The Mayor had seen to that. The plinth’s fourth side was more than sufficient for the dead of the Second World War, and the subsequent conflicts in Vietnam and Algeria. There were no names from Bruno’s own brief experience of war in the Balkans. He always felt relieved by that, even as he marvelled that a Commune as small as St Denis could have lost over two hundred young men in the slaughterhouse of 1914-1918.

The schoolchildren of the town were lined up on each side of the memorial, the infants of the Maternelle in front sucking their thumbs and holding each other’s hands. Behind them, the slightly older ones in jeans and T-shirts were still young enough to be fascinated by this spectacle. Across from them, however, some of the teenagers of the Collиge slouched, affecting sneers and a touch of bafflement that the new Europe they were inheriting could yet indulge in such antiquated celebrations of national pride. But Bruno noticed that most of the teenagers stood quietly, aware that they were in the presence of all that remained of their grandfathers and great-grandfathers, a list of names on a plinth that said something of their heritage and of the great mystery of war, and something of what France might one day again demand of her sons.

Jean-Pierre and Bachelot, who might not have spoken for fifty years but who knew the ritual of this annual moment, marched forward and lowered their flags in salute to the bronze soldier and his eagle. Montsouris dipped his red flag and Marie-Louise lowered hers so far it touched the ground. Belatedly, unsure of their timing, Karim and the English Monsieur Jackson followed suit. The Mayor walked solemnly forward and ascended the small dais that Bruno had placed before the memorial.

‘Franзais et Franзaises,’ he declaimed, addressing the small crowd. ‘Frenchmen and Frenchwomen, and the representatives of our brave allies.