[ Maman, Claude had asked her after the first half hour Jean Louis spent in the garden, on the phone, doing Christmas calls presumably, can't you go give him a blanket, here, this one's really wooly and warm. She'd scolded him, why didn't he do so himself, but he'd just pointed to Céline's girl who had fallen asleep with her face more or less stuck to his thigh, the doll they'd given her for Christmas lodged under one arm. So, Camille had sighed and taken the blanket he held out, walking over to the terrasse door, watching the other man through it, waiting for an obvious opening in his conversation before stepping outside, shaking the blanket loose.

Meanwhile, Jean Louis has moved on to lighting up a cigarette, and he looks stiff and cold, though he doesn't show any signs of noticing. Being bothered. She holds the blanket out, smiling at him softly. The door leading inside has been left ajar, to not let the cold in too much. Her high heeled shoes leave footprints in the newly fallen snow. There are two sets, then. His and hers. ]

Claude wanted you to wrap up. [ A nod at his cigarette as if to say, don't set yourself on fire. Another moment, then she adds, not curiously but as an observation. ] You would've been welcome to take your Christmas calls inside. It's freezing out here.

[ And if he needed privacy for it, which she imagines is the reason he's standing out here, turning into a popsicle, they do have several guest rooms. He could've made himself comfortable. Though, of course, having observed him a whole evening, courtesy drinking and partaking in conversation on a polite, but superficial level, Camille thinks Jean Louis might not know much about making himself comfortable at all.

She wonders, waiting for the man to accept the blanket, if he knows about extending that service to others. She wonders if Claude would care, if he doesn't.

Her son takes less care of himself than he does of the world, unfortunately. ]