The minutes that followed, from the moment they left the Bousquet property, passed in a calm silence. One that clearly contrasted with the music and bustle that could still be heard from inside the neighboring houses, and even from one alleyway or another.

Julien feared that, once the not-so-quiet admiration he had always professed for Francis’s work came to light, the latter might feel displeased by such unsolicited attention. That, for that very reason, he might decide he did not wish to spend a single second more in his company. And consequently, after branding him a hypocrite for continuing to take jabs at him while secretly reading him with absolute pleasure, he would decide never to speak to him again for the rest of his life.

Of course, this had to be an exaggeration. Julien was being dramatic, and he knew it.

In particular, and although he already suspected that Francis did not hold a very favorable opinion of him, he did not believe it would be so terrible as to warrant such a decisive dismissal. Mainly because—well, one could already see what kind of person Francis was!

Honest to the core and incapable of holding back an opinion, whether good or bad, Julien was fairly certain that if he had irreversibly offended him, Francis would have said something long ago… unless he was saving all that venom for when they were alone.

Because Julien realized that day that Francis was good at dealing with crowds. And if he bore them no ill will, he was perfectly capable not only of maintaining cordiality, but of slipping effortlessly into that ecosystem of family and neighbors, as though he had always been part of it.

And, in a way, Julien thought, that was true: no matter that Francis now lived in Paris and had built a life there, it did not change the fact that his roots lay in Chambéry.

So then—how long would Francis continue to maintain that façade of absolute calm?

Julien guided him out of his relatives’ house, beyond the neighborhood itself. And although it soon became evident that they were moving away from the town center, Francis raised no complaint or concern, letting himself be led completely. That was entirely unlike him, and could only bode an explosion at some point!

Although, now that he stopped to think about it, Julien himself was also unusually quiet.

He, who had always suffered from constant verbosity, feeling the need to fill every social silence, now found himself unsure of what to say. Had Francis noticed how nervous he was? No—what a foolish question! How could he not have noticed? This had to be the longest silence between the two of them since they had met on the train.

And, although Julien had not yet decided whether he liked this, the truth was that he still had not been told to get lost. Which, in itself, was already a victory.

“Where are we going?” Francis finally asked, recovering his voice.

“You’ll see in a moment—we’re almost there.”

Francis did not press the issue. In fact, he did not even complain when they left the cobblestone streets of the village and began to climb a small hill just outside Chambéry. An area that, while already quite close to the woods, still belonged within the town limits. And for that very reason, it remained discreetly lit by the occasional streetlamp here and there.

Julien felt like the luckiest person in the universe when he finally managed to lead Francis to the top of the rise, before he could voice objections or attempt to leave the way they had come.

“See? No sleds this time! Just a snowy hill, views of the entire town, and the two of us getting along splendidly.” Then, thinking better of it, Julien clarified, “Well, maybe that last part is literary embellishment. But you still haven’t pushed me downhill, so I’d say there’s at least some cordiality established.”

“There must be, yes.”

“Which is wonderful. And to celebrate, I’ve brought you to my favorite place to stargaze.”

“The stars, you say?” Francis repeated, with that peculiar blend of skepticism and curiosity that only ever prompted Julien to talk more—and faster—in order to convince him that his intentions were noble.

“I used to come here since I was a child to look at them, because this is where they’re best seen. And it’s not that I’m knowledgeable about astrology or anything—it’s just a pastime that relaxes me… or that used to relax me, rather. I don’t get many chances to come here anymore, and in Lyon you’re more likely to see a horse sabotaging the tram than a meteor shower in the sky.”

“Julien—”

“I’d invite you to sit down, but I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he continued, barely listening to him, aware that although there was a bench nearby, it was covered in a thin layer of ice and snow. “We’d end up with our lower halves frozen solid, and I don’t think it would be a nice way to end the year—being stuck to a wooden contraption out in the open, waiting for someone to come rescue us. Not to mention how cold it already is. Maybe I should have taken you to the square instead? That’s where there are more sheltered places, and more activity—but then again, you’re from here. So you already know that, and it probably wouldn’t interest you to see the same old thing…”

“I’ve been thinking,” Francis interrupted him, with a gentleness never before seen in their conversations, “and I believe it would be appropriate to change the kind of relationship we have right now. A truce seems absurd at this point.”

At this, all of Julien’s alarms went off so strongly that he found himself unable to wait for Francis to continue explaining. The result was that both of them spoke at the same time:

“Look, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten so carried away as to collect every article you’ve ever published.”

“I think we should abandon this stupid rivalry and start over, without any prejudice.” Then, realizing what Julien had just said over him, he continued, somewhat affronted, “What do you mean you shouldn’t have collected my articles? Did you change your mind about them in recent years?”

“Obviously not! I’ve always liked how you write and the topics you tackle—that’s never changed. With or without open battlefronts. It’s just… don’t you find it overwhelming to have someone you consider a rival secretly admiring your work?”

“Overwhelming? Quite the opposite, actually. There can be no greater fulfillment than knowing that someone who usually dislikes you is nevertheless capable of appreciating your work.”

“I don’t dislike you.” This time, Julien was the one who felt uncomfortable—he was even afraid that he might be liking Francis too much.

“I know, and that’s precisely why I see no sense in continuing this supposed enmity we’ve been dragging along,” Francis pointed out. Being the more logical of the two, it would not be unreasonable to assume he had already thought this speech through long before Julien’s grandmother blundered with her indiscretion. “I don’t hate you either, and if I’m honest with you, I’d even say I’ve come to enjoy your poetry.”

“Oh, come on. This is where I draw the line: your favorite thing to mock has always been my poetry! You never get so fired up when I talk about architecture or works of art. So you don’t need to flatter me just because you want to be kind, after… well, everything you know I think about you.”

“Since when do I make an effort to be kind in exchange for flattery?”

Julien opened his mouth to reply, but immediately closed it again, without saying anything. Francis, irritable as he always was, was exceedingly transparent: even though he was polite to everyone, he was not the type to dispense empty compliments. If he said something good about someone, it was because he meant it.

He did not need provocation to elicit that reaction.

“Perhaps I didn’t have a very good opinion of your poetry at the beginning, but that was due solely to my own prejudices,” Francis concluded, noticing that Julien still seemed somewhat incredulous and therefore in need of an explanation. “When you began responding to me regularly, I was forced to read all your previous work carefully. And I must say… although it’s true that I haven’t been able to understand everything, I’ve genuinely enjoyed your poetry.”

“Really?” Julien began to smile again, for the first time since they had left his relatives’ house. “Who would have thought it? The great political columnist of Le Gaulois admitting that he likes ‘those crude attempts to give language a bit of lyricism.’ I never thought I’d live to see this day!”

“Yes, well, don’t get carried away,” Francis remarked, though even he was beginning to struggle to keep a straight face. “I never said I’ve now become a devotee of poetry; I have no intention of starting to buy books of it. I’ve merely acknowledged that I like your verses in particular.”

“That’s even better!”

Hadn’t Francis said it would be an honor to know that someone he didn’t get along with still admired his work? Well, Julien was in complete agreement with that statement.

And once the atmosphere had finally shed the lingering tension, Francis and Julien were at last able to enjoy the starry sky, now far removed from any past misunderstanding or grievance.

Perhaps, Julien vaguely thought at this point, he should ask the big question: if they were no longer rivals, nor enemies, then what were they supposed to be?

He had a theory that they could be friends… or at least that was what he hoped. Because the idea of being mere acquaintances—who treated each other cordially on the rare occasions they met, without anything deeper to that relationship—was not at all satisfying to him.

He had grown accustomed to Francis, not only during those days, but throughout all those years in which they had been exchanging barbs. The thought of losing contact and never again receiving news of him did not appeal to him in the slightest.

So, before he could talk himself out of it, letting the night continue on its natural course, Julien ventured to ask:

“But what will happen to all those jabs and assorted criticisms in the newspapers? Are we not going to keep doing them?”

“Do you want to?”

Was that a challenge? Julien had not expected Francis to throw the question back at him. But if this was going to be his only chance to answer it honestly, he intended to take it.

“As you must already know, on my end I always saw it as a game,” he declared. “I bothered you to see how you’d react and thus be able to keep the debate going—it’s not that I hated anything in particular about what you were doing. So as far as I’m concerned, we could continue just as we have been. That is, if you agree.”

One should not forget that Francis had, at one point, been offended. And although that had already passed, Julien preferred not to assume that things would remain amicable in the future.

After a long silence in which Francis seemed to consider it, he finally said softly, almost like a confession:

“I think I’d like to keep writing to you as well.” Then, after a few moments in which he seemed to recover his usual pride, he went on to clarify in his normal tone. “It’s not that I hold you in any particular esteem, but this business of sending each other ripostes that only we understand has turned out to be a more stimulating exercise than I initially thought.”

“You enjoy tearing me apart in the press and having me respond with a move just as sharp—or sharper,” Julien observed, grinning from ear to ear. “It’s obvious you like me.”

“I do this purely out of practicality,” Francis insisted. And though he tried to appear utterly unperturbed, Julien did not miss the fact that he had not denied what was already so obvious. “We’ve been treating each other this way in public for many years now, and it would be strange to stop from one day to the next.”

“Of course—because the editors of our respective newspapers would lose so much sleep over two of their journalists making a non-aggression pact and stopping the use of their columns to hurl poisoned darts at one another that, in any case, have nothing to do with the papers’ actual editorial stance.”

“Oh, come on. Didn’t you bring me here to look at the stars? Then be quiet and let’s look at them.”

And Julien obeyed. Because he was already learning where Francis’s boundaries lay—and also, why not admit it, because he felt perfectly comfortable standing there, so close to him that their shoulders were almost touching.

They remained there for a few more minutes, watching the sky and making the occasional comment about the little astronomy they believed they knew, until Julien finally dared to ask:

“Friends, then?”

That produced a pause of several seconds, in which Francis seemed surprised, and Julien feared that the answer to follow would be a negative one. But in the end—and though slightly flushed, as it was clear it cost him some effort to get there—Francis said, slowly:

“I suppose that’s what we’ll be, yes.”

This time he did not say it with resignation, nor as a veiled insult, but as a timid affirmation of what might come. And although Julien would have liked to have that—and much more—immediately, the mere fact that a door had opened, offering him the possibility of maintaining contact in a healthier way, was already something to celebrate.

There was no need to rush anything, since all of a sudden the time available to them seemed to have stretched out, given that it was no longer just that one week of vacation they would have to get to know each other.

Thus, satisfied as could be, Julien could no longer hide his growing euphoria. He spent the next few minutes engaging in casual conversation with Francis beneath the stars, without worrying about accidentally broaching any topic that might cause conflict.

They had reached an understanding, which meant that the tension had been broken and, with it, there was no longer any need to stay on the defensive. After that time on the hill, enjoying each other’s company and the view, they both returned to the party with the feeling that a weight had been lifted from their shoulders.