It's Tuesday evening, two weeks and two days since the accident and Delphine and I are standing either side of the hospital bed, dressed in pale blue hospital gowns.
'Please wake up,' I say. 'Everyone is waiting for you and praying for you. Even people you don't know. So many people want you to get better.'
The doctor arrives, accompanied by a professor of neurology and a junior doctor. Looking grave, Dr Kirian explains that the results of initial tests on brain function are not encouraging, although it is difficult to be certain of anything until the three week mark.
'Don't be optimistic, but don't be pessimistic,' he says, speaking in English. He then goes on to explain in French that at the end of this week, they will take the patient off the life support machines and attempt to keep him alive for two hours while they do a brain scan. This scan, he tells us, 'will determine if he will ever come out of the coma.'
Suddenly, the doctor breaks off from his sotto-voiced explanation and points towards the bed, looking surprised.
'Regarde ca!' he says. 'An eye is opening.'
And it's true. Very briefly, but very noticeably, one eye blinked open and then closed. I am not sure how significant this is but the doctor seemed surprised. And had he and Delphine not been there to witness it, I would almost certainly have thought I was imagining it.
Two years ago I hung up my high heels, put the Prada handbags into storage and left behind my fashionable West London life to renovate an old village house in rural France. Et voila. This blog is about what happened next....
Ce sont de bonnes nouvelles, Karen. There is always hope -- please keep that in mind.