“Blanche was an affectionate granny with us, wasn’t she?” he said. “Now she’s a tyrant.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Mélanie slowly. “She was sweet to us, but only when we did what we were told. Which is what we did.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we were ideally silent, polite, meek grandchildren. We never had tantrums or fits.”

“Because we were brought up that way,” said Antoine.

“Yes,” said Mélanie, turning to face her brother and plucking the half-smoked cigarette from his fingers, then burying it into the sand, heedless of his protests. “We were brought up that way.”

“What are you getting at?” he asked.

She screwed up her eyes. “How did Clarisse get on with Blanche and Robert? Did she approve of the fact that we had to be meek and polite all the time?”

He scratched the back of his head.

“I don’t remember,” he said flatly.

She looked across at him and smiled.

“You’ll see. You will. If I’m starting to, then you will too.”

Tonight I waited for you on the pier, but you did not come. It grew cold, and after a while I left, thinking maybe it was difficult for you to get away this time. I told them I just needed a quick walk on the beach after dinner, and I wonder if they believed me. She always looks at me like she knows something, although I am sure, perfectly sure, that nobody knows. Nobody knows. How could they know? How could anyone guess anything? When they see me, they see a nice, timid, proper mother with her polite, charming son and daughter. When they see you… Ah, but when anyone sees you, they see temptation. How can anyone resist you? How could I have resisted you? You know that, don’t you? You knew that the minute you laid your eyes on me that first day at the beach, last year. You are the devil in disguise.

There was a rainbow earlier on, a lovely one, and now the night is coming fast, gathering darkness and clouds. I miss you.