well then! Let’s raise our glasses to this polar Christmas.”
Gustave drains his glass and immediately reaches for the wine bottle.
“A cow—I don’t even know what one looks like. Does it have four legs or a pair of eyes?”
“Both, you nitwit!” Lucienne answers.
“I don’t think you were supposed to answer,” Hélène says. “You can see he’s pulling our leg.”
Gustave chuckles and pours himself another drink.
“Careful, Gugu,” Marthe tells him.
“You’ve got no room to talk, Marthe. You’ve already had more than I have; I counted how many times you poured yourself a drink.”
“You’re lying. I’m sober.”
Gustave snickers.
“Tell that to someone else!”
He is right. She has already drunk and eaten too much. To keep from insulting Lucienne, they have had to taste a little of everything, taking tiny portions of every dish, then helping themselves again. Tourtières, meat-stuffed rolls, pig’s feet stew, stuffed turkey, potato, coleslaw, macaroni and beet salads. For dessert: pecan, apple, strawberry and rhubarb pies, maple fudge, chocolate fondant, dream squares. Marie-Claire alone sums up the state they are all in, leaning against the back of her chair with both hands on her belly. Apart from her and Armand, everyone has mixed various kinds of alcohol and added them on top of all that. Only Dimitri has eaten effortlessly and with appetite, to Lucienne’s great delight, as she encouraged him to continue after every bite.
“This won’t do. We’ll have to install a gym, or I’ll end up looking like Gustave,” Rémi says, clinking his glass against Victor’s.
“Anything is possible here,” Marthe replies.
“Indeed!” Armand comments. “Mineral water has never had such an effect on me!”
Hélène and Marthe question him with their eyes. Armand, however, stares at some distant horizon.
“Is there any pie left?” Marie-Claire asks.
“The freezer’s full of it, girl!” Lucienne answers.
“Too much sugar, too much alcohol, too much fat,” Gustave intones.
“Will you stop repeating that?” Hélène says, almost offended. “It only happens once a year.”
“With the amount Lucienne made, we’ll be eating pie and maple fudge for the rest of the year.”
“Oh, no. You say that every year, and every year you ask for more,” Lucienne teases.
“This year is different. Starting tomorrow, I’m switching to salads and raw vegetables.”
They mock him.
“I’d like to propose a toast,” Armand says, struggling to his feet.
Everyone falls silent.
“To all of you, my dear friends. I love you all.”
He stops and smiles. He seems to be searching for his words.
“I’ll miss all of this, but will I be conscious of missing it?”
A palpable wave of emotion passes through the room, which everyone suppresses by raising a glass.
“Stop it, you’ll make me bawl,” Gustave replies with a belch.
“That’s what I want, you fat bastard!”
They laugh, rise and shout:
“To all of us!”
Everyone sits except Marthe.
“Now it’s my turn to propose a toast.”
“Is this going to take long?” Gustave asks.
“You had your turn,” Hélène answers.
“Not long, Gustave. I want to toast Armand, our good pianist and friend, and wish him a long journey still.”
“To life!” Armand replies.
“To life!” the others repeat.
Gustave rises with a determined air.
“What if we went and opened those presents?”
The suggestion comes at the right moment to ease the atmosphere. Rémi and Luc fling bread crumbs at each other before getting to their feet. Marie-Claire quickly finishes her piece of pie. Victor speaks to her intently. From the far end of the long table, Marthe cannot make out what they are saying. Lucienne tears herself away from admiring Dimitri and issues an order as she stands.
“Leave all that. We’ll clean up tomorrow.”
Even so, she cannot stop herself from collecting the dishes and covering the uneaten food.
“That applies to you too, Lucienne,” Marthe says.
“No point deliberately wasting the Good Lord’s food.”
“You aren’t even a believer,” Gustave says.
“Mind your own business, fatty.”
“It’s Christmas, friends. A little more tact.”
“I am tactful! Tomorrow, if he talks to me like that, he’ll get cream puffs right in the face!”
“Can I help?” Dimitri asks, still unable to understand what is happening.
“We are going to gift,” Lucienne says in her schoolgirl English.
“Where?”
“Gift, goddammit!”
Dimitri still does not understand.
“It’s time for the presents,” Rémi translates.
“Ah, presents! Cadeaux?”
“Bravo, Dimitri,” Hélène says.
“French ize difficoult,” he replies, nearly sweating.
“Grease ist difficoult,” Lucienne adds.
“Greek! Lucienne, Greek!” Victor corrects her.
“That’s what I said! These miserable languages. I’ll never get used to that country.”
“Wait until you’re there,” Hélène suggests.
They drag themselves more than walk toward the living room, sated, mildly or utterly dazed, their bellies weighed down by a tradition poorly suited to modern dietary demands. Rémi circles Luc and Victor, pretending he wants to box them. Victor watches him, indifferent, while Luc occasionally plays along, throwing a mock uppercut when Rémi drops his guard. Marie-Claire rises in turn. Her belly protrudes well ahead of her. Looking at her, Lucienne worries that her hips are not widening enough. Marie-Claire thanks her concern with a smile. Marthe takes Armand’s arm as he seems to emerge from a profound reverie.
They make their way slowly to the living room. Victor has doubled back to accompany Marie-Claire. The two laugh at Rémi’s and Luc’s antics.
“I don’t like what they’re doing,” Marthe murmurs.
“What?”
“Rémi and Luc.”
Armand snickers.
“They’re only having fun. Rémi is in love with Luc. It’s obvious.”
“That’s all we need!”
“You’re losing your subtlety, Marthe—or did you simply not want to see it?”
She stiffens, ready for anger. Or desire? Her feelings tolerate alcohol no better than her body does. Armand is still snickering.
“You’re very cheerful.”
“Life, Marthe, when it moves away from us, sometimes resembles a child’s game, endless and restless.”
“It isn’t so far away.”
“For me, it is. Don’t worry about Rémi. He loves Victor even more. He’s merely torn.”
Marthe’s first impulse is to find the explanation complicated, but her vast experience of humankind makes her shrug. Still, she promises herself she will keep an eye on Rémi. He might go too far, and she would be disappointed in him. Now Marie-Claire doubles back and takes Armand’s other arm. Marthe smiles at her, silently promising to protect her.
The three reach the living room. Marthe guides Armand to the large sofa and seats him. He holds her back.
“Stay with me, please.”
Hélène joins them and sits on his other side, pressing against him as she wriggles impatiently at the pile of presents. Marie-Claire sits beside Victor and rests her head on his shoulder.
“I’m thirsty and in pain,” Armand says quietly.
Marthe is frightened; Hélène leaps to her feet.
“Just bring me some water, please,” he asks her.
She obeys. Armand gives Marthe a weakened look. He searches his jacket pocket, takes out two tablets as though they were sweets and immediately swallows them. Marthe notices that the pocket seems full of pills.
“Morphine,” he says.
Hélène returns almost at a run with a tall glass of water. The others, Marthe observes, notice nothing, deafened by their unrestrained good spirits. Only Rémi stares at Armand, then at Marthe.
“You keep your morphine in your pocket?”
Armand looks at Marthe as he nods to Hélène, then takes out two more tablets and swallows them. Marthe wants to protest, but the silence commanded by Armand’s eyes dissuades her. She cannot help pleading with Hélène for help with her gaze. Hélène remains impassive, though she draws one deep breath. Armand closes his eyes for a few seconds. The tautness in his features suddenly fades; his cheeks fill out and relax. Marthe thinks he is dying, but he opens his eyes and gives her hope again with a smile. He squeezes her hand, his own now warm, now cold, often agitated. Hélène sits down again.
Gustave settles near the tree.
“Ho! Ho! Ho!”
“They don’t make Santa Clauses like they used to! Where’s last year’s costume?” Hélène asks.
“It doesn’t fit me anymore! Lucienne’s fault.”
“A growing body has only the mouth that feeds it to blame,” Hélène says in a dietitian’s tone.
“Who do we start with?” Gustave asks.
“The young ones!” Armand calls.
“The Star Fairy has spoken!”
The long ceremony begins. Marie-Claire and Luc receive clothes and accessories for little Antoine: layettes, toys for the crib, clothes for when he is a little older. Rémi receives a chain, art books and several neckties from Victor, which makes everyone laugh. Then Victor takes two rings carved with abstract patterns from his pocket and gives one to Rémi. Rémi blushes.
“He may wear ties, but he knows what he’s doing,” Hélène whispers.
“We should have found ourselves a notary when we were young.”
Victor receives locally designed clothes from Rémi, who apologizes for having nothing else to give him. Victor nevertheless looks pleased. Rémi approaches Luc and shows him his ring. Luc takes his hand for a better look.
As promised, Marie-Claire and Luc become engaged before them. They exchange rings and kisses. Marie-Claire smiles contentedly; Luc shows his ring to Rémi, who looks at it politely.
They begin with Gustave. Marthe gives him a Moroccan deck of cards in a faux-leather travel case. Hélène then hands him a pill organizer. Everyone laughs, though it is an original piece by a local designer. They learn at the same time that Gustave has prostate trouble. Marthe is displeased that something has again been hidden from her.
“You hid that from me.”
Hélène smiles at her.
“He didn’t want me to mention it. It could be a benign tumour—at least, that’s what he says.”
Marthe sighs. She feels Armand’s weight; he has fallen asleep. She shakes him and he wakes with a start. She whispers in his ear:
“You aren’t going to snore during the presents.”
“The presents? Oh yes. It’s Christmas.”
Marthe stares at Hélène, who returns her gaze.
“Is anything else being hidden from me?”
The softness of Hélène’s eyes becomes a lake of still water. Use your antennae, Marthe, her friend seems to say. Armand is hot and in pain. He says nothing, watching the young people distractedly. From time to time he squeezes Marthe’s hand. Her heart lurches; her blood plays one cruel trick, then slows. She grips his hand very tightly in turn. He does not react.
Lucienne receives a makeup kit from Hélène and Parisian gloves from Gustave. There are whistles. Marthe’s gift is a simple envelope.
Intrigued, Lucienne opens it. She immediately blushes and reads aloud:
“For your years of loyal and loving service, and for our friendship, here is something to provide for your old age.”
She holds up the papers without understanding.
“Victor?” Marthe says.
“It’s a form of annuity in your name that will protect you from hardship.”
“Holy jumping!”
Lucienne bursts into tears and tries to explain to Dimitri what she has received, but he understands nothing. Rémi translates. Dimitri whistles and looks at Marthe with respect. Lucienne throws herself at Marthe and kisses her. Marthe suppresses her own tears but holds her tightly.
“Hey, lesbians, that’s enough!”
“Gustave, you can be such an ass!” Hélène snaps.
Gustave gives her a nasty smile, but the tension lasts only a few seconds. He presents her with her gift, which she takes almost brutally. Since it is quite heavy, however, she must sit down to open it, deeply intrigued.
“A gift from Marthe and me.”
Hélène’s mouth forms a circle.
“A laptop!” she cries.
“But why? Why?”
“You write, don’t you? We think it’s taking a long time, and we can’t wait to read you. This should help. It will be easier to take with you when we travel, too.”
“It’s too much! It’s too much!”
“Would you like us to take it back?” Gustave asks cheerfully.
“No, no! But this is extravagant,” Hélène says.
“You told me yourself: stories go down better when one has money.”
She throws herself into each of their arms, weeping. Gustave looks more delighted than ever, winks at Marthe and hands her a small box.
“From Hélène and me.”
She sits down again to open it. A magnificent necklace.
“The white stone isn’t worth anything itself, but it comes from a South American cave, where slow mineral condensation gives it that lunar appearance. The setting is worked in the Inca manner,” Gustave explains as though reciting a lesson. “Four small garnets surround the moon. You understand the allusion, I hope. I had it made…”
“It must have cost a fortune!”
“A few million.”
Marthe watches him for a few seconds; he laughs. She kisses them both and asks Hélène to help fasten it. Everyone admires the result. She goes to look at herself in the mirror. They chose well, she concludes. It is just conspicuous enough while remaining discreet; though she never wears jewellery, she finds this piece fitting. She takes time to examine her face. The jewel softens it. With that, you look even more like an old person.
She banishes the little devil, smiles and returns to her place, immediately noticing Armand’s pallid complexion. He seems to have fallen asleep again, slumped against Hélène.