After the Circus Read Online Free PDF

and I have been having problems with the house …”
    She had surely mentioned the house in Saint-Leu-la-Forêt. Perhaps she had told them details I didn’t know about.
    â€œSo, are you taking the car?” Jacques asked.
    â€œYes.”
    He turned to Ansart.
    â€œI’m lending her my car. You don’t mind if I borrow one of yours, do you?”
    â€œSure. We’ll go get one from the garage later on.”
    We stood up, she and I. She gave the blonde girl a kiss. I shook hands with Ansart and Jacques.
    â€œWhen will I see you again?” Jacques asked her.
    â€œI’ll call you.”
    He seemed dismayed that she was leaving.
    â€œTake good care of your sister.”
    He handed her the car keys.
    â€œCareful on the road. If there’s no answer at my place tomorrow, call me at the restaurant.”
    For his part, Ansart was looking me over carefully, as he’d done when we arrived.
    â€œI’m very pleased to know you. If you ever need anything …”
    I was surprised by his sudden solicitude.
    â€œIt can be hard, being your age. I know all too well—I’ve been there myself …”
    His eyes wore a sad expression that clashed with his resonant voice and energetic bearing.
    The blonde girl saw us to the door.
    â€œWe could get together tomorrow, if you like,” she said to Gisèle. “I’ll be home all day.”
    On the threshold, in the dim light of the courtyard, the girl’s face looked even younger. It occurred to me that Ansart was old enough to be her father. We crossed the courtyard and she remained standing there, following us with her eyes. Her silhouette stood out against the lit doorway. She looked as if she wanted to come with us. She raised her arm in good-bye.
    We had forgotten where the car was parked. We walked down the street, searching for it.
    â€œWhat if we just take the metro?” she said. “That car is complicated to drive … and besides, I think I’ve lost the keys.”
    Her casual tone made me break out in hysterical laughter, which then seized her as well.Soon we couldn’t control ourselves. Our howls echoed down the silent, empty street. When we reached the end of it, we started back up in the opposite direction, on the other sidewalk. We finally found the car.
    She opened the door, after trying out all four keys on the keychain. We settled into the leather seats.
    â€œNow we just have to get it moving,” she said.
    She managed to start the engine. She made a sudden jerk backward, then braked just as the car had reversed onto the sidewalk and was about to ram into the door of a building.
    She drove off in the direction of the Bois de Boulogne, bust rigid, face straining slightly forward, as if she’d never been behind a wheel before.

We reached the quays via Boulevard Murat. At the place where the street made a right angle, she said, “I used to live around here.”
    I should have asked when that was and under what circumstances, but I let the moment pass. When you’re young, you neglect certain details that might become precious later. The boulevard made another sharp turn and headed toward the Seine.
    â€œSo, do you think I’m a good driver?”
    â€œVery good.”
    â€œYou’re not afraid to be in the car with me?”
    â€œNot at all.”
    She pressed on the accelerator. At Quai Louis-Blériot, the road narrowed, but she sped up even more. A red light. I was afraid she would run it. But no, she screeched to a halt.
    â€œI think I’m getting the hang of this car.”
    Now she was driving at normal speed. We arrived at the gardens of Trocadéro. She crossedthe river over the Pont d’Iéna, then skirted the Champ-de-Mars.
    â€œWhere are we going?” I asked.
    â€œTo my hotel. But first, I need to pick up something I forgot.”
    We were on the deserted square of the Ecole Militaire. The huge edifice seemed abandoned. We