Oh, nothing at all!
Only here come some thumps on your back to improve your heart and your wits and teach you not to believe in the virtuous Aimee’s alibis.’
Luce squirmed over the table in mock despair, ravished at being bullied and pummelled.
But I had suddenly remembered something.
‘Anais, whatever were you telling Marie Belhomme that raised such blushes that the nation’s over the Bastille pale beside them?’
‘What Bastille?’
‘Never mind.
Tell me quick.’
‘Come a bit closer.’
Her vicious face was sparkling; it must have been something very sordid.
‘All right, then. Didn’t you know?
Last New Year’s Eve, the Mayor had his mistress at his house – the fair Julotte – and, besides, his secretary had brought a woman from Paris.
Well, at dessert, they made them both undress … take off even their chemises, and they did the same. And they set to and danced a quadrille like that, old dear!’
‘Not bad!
Who told you that?’
‘It was Papa who told Mamma.
I was in bed, only they always leave my bedroom door open because I pretend I’m frightened and so I hear everything.’
‘Your home life must be far from dull.
Does your father often tell stories like that?’
‘No, not always such good ones.
But sometimes I roll about in my bed with laughing.’
She told me some pretty dirty bits of gossip about our neighbourhood: her father works at the Town Hall and knows every scrap of scandal in the district.
I listened to her and the time passed.
Mademoiselle Sergent returned: we had only just time to open our books at random, but she came straight up to me without looking at what we were doing.
‘Claudine, could you make your classmates sing in front of Monsieur Blanchot?
They know that pretty two-part song now – Dans ce doux asile.’
‘I’m perfectly willing.
Only it makes the Inspector so sick to see me with my hair loose that he won’t listen!’
‘Don’t say silly things, this isn’t the day for them.
Hurry up and make them sing.
Monsieur Blanchot seems decidedly dissatisfied with the Second Class; I’m counting on the music to smooth him down.’
I had no difficulty in believing that he must be decidedly dissatisfied with the Second Class: Mademoiselle Aimee Lanthenay occupies herself with it whenever she has nothing else to do.
She gorges her girls with written work so as to be able to chat peacefully with her dear Headmistress while they’re scribbling.
I was perfectly willing to make the girls sing, whatever it cost me!
Mademoiselle Sergent brought back the odious Blanchot: I ranged our class and the first division of the Second in a semicircle and entrusted the firsts to Anais and the seconds to Marie Belhomme (unfortunate seconds!). I would sing both parts at once; that’s to say I’d quickly change over when I felt one side weakening.
Off we went!
One empty bar: one, two, three.
Dans ce doux asile Les sages sont couronnes, Venez! Aux plaisirs tranquilles Ces lieux charmants sont destines …
What luck!
That tough old pedagogue nodded his head to the rhythm of Rameau’s music (out of time, as it happened), and appeared enchanted.
It was the story of the composer Orpheus taming the wild beasts all over again.
‘That was well sung.
By whom is it?
Gounod, I believe?’ (Why does he pronounce it Gounode?)
‘Yes, Sir.’ (Don’t let’s annoy him.)
‘I was sure it was.
It is an extremely pretty piece.’ (Pretty piece yourself!)
On hearing this unexpected attribution of a melody of Rameau’s to the author of Faust, Mademoiselle Sergent compressed her lips so as not to laugh.
As to Blanchot, now serene once more, he uttered a few amiable remarks and went away, after having dictated to us – as a Parthian shot – this theme for a French composition:
‘Explain and comment on this thought of Franklin’s: Idleness is like rust, it wears a man out more than work.’