I see you, Madame Coutrot, carefully arranging canapés and petit-fours. Highly sought-after, they were obtained with your husband Jean’s exclusive Polytechnic food-stamps. There’s no gateau (he considers it extravagant), but he’s baked modest cupcakes himself (chocolate, his favourite). Your hand trembles as you insert one small candle. Your body betrays you constantly – the pristine
