‘You can set your mind at rest, Monsieur Salle.
The troubadours, I know all about them. I always see them in the poem of the little Florentine Singer, like this …’
I stood up and struck the pose; my body leaning forward on the right leg and old Salle’s green umbrella doing duty as a mandoline.
Luckily we were quite alone in that corner!
Luce stared at me from the distance and gaped with surprise.
Poor gouty old man, it amused him a little and he laughed.
‘And they wore a velvet cap and curly hair, very often even a piebald costume (in blue and yellow, it looks particularly well); their mandoline hung on a silken cord and they sang that little thing out of the Passer-By:
“My sweet one, April’s here.”
That, Monsieur Salle, is how I see the troubadours.
We have also the First Empire troubador.’
‘My child, you’re a little crazy but I find you refreshing. Just Heaven!
What on earth can you possibly call troubadors of the First Empire?
Speak very low, my little Claudine – if their Lordships saw us …’
‘Ssh.
The First Empire troubadors, I knew all about them from the songs Papa used to sing.
Listen carefully.’ I hummed very softly: ‘ Burning with love, setting forth to the wars, His helm on his head and his lyre in his hand,
A troubador sings to the maid he adores, Looking his last on his dear native land: “My country, she calls me,
My sweetheart enthrals me,
For love and for glory, I’d gladly be slain, Such is the troubador’s merry refrain.” ’
Old Salle roared with laughter:
‘Good Lord, how absurd those people were!
Of course I know we shall be just as absurd in twenty years’ time, but that idea of a troubador with a helmet and a lyre! … Run away quick, child, you’ll get a good mark; kind regards to your father, tell him I’m devoted to him and that he teaches his daughter fine songs!’
‘Thank you, Monsieur Salle, good-bye. Thank you again for not asking me any questions. I won’t say a word – don’t worry!’
What a thoroughly nice man!
This had slightly restored my courage and I looked so cheerful that Luce asked me:
‘Did you answer well, then?
What did he ask you?
Why did you take his umbrella?’
‘Ah! I’ll tell you! He asked me very difficult things about the troubadors, about the shape of the instruments they used; luckily I happened to know all those details!’
‘The shape of the instruments … no, honest, I shudder at the thought he might have asked me that!
The shape of the … but it’s not in the syllabus!
I shall tell Mademoiselle!’
‘Right, we’ll make a formal complaint.
Have you finished?’
‘Yes, thanks! I’ve finished.
I’ve got a hundred pounds weight off my chest, I assure you!
I think there’s only Marie left to go through it now.’
‘Mademoiselle Claudine!’ said a voice behind us.
Aha! It was Roubaud.
I sat down in front of him, decorous and reserved.
He assumed a pleasant manner – he is the most polished of the local professors – and I talked back, but he still had a grudge against me, vindictive creature, for having too hastily brushed aside his Botticellian compliment.
It was in a slightly peevish voice that he asked me:
‘You haven’t fallen asleep under the leaves today, Mademoiselle?’
‘Is that a question that forms part of the programme Monsieur?’
He gave a slight cough.
I had made a shocking blunder to vex him.
Well, it couldn’t be helped:
‘Kindly tell me how you would set about procuring yourself ink.’
‘Good heavens, Sir, there are lots of ways: the simplest would be just to go and ask for some at the stationer’s on the corner …’
‘A pleasant joke, but not enough to obtain you lavish marks … Will you try and tell me what ingredients you would use to fabricate ink?’