Augustin Roques, now 69, remembers vividly the day in 1944 when American soldiers marched by his part of Paris. As they came by, they threw packages of gum to the people, along with cigarettes. He recalls the sweet smell of the Camels, the brand of smokes favored by the troops.

I met Augustin, his wife Raymonde, and their dog Rocky at the approaches to the Arenes de Lutece, an ancient Roman ruin located behind my hotel in the 5th arrondisement of Paris. Raymonde was sitting in a wheelchair because of the lower body paralysis she has suffered over the past five years. Each day brings her pain, a difficult burden for which she looks to God for relief.

For his part, Augustin seems happy as he provides care for his wife and takes her on outings in the vicinity of their home. “Moi, je suis tranquille,” he tells me, attesting to his own inner peace.

In search of spiritual help, this couple has been to Lourdes, there to pray for a restoration of Raymonde’s health. In inadequate French, I suggested spiritual healing as a benefit more likely to come from such a pilgrimage, a distinction with which they seemed to agree.

Retired now, Augustin used to work as a locksmith and was a skilled maker of keys. Using my notebook, he drew for me pictures of some locks and keys that were his stock in trade. As a professional, he branded my house key as worthless, not worthy of his manufacture.

This genial Frenchman obviously took pleasure in out conversation, as did I. Only his wife’s appointment with a visiting nurse brought our exchange to an end. However, I promised to send him this column and thus continue the dialogue at long range.

Monsieur and Madame Roques were only two of the many age peers I took note of during a recent two-week vacation in France. Among them was a 76-year-old gentleman with whom I sat on a park bench next to St. Julien le Pauvre, the city’s oldest church. Conversation with him proved more difficult because he remained fixated on the dangers posed by local pickpockets.

“Attention!” (Watch out) he warned me several times, concerned that the roving robbers would find this tourist easy pickings. “The old do not have the strength to defend themselves,” he observed as he fingered his cane, a likely weapon of self defense for him.

After a while this man broke off conversation, got up from our bench, and walked out the gate. He left me with the impression that, just maybe, he felt this strange guy, so interested in conversation and so nosy, might himself be a suspicious person up to no good.

Near the river Seine, I stopped at a quirky English-language landmark. “Shakespeare and Company” is a famous bookstore, eccentric but breathing the aura of literature lovers. There I talked with the proprietor, 90-year-old George Whitman, who happily presides over the place.

Though he expects soon to relinquish some of his duties to his daughter, George takes as a model Frances Steloff, a friend who worked in a similar trade in New York City. “She was the owner of the Gotham Book Mark,” he told me, “and, when she was 100 years old, she was still helping out.”

At Mont-Saint-Michel in Brittany, I ran into other age peers, these not French, but American tourists full of spirit. Caroline Coopersmith from Minneapolis, a game 80, had just climbed to the top of the great hill with only two stops for resting. She reported everything smooth on her trip except, she said with a laugh, at the airport “I set off all the bells; I have two hip replacements.”

Al Berman, a 75-year-old gentleman from the Philadelphia area, and I felt immediate rapport. He had just read the novel “Empire Falls” with much relish, as had I. In semi-retirement from the toy business, Al takes history courses at Penn and also takes a lively interest in his grandchildren and baseball.

Later, I observed a couple of parish priests of advanced years. One of them, the celebrant at Sunday Mass in the magnificent 13th century Gothic cathedral in Rheims sang nobly in a voice weakened by age. But his homily showed spirit and vision as he spoke about the mystical bonds united by God’s love.

In that same lively city of Rheims, an old lady entering the church of St. Jacques caught my eye. As she tried to navigate the raised threshold, she received a helping arm from a young man who formed a striking contrast with her. He sported a Mohawk haircut, had rings hanging from his ears, and wore black leather. The lady took his arm and they happily disappeared together within the church.

All in all, the “third age” in France appears to be giving a good account of itself. Like their juniors, elders there seem to take delight in their language, their food, their ancient monuments, their Euros, and, above all, the peace that now reigns among former enemies in the new Europe.

Richard Griffin