‘Papa, you know those English lessons of mine?’
‘Yes, I know. You’re quite right to take them …’
‘Please listen. I’m not going to take any more.’
‘Ah, they tire you, do they?’
‘Yes, they get on my nerves.’
‘Then you’re quite right.’
And his thoughts flew back to his slugs – if they had ever left them.
The night was shot through with stupid dreams. Mademoiselle Sergent, as a fury, with snakes in her red hair, was trying to embrace Aimee Lanthenay who ran away, screaming.
I tried to go to her rescue but Antonin Rabastens held me back. He was dressed all in pastel pink and he pulled me back by the arm, saying:
‘Listen, do listen! Here’s a lyrical ballad that I sing and I’m really enraptured with it.’
Then he warbled in his baritone: ‘Beloved friends, when I am dead,
Plant a sad pillow on my grrave …’
He sang it to the tune of:
‘Ah, how my French blood thrills with pride, to see her soldiers marching by!’
An absurd night and one that did not rest me in the least. *
I arrived late for school and contemplated Mademoiselle Sergent, secretly surprised to think that this audacious Redhead had had such success.
She darted malicious, almost mocking looks at me, but I was so tired and dispirited that I had no heart left to answer her back.
When class was over, I saw Mademoiselle Aimee lining up the little ones in file (it was as if I had dreamt the whole of yesterday evening).
I said good morning to her in passing; she looked tired, too.
Mademoiselle Sergent was not there. I stopped and said:
‘Are you feeling all right this morning?’
‘Yes, of course, thank you.
You look very dark under the eyes, Claudine.’
‘Maybe.
Any fresh news?
The scene didn’t start up again?
Is she still as amiable to you as ever?’
She blushed and looked embarrassed.
‘Oh, yes. Nothing more’s happened and she’s being very nice.
I … think you don’t know her properly … she’s not in the least like what you imagine …’
Slightly nauseated, I let her go stammering on.
When she had got her sentence well and truly entangled, I interrupted her:
‘Perhaps you’re the one who’s right.
You’ll come on Wednesday for the last time?’
‘Oh, indeed I will. I’ve asked her. It’s all fixed. Definitely.’
How quickly things change!
Since that scene yesterday evening, we had already begun to speak differently to each other. Today I did not dare to show a trace of the vociferous misery I had let her see last night.
At all costs, I must make her laugh a little.
‘How are your love-affairs?
Is the handsome Richelieu going on all right?’
‘Who do you mean?
Armand Duplessis?
Oh, yes, he’s doing splendidly.
Sometimes he stays two hours in the shadows under my window. But yesterday night, I let him know that I’d noticed him, and he went striding away at a great rate, on those long legs of his – they’re just like the legs of a compass.
And when Monsieur Rabastens wanted to bring him along the day before yesterday, he refused to come.’
‘You know, Armand is seriously keen on you. I know what I’m talking about.
I overheard a conversation between those two masters last Sunday. Quite by chance, by the roadside.
And … I’ll only tell you this much! … Armand has got it badly. Only try and tame him – he’s a wild bird.’
She was all animation now and wanted all the details, but I ran off.
Let me try and think about the singing-lessons we are to have from the seductive Antonin Rabastens.