‘It’ll all end badly!’
The door opened and we all turned our heads in a single movement.
It was Mademoiselle Aimee, a little out of breath and her colour high.
Mademoiselle Sergent ran up to her and checked, only just in time, the hug she was on the point of giving her.
The Headmistress had come to life again; she drew the little slut over to the window and questioned her avidly. (And what about our geography lesson?)
The prodigal child showed no excessive emotion as she gave brief answers which did not appear to satisfy the curiosity of her worthy superior.
To a more anxious question she replied ‘No,’ shaking her head with a mischievous sigh. At that, the Redhead heaved a sigh of relief.
We three, at the front table, looked on, rigid with attention.
I felt some alarm for that immoral little thing. I would definitely have warned her to be aware of Armand but the other, her tyrant, would promptly have alleged that I had gone and denounced her behaviour to Richelieu, by means of anonymous letters, perhaps. So I refrained.
They were beginning to irritate me with their whisperings!
So I decided to make an end of them.
I emitted a low ‘hush!’ to attract my classmates’ attention and we began to buzz.
At first the buzz was no more than a continuous bee-like hum; then it rose and swelled until it forced an entrance into the ears of our infatuated teachers, who exchanged an uneasy glance. But Mademoiselle Sergent boldly took the offensive:
‘Silence!
If I hear any buzzing, I shall keep the class in until six o’clock!
Do you suppose we can give you regular lessons as long as the new school remains unfinished?
You are old enough to know that you ought to work on your own when one of us is prevented from acting as your teacher.
Give me an atlas.
Any girl who does not know her lesson without one mistake will do one extra homework for a week!’
Whatever you may say, she’s got character, that ugly, passionate, jealous woman; everyone was silent the moment she raised her voice.
The lesson was recited at top speed and no one felt any inclination to be frivolous for we could feel a threatening breeze blowing, laden with impots and detentions.
While this was going on, I thought that nothing would console me if I were not present at the meeting of Armand and Aimee; I would rather have got myself expelled (much as that would have cost me) than not see what would happen.
At five minutes past four, when the daily
‘Shut your books and get into line’ sounded in our ears, I went off, sorely against my will.
Well, the exciting, unhoped-for tragedy wasn’t billed for today!
I would arrive early at school tomorrow so as to miss nothing of what might happen.
The next morning, having arrived long before the official time, I had time to kill. So I began a desultory conversation with the shy, melancholy Mademoiselle Griset who was as pale and nervous as ever.
‘Do you like it here, Mademoiselle?’
She looked all round her before answering:
‘Oh, not very much. I don’t know anyone. I feel a little dull.’
‘But isn’t your colleague nice to you … and Mademoiselle Sergent too?’
‘I … I don’t know. No, really, I don’t know if they’re nice; they never pay any attention to me.’
‘How extraordinary!’
‘Yes … at meals they talk to me a little, but once the exercise-books are corrected they go off and I’m left all alone with Mademoiselle Sergent’s mother who clears the table and then shuts herself up in the kitchen.’
‘And where do they go off to, the two of them?’
‘Why, to their room.’
Did she mean to their room or their rooms?
Poor little wretch!
She certainly earned her seventy-five francs a month!
‘Would you like me to lend you some books, Mademoiselle, if you’re bored in the evenings?’
(What joy!
Her faced turned almost pink with it!)
‘Oh, I should love that … Oh, how very kind of you … you don’t think it would annoy the Headmistress?’
‘Mademoiselle Sergent?
If you think she’d even know, you’ve still got illusions about the interest that Redhead takes in you!’
She smiled, almost confidently, and asked me if I would lend her Roman d’un jeune homme pauvre which she was just longing to read!
Certainly, she should have it tomorrow, her romantic novelette. I felt sorry for her, poor abandoned creature!
I might easily have raised her to the rank of ally, but how could one rely on this pathetic, anaemic, far too timid girl?
The favourite’s sister, little Luce Lanthenay, came up with noiseless steps, at once pleased and scared to be talking to me.
‘Good morning, little monkey: say