Then we burst into giggles and stood rooted to the spot on the threshold of this room, obviously a master’s and, luckily, empty of its tenant.
Hastily, we inspected it.
On the wall and on the mantelpiece were large chromolithographs in commonplace frames: an Italian girl with luxuriant hair, dazzling teeth, and eyes three times the size of her mouth; as a companion-piece, a swooning blonde clutching a spaniel to her blue-ribboned bodice.
Above the bed of Antonin Rabastens (he had stuck his card on the door with four drawing-pins) hung entwined pennants in the French and Russian national colours.
What else?
A table with a washbasin, two chairs, some butterflies stuck on corks, some sentimental songs lying about the mantelpiece, and not a thing besides.
We stared at all this without saying a word, then suddenly we escaped towards the loft at full speed, oppressed by an absurd fear that Antonin (one simply can’t be called Antonin!) might be coming up the stairs.
Our trampling on those forbidden steps was so noisy that a door opened on the ground-floor – the door of the boys’ classroom – and someone appeared, inquiring in a funny Marseilles accent:
‘What on earth’s going on?
For the last half-hour, have I been hearing hosses on the staircase?’
We had just time to catch a glimpse of a tall, dark youth with healthy ruddy cheeks … Up there, safe at last, my accomplice said, panting:
‘Just suppose, if he knew we’d come from his room!’
‘Well, suppose he did? He’d be inconsolable at having missed us.’
‘Missed us!’ went on Anais with icy gravity. ‘He looks like a tough chap who couldn’t be likely to miss you.’
‘Go on, you great slut!’
And we went on with the clearing-out of the loft.
It was fascinating to rummage among the pile of books and periodicals to be carried down and that belonged to Mademoiselle Sergent.
Of course, we had a good look through the heap before taking them down and I noticed it contained Pierre Louys’ Aphrodite and several numbers of the Journal amusant.
Anais and I regaled ourselves excitedly with a drawing by Gerbault entitled Whispers behind the Scenes. It showed gentlemen in black evening clothes occupied in tickling charming Opera dancers, in tights and ballet-skirts, who were twittering and gesticulating.
The other pupils had gone downstairs; it was getting dark in the attic and we lingered over some pictures that made us laugh – some Albert Guillaumes that were far from suitable for young ladies.
Suddenly, we started for someone had opened the door and was asking in a garlicky voice:
‘Hi! who’s been making this infernal row on the staircase?’
We stood up, looking very serious, our arms loaded with books and said, very deliberately:
‘Good morning, Sir,’ fighting down an agonizing desire to laugh.
It was the big assistant-master with the jolly face we’d seen just now.
So then, because we’re both tall and look at least sixteen, he apologized and went away, saying:
‘A thousand pardons, young ladies.’
So we danced behind his back in silence, making devilish faces at him.
We arrived downstairs late and were scolded.
Mademoiselle Sergent asked me:
‘What on earth were you doing up there?’
So I ostentatiously put down the pile of books at her feet with the daring Aphrodite and the numbers of Journal amusant on top, folded back to display the pictures.
She saw them at once; her red cheeks turned redder than ever but she recovered herself at once and remarked:
‘Ah!
Those are the Headmaster’s books you have brought down.
Everything gets so mixed up in that loft we all use.
I’ll give them back to him.’
And there the sermon ended; not the least punishment for the two of us.
As we went out, I nudged Anais whose narrow eyes were crinkled with laughter.
‘Hmm, the Headmaster’s got a broad back!’
‘Claudine, can you imagine that innocent collecting bits of dirt!
I wouldn’t be surprised if he believes babies are found under gooseberry bushes!’
For the Headmaster is a sad, colourless widower.
One hardly knows he exists for he only leaves his classroom to shut himself up in his bedroom.
The following Friday, I took my second lesson with Mademoiselle Aimee Lanthenay.
I asked her:
‘Are the new masters pursuing you already?’
‘Oh! As it happens, Claudine, they came yesterday to “pay their respects”.
The nice boy who swaggers a bit is Antonin Rabastens.’
‘Known as “the pearl of the Canebiere”; and the other one, what’s he like?’