Old Laurent Moutier was gone, at the age of ninety, taking with him like everyone does a lifetime of unknown private hopes and dreams and fears and experiences, and leaving behind him like most people do a thin trace of himself in his living descendants.  He had never had a clear idea of what would become of his beautiful mophaired daughter and his two handsome grandsons, nor did he really want one, but like every other twentieth-century male human in Europe he hoped they would live lives of peace, prosperity and plenty, while simultaneously knowing they almost certainly wouldn't.  So he hoped they would bear their burdens with grace and good humour, and he was comforted in his final moments by the knowledge that so far they always had, and probably always would.