She drew herself up and, already imagining the black veil fluttering around her, showed her cousin to the door with pride and dignity.

"You are a true Catholic." Odette sighed humbly.

"Just a good Frenchwoman," Madame Péricand replied drily, turning her back.

This conversation had lessened her sorrow slightly. She had always respected Philippe and in some way understood he was not of this world. She knew that, if he had renounced his dream of being a missionary, it was out of humility and that he had chosen to serve God in the way that was the most difficult for him: by subjecting himself to the most commonplace duties. She was certain her son was with Jesus. (When she said the same thing about her father-in-law, it was with a secret doubt for which she reproached herself, but there it was…) But Philippe… "I can see him as if I were there," she thought. Yes, she could be proud of Philippe and the radiance of his soul reflected back on to her.

Whereas when she thought of Hubert she felt a strange turmoil. Hubert, who failed miserably at school, who bit his nails, Hubert with his ink-stained fingers, his lovely chubby face, his wide young mouth, for Hubert to die a hero was… inconceivable… When she talked to her sympathetic friends about how Hubert had left ("I tried to stop him, but I saw how impossible it was. He was a child, but a courageous child, and he has given his life for the honour of France. As Rostand said, 'It is even more beautiful because it is pointless.'"), she found that she was rewriting the past. She actually believed she had said all these proud words, that she had sent her son off to war.

Nîmes, which had looked upon her until now rather bitterly, felt a respect for this sorrowful mother that was almost affectionate.

"The whole town will be there today," old Madame Craquant sighed with melancholy satisfaction.

It was 31 July. Their Mass for the Dead was due to be celebrated at ten o'clock, with three names tragically added.

"Oh, Mother, what does it matter?" replied Madame Péricand, and it was impossible to tell if she was referring to the uselessness of such consolation or to the very poor opinion she had of her fellow citizens.

The town gleamed beneath the blazing sun. In the poor districts, a dry and insidious wind rattled the bead curtains in doorways. The flies bit; you could smell a storm coming. Nîmes, normally sleepy at this time of year, was crowded with people. The refugees who had poured in were still there, unable to leave because of petrol shortages and the temporary closure of the border along the Loire. The streets and town squares had been transformed into parking lots. There was not a spare room anywhere.

People had been sleeping in the streets; the ultimate luxury was a bale of hay to use as a bed. The citizens of Nîmes were proud of themselves for having done their duty, and more, towards the refugees. They had welcomed them with open arms, pressed them against their bosoms. There was not a single family who had not offered hospitality to these poor people. It was just a shame that this state of affairs was dragging on so unreasonably long. There was also the matter of provisions, and you can't forget either, said the townspeople, that all these poor refugees, exhausted by their journey, would be susceptible to the most terrible epidemics. There were veiled hints in the press and more open, brutal demands from some quarters, urging the refugees to leave as soon as possible. But as yet, circumstances had prevented anyone from going anywhere.

Madame Craquant, who had her entire family living with her and was therefore able, head held high, to refuse to donate even a pair of sheets, rather enjoyed all this hustle and bustle, which she witnessed through her half-closed Venetian blinds. She was having her breakfast, along with the Péricand children, before going to church. Madame Péricand watched them eat. She did not touch her own food even though, thanks to the stock of supplies accumulated in her mother's enormous cupboards since war had been declared, it was more appetising than the usual rations.

Madame Craquant was troubled by her daughter's cold stare. A snow-white napkin covering her vast chest, she was polishing off her third piece of buttered toast when she felt a touch of indigestion. She put the toast down and looked at her daughter timidly. "I don't know why I'm eating, Charlotte," she said, "it's not going down well."

"You'll have to force yourself, Mother," replied Madame Péricand ironically, her voice as cold as ice. And she pushed the full jug of hot chocolate towards the old lady.

"All right then. Pour me another half-cup, Charlotte, but not more than half a cup now!"

"You know it's your third?"

But Madame Craquant seemed suddenly struck deaf. "Yes, yes," she said vaguely, nodding her head. "You're right, Charlotte, we must fortify ourselves before the sad ceremony." And she drank up the frothy chocolate with a sigh.

Meanwhile, the doorbell rang and one of the servants brought in a package for Madame Péricand. It contained photographs of Philippe and Hubert: she had sent them to be framed. She looked at them for a long time, then got up, put them down on the sideboard, stood back to see how they looked, went into her bedroom, and came back carrying two black rosettas and two red, white and blue ribbons. As she draped them over the picture frames, they heard Nanny sobbing in the doorway, Emmanuel in her arms. Jacqueline and Bernard also started crying.

Madame Péricand took the children by the hand, gently pulled them from their chairs and walked them over to the sideboard. "Just look at your two big brothers, my darlings! Ask the Good Lord to bless you so you might be like them. Try to be as good, as studious and obedient as they were. They were such good sons," said Madame Péricand, her voice choking with pain, "and I wouldn't be at all surprised if God has rewarded them by recognising them as martyrs. You mustn't cry. They are with the Good Lord; they are looking down on us, protecting us. They will be waiting for us in heaven, and in the meantime, here on earth, we must be proud of them, both as Christians and as citizens of France."

Everyone was crying now; even Madame Craquant had stopped drinking her hot chocolate and was looking for her handkerchief, her hands trembling. The photograph of Philippe was amazingly lifelike. It really captured his pure, intense expression, and he seemed to contemplate his family with that smile of his that was sweet, kind and loving.

"And when you say your prayers, you mustn't forget," Madame Péricand concluded, "those unfortunate children who died with him."

"But maybe they aren't all dead?"

"It's possible," Madame Péricand said vaguely, "very possible. Those poor children… On the other hand," she added, "that charitable institution really is a great responsibility," and her thoughts ran back to her father-in-law's Will.

Madame Craquant dried her eyes. "Little Hubert… he was so sweet, so funny. I remember one day when you were visiting, I'd fallen asleep in the sitting room after lunch, and that naughty boy goes and takes down the flypaper from the chandelier and quietly lowers it on to my head. I woke up and screamed… You certainly punished him that day, Charlotte."

"I don't remember," said Charlotte drily. "Now, come on, Mother, finish your hot chocolate; we have to hurry. The carriage is downstairs. It's nearly ten o'clock."

They went into the street, the grandmother first, puffing and leaning on her cane, then Madame Péricand, swathed in black crêpe, followed by her two children in black, Emmanuel in white, and a few of the servants, all in full mourning attire. The carriage was waiting. The driver was getting down from his seat to open the door when, suddenly, Emmanuel pointed a little finger towards the crowd. "Hubert! Look, it's Hubert!"