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also asked me: Where were you? I said farewell to the monitor, to a friend—I had chosen my life—I slipped off in the direction of the study room. When I was bored—I was often bored for I did no work—I would open my desk and look through the labels on my rows of books; I felt that my lazy books were asleep on their feet like their owner. I had written the authors’ names on the labels. I would cross my arms, listen for a long time, and in the end I would hear the murmuring of ancient tragedies.
    â€œMay lily!”
    The few stems that made up the bouquet were lying on my leather pencil case. I could see a green and white crucifix, among leaves and flowers, laid out on my pencil case. The gift hardened me: I was too happy. I closed my desk again, locked my mind away deep inside, I returned tomy desk. The bouquet had not vanished. She had given me flowers from a novel, she had left spear-tipped leaves and lucky May lily as one does when abandoning a child in a basket. I fled to the dormitory with my treasure.
    I was walking on ocean currents, I advanced, taking care of my crystal feet, of the flowers in my fist. I went into Isabelle’s box, I skipped the first hour of class for her. Her cell felt liberated, like my grandmother’s bedroom the day they took away her coffin.
    I want Isabelle. Let her come back, since the undertakers haven’t snatched her from me. I wait for her within the four corners of this hearse, I breathe the smell of her bedspread, I wait for her with mourning in my breast. The headmistress will inspect the cells, will find me on Isabelle’s bed, will expel me. We will be parted. I cannot leave her bed. I am trapped. What will we do tonight?
    I made up a story of dizzy spells; I lied to the teacher, to the other girls; I slipped into the class, into the lesson; I made up more than necessary. I was thinking of Isabelle, I was tormenting myself behind my pile of books.
    My mother gave in, but she gave in with bad grace. My mother has said it time and again, my mother will take me back before the holidays if she misses me, if she gets bored. If she were not married, I would be the one begging her: anything, anything you want but not to live far away from you in a school. Now it is the reverse. She is married. We are apart. How long will we remain apart? The time is over when I would scratch in the dirt for her, when I would slip through barbed-wire fences. I used to steal potatoes for us, from the fields. She took all my goods and chattels from me, even my satchel and lunch box. She sold our rabbits for a pittance—such a shame—eight days before her wedding. That was the end ofmy meadows. I used to insist that I was her fiancée. She would sigh. I didn’t know what exasperation looked like. She married without getting engaged. I scrubbed our three steps but she wanted a merchant. I will not be her daily laborer, I will not be her factory worker bringing in the money. She sold the rag-and-bone man the ash drawer from our stove, that I used to empty into the henhouse while the first drops of coffee were falling in our cafetière, imitating soft tongue-clicking sounds. Where are our clothespins, our laundry blue? She threw it all out. Mademoiselle was getting married. She sold off everything. She has all she requires. She is a married woman. I have become a convent-school boarder: I have no home. A man divided us. Hers. Your mother would be so happy if you didn’t call me “Monsieur” . . . I shall always call him “Monsieur.” Another piece of bread, Monsieur. No Monsieur, I don’t like rare meat. Call him “father,” she says, after themeal. Never. I prefer the refectory table where all our bread is shared. We thrust our hands into the bread basket, we do not say no thank you, yes please. I wandered about behind her: don’t get married, don’t get married . . . We would have done great things together: we would have