to cross over to the line of cabs in front of Gare Saint-Mandé when a hand grabbed his shoulder.
‘Oh, it’s you, Monsieur Gaston! You gave me a fright.’
‘You took your time!’
‘Well, I couldn’t get away from the Boss.’
‘Here, take this to you know who,’ said the man, handing him a note.
‘How will I find her? They’re all at the fête – have you seen the crowds?’
‘That’s your problem. Go on, kid, get on with it.’
‘Look at that one with the gold braid on his uniform and all the medals – isn’t he handsome!’
‘If you like all that metal. He’s so red in the face he looks as though he might burst! I prefer the chap with the trumpet; look how serious he is, with his great fat neck and that stomach like a big drum!’
A dozen young girls in light-coloured dresses were lined up at the foot of a podium, admiring the brass band of the municipal fire brigade. The girl who had admired the uniform was a gawky girl in a hat weighed down with cherries. She turned to her companion, a dumpy little person as crimped as a freshly groomed poodle, and gave her a severe look.
‘You’re so vulgar, Aglaé, just like a shop girl! And out with no hat into the bargain!’
‘Well, I can’t help it if my father’s only a shopkeeper. We can’t all be the niece of a rich marquis!’
‘Oh, go to the devil!’
Oohs and aahs greeted the strains of ‘L’Alsace et Lorraine’, and the enthusiastic crowd joined in:
You Germans can take our plains
But you’ll never put our hearts in chains
‘That’s enough, you two; stop bickering!’
Fed up with their squabbling, the pair’s friends separated them with blows of their parasols. Two of the girls, a slim brunette dressed in blue and a plump blonde in bright red, took advantage of the general scrimmage to slip off into the crowd. They stopped, out of breath, by the swing-boats.
‘They’re loathsome,’ declared the blonde. ‘Squabbling in public, like fishwives!’
‘Will you come on with me, Élisa?’ asked the dark-haired girl, fascinated by the motion of the swings.
‘Iris, you’re completely mad! We’ve just had lunch! And why they served us split peas in this heat, I can’t imagine! The old frump must have bought a job lot on the cheap.’
‘As you like, but I’m going on,’ declared Iris, moving resolutely towards one of the newly vacated swings.
Before Élisa could stop her, a boy in shirtsleeves was installing Iris on the bench of the swing and setting it vigorously in motion. Iris sat rigid as he pushed her harder; she held on to her hat with one hand, while with the other she clung to the side.
Élisa tried to watch her friend in motion, but when Iris stood up and bent her knees to increase her speed, she grew dizzy and turned away, pretending to take an interest in a strongman who was lifting a dumbbell bearing two cheerful midgets.
‘Mam’zelle Lisa!’
She jumped. Colas put his finger to his lips and slipped her a piece of paper.
‘It’s from the man who wrote to you before,’ he whispered. ‘He says you’ve got to hurry – it’s a unique opportunity, and won’t happen again. I had trouble finding you. I was late to begin with – the cabs were all taken – and the Chinaman and the Boss are going to be furious, that’s for sure.’
‘Where is he?’
She noticed his outstretched palm and gave him a coin.
‘He’s hiding,’ the youth blurted out, and took to his heels.
Élisa checked that Iris was still swinging and retreated under the awning of a stall selling marshmallows, where a man with his sleeves rolled up dangled thick glossy skeins of green and red paste. A group of children, noses pressed against the counter, were following his every move, intoxicated by the smell of melted sugar. Élisa unfolded the message. She immediately recognised the cramped handwriting and glanced up at the sweet-seller, her face radiant. She had longed for this to happen. For as far back as she could remember, she’d had a strange sense that she was destined for something special, but she had begun to lose patience of late. She was seventeen years old and the routine of Bontemps Boarding School was far from exciting. If this goes on much longer I shall die of boredom, she thought to herself each morning.
It had been just over a month since the stranger had burst into her life. Although she had never spoken to him, he was always in her thoughts, and she had even begun to dream about him. At first he had been just another ordinary fellow who appeared when Mademoiselle Bontemps and her girls took their walk along the lake. He would pass by with an indifferent air, never looking at any girl in particular – although after a while each of them believed that he had come just to see her. None of the girls confided their secret desire to be noticed by him – who would admit to an attraction towards the extravagantly dressed bohemian? Then, one evening in June, he had sent her a note. After lights out Élisa had taken the note over to the window and read it by the light of the street lamp:
You is the most beautiful. I love you.
Gaston
Twenty-three equally laconic, misspelt messages had followed that declaration. She had kept them all, meticulously hidden beneath the mantelpiece. Gaston scarcely had the makings of a great romantic letter-writer; his prose was limited to the most elementary construction: subject, verb, a compliment sometimes qualified by a superlative, and above all love, always, always love. She was bowled over by his persistence, but she had never dared to reply. This time he had surpassed himself, quite a feat for a man normally so concise!
Leave your friends, make up a xcuse, and join me at the botom of the slope behind Pont de la Tourelle. I love you,
Gaston
Did she dare abandon Iris and go to the rendezvous? Iris would worry, and tell Mademoiselle Bontemps. She would have to invent something – and quickly. Dizziness? … She could tell them she felt ill. It was almost true. She felt hot all of a sudden – her head was spinning; she was seeing herself anew, as Gaston saw her. He found her beautiful; he loved her!
Darkness was falling and all around the fête Chinese lanterns were being lit. The showmen were haranguing the passers-by.
‘Ten centimes! Only five for soldiers!’
The whistling trombones punctuated the sonorous tone of the barrel organs and the rhythmic drum rolls. A clown in stockings was perched on a barrel, calling out that the best attraction was Nounou the famous flea master. A few yards further on, two exhausted ballerinas in sequinned costumes jiggled about in a poor imitation of belly dancing.
‘Come and see the headless man talk!’
‘Waffles, who would like my waffles, come and taste the delights of Pantruche!’
‘Toffee apple, mademoiselle? For the apple of my eye!’
Élisa wandered among the excited throng crowding the stalls and almost bumped into Aglaé, her mouth stuffed with doughnut. The fête had freed her to behave as she liked. On the opposite pavement, plump Mademoiselle Bontemps, decked out like a ship in full sail, tottered towards a merry-go-round on which three of her girls were perched.
‘Edmée, Berthe, Aspasie! It’s late, where are the others?’ she shrieked.
Élisa melted into the stream of people heading back to Paris. Near Gare Saint-Mandé a crowd had gathered round a busker who was singing a popular song to the accompaniment of a fiddle.