‘What is a lock?’
I answered, as if I were repeating something by heart:
‘Tst!
Don’t go and bore me with your old canals: look at Mademoiselle’s expression, it’s more amusing.”
‘What do you think of the conduct of Mademoiselle Aimee Lanthenay?’
‘I think she’s frequenting shady haunts with the District Superintendent, overseer of cracks.’
‘What is known as a “crack”?’
‘A fissure, sometimes called in French a lezarde or a female lizard. This lizard should normally be found in a wall but it is sometimes met with elsewhere, even in places completely sheltered from the sun.’
‘What is known as a “fiancee”?’
‘A hypocritical little slut who plays tricks on an assistant-master who’s in love with her.’
‘What would you do in the place of the said assistant-master?’
‘I’d give the District Superintendent a good hard kick on the backside and I’d give the little pet who takes him off to observe cracks a couple of smart slaps.’
‘What would be the result of that?’
‘The arrival of another assistant-master and another assistant-mistress.’
The lanky Anais hoisted up her atlas from time to time to giggle behind it.
But I had had enough.
I wanted to go outside, to try and see them coming back.
The only thing was to employ vulgar means.
‘Mmmselle? …’
No reply.
‘Mmmselle, beg pard’n, c’n I leave the room?’
‘Yes, go, and don’t be long.’
She said it carelessly and listlessly: obviously her whole mind was over there in the room where the new wall might be cracked.
I went out hurriedly, ran over to the lavatories (they were ‘temporary’ too!) and stayed close to a door, pierced with a lozenge-shaped hole, ready to take refuge in the loathsome little kiosk if anyone came.
At the very moment I was about to return despairingly to the classroom – for, alas, the customary time had elapsed – I saw Dutertre emerging (all alone) from the new school, putting on his gloves with a satisfied air.
He was not coming back here but going straight off to the town.
Aimee was not with him, but I didn’t care; I had seen enough already.
I turned to go back to the classroom but suddenly drew back, frightened. Twenty paces away – behind a new wall six foot high which sheltered the boys’ little ‘convenience’ (exactly like ours and equally temporary) – there had appeared the head of Armand.
Poor Duplessis, pale and ravaged, was staring in the direction of our new school. I saw him for five seconds, then he disappeared, running at full speed along the path that led to the woods.
I was not laughing any more.
What was going to be the end of all this?
I went indoors, quickly, without further lingering.
The class was still seething.
Marie Belhomme had drawn a set of squares on the table and was gravely playing a pleasant game of noughts and crosses with the newly-arrived little Lanthenay – poor little Luce! – who must find this a fantastic school.
And Mademoiselle Sergent was still looking out of the window.
Anais, who was in process of colouring the portraits of the most hideous men in the History of France with crayons, welcomed me with a
‘Come on, what did you see?’
‘No more joking, old thing!
Armand Duplessis was spying on them over the wall by the lavatories.
Dutertre has gone back to the town and Richelieu’s dashed off, running like a madman!’
‘Go on! I bet you’re telling lies!’
‘I assure you I’m not. This is no time for lying. I saw it, on my honour, I did!
My heart’s in a positive flutter!’
The hope of the drama that might ensue kept us silent for a moment.
Anais asked:
‘Are you going to tell the others?’
‘Good heavens, no. Those dunderheads would spread it all over the place.
Only Marie Belhomme.
I say, Marie!’
I told all to Marie whose eyes grew rounder than ever and who prophesied: