‘And supposing it isn’t curled enough?’
‘Why, I’ll wet it tonight when I go to bed.
But you can see – it’s very curly – it’s fine!’
Luce followed her example and gave a little cry of disappointment.
‘Oh! It’s as if I hadn’t done anything to it at all!
It corkscrews at the end, and nothing at all higher up – or next to nothing!’
She had, in fact, the kind of hair that is supple and soft as silk and that escapes and slips out of one’s fingers and out of ribbons and will only do what it wants to do.
‘So much the better,’ I told her. ‘That’ll teach you.
Look at you … thoroughly miserable at not having a head like a bottle-brush!’
But she refused to be comforted, and, as I was weary of their voices, I went further off and lay down on the gravel, in the shade of the chestnut trees.
I hadn’t any distinct notions in my head; I was aware only of heat, of lassitude …
My dress was ready, it was a success … I should look pretty tomorrow, prettier than the gawky Anais, prettier than Marie: that wasn’t difficult, but it pleased me all the same … I was going to leave school; Papa was sending me to Paris to a rich, childless aunt; I should make my debut in the world, and a thousand blunders at the same time … How should I do without the country; with this hunger for green, growing things that never left me?
It seemed insane to me to think that I should never come here again, that I should never see Mademoiselle any more, or her little Aimee with the golden eyes, or the scatterbrained Marie, or the bitch Anais, or Luce, always greedy for blows and caresses … I should be unhappy at not living here any more.
Moreover, now that I had the time, I might as well admit something to myself; that, in my heart of hearts, Luce attracted me more than I liked to own.
It’s no good reminding myself that she has hardly any real beauty, that her caressing ways are those of a treacherous little animal, that her eyes are deceitful; none of this prevents her from possessing a charm of her own, the charm of oddity and weakness and still innocent perversity – as well as a white skin, slender hands, rounded arms and tiny feet.
But she will never know anything about it!
She suffers on account of her sister whom Mademoiselle Sergent took away from me by main force.
Rather than admit anything, I would cut out my tongue!
Under the hazels, Anais was describing her dress for tomorrow to Luce.
I walked towards them, in an ill-natured mood, and I heard:
‘The collar?
There isn’t any collar!
It’s open in a V in front and at the back, edged with a runner of silk muslin and finished with a cabbage-bow of red ribbon …’
‘“Red cabbages, known as curly cabbages, demanded a meagre, stony soil”, the ineffable Berillon teaches us.
That fills the bill perfectly, eh, Anais?
Scarlet runners, cabbages … that’s not a dress, it’s a kitchen-garden.’
‘My lady Claudine, if you’ve come here to say such witty things, you can stay on your gravel. We weren’t pining for your company!’
‘Don’t get in a temper.
Tell us how the skirt’s made, what vegetables are being used to give it a relish?
I can see it from here – there’s a fringe of parsley all round!’
Luce was highly amused; Anais wrapped herself in her dignity and stalked off; as the sun was getting low, we got up too.
Just as we were shutting the garden gate, we heard bursts of silvery laughter. They came nearer and Mademoiselle Aimee passed us, giggling as she ran, pursued by the amazing Rabastens who was pelting her with flowers fallen from the bignonia bush.
This ceremonial opening by the Minister authorizes pleasant liberties in the streets – and in the School too, apparently!
But Mademoiselle followed behind, frowning and turning pale with jealousy: further on, we heard her call out:
‘Mademoiselle Lanthenay, I’ve asked you twice whether you’ve told your class to assemble at half past seven.’
But the other, in wild spirits, enchanted to be playing with a man and annoying her friend, ran on without stopping and the purple flowers caught in her hair and glanced off her dress … There would be a scene tonight.
At five o’clock, the two ladies assembled us with considerable difficulty, scattered all over the building as we were.
The Headmistress decided to ring the dinner-bell, thereby interrupting a furious galop that Anais, Marie, Luce and I were dancing in the banqueting-room under the flower-decked ceiling.
‘Girls,’ she cried, in the voice she used for great occasions, ‘you’re to go home at once and get to bed in good time!
Tomorrow morning, at half past seven, you’re all to be assembled here, dressed and your hair done, so that we don’t have to bother about you any more!
You will be given your streamers and banners; Claudine, Anais, and Marie will take their bouquets … All the rest … you’ll see when you get here.
Be off with you now, don’t ruin the flowers as you go through the doors and don’t let me hear so much as a mention of you till tomorrow morning!’
She added:
‘Mademoiselle Claudine, you know your complimentary speech?’
‘Do I know it!
Anais has made me rehearse it three times today.’
‘But … what about the prizegiving?’ risked a timid voice.
‘Oh! the prizegiving, we’ll fit that in when we can!
In any case, it’s probable that I shall just give you the books here and that this year there will be no public prizegiving, on account of the opening.’
‘But … the songs, the Hymn to Nature?’