Little Jewel Read Online Free PDF Page B

the night before and I wondered what they would think of me. The man at the agency had said they were quite young, and he’d given me a piece ofpaper with their name and address: Valadier, 70 Boulevard Maurice-Barrès. It had been raining all morning; it made me want to leave my room, leave Paris. As soon as I had a bit of money, I would head for the Midi, or even further, down south. I tried to hang on to this plan, and not let myself sink into despair. I had to tread water, be patient. The only reason I contacted the Taylor Agency was as a last-ditch effort to persevere. Otherwise, I would never have had the courage to leave my room or my bed.
    I could still picture the sign on the wall of the agency. The red-headed man would have been shocked if I had told him that I would not have minded wearing a nanny’s uniform or, especially, a nurse’s uniform. A uniform would have helped me to summon my courage and my endurance, the way a corset helps you to walk with an upright posture. In any case, I had no choice. Until then, I’d only been lucky enough to find two temporary jobs as a salesgirl, first at the department store Les Trois Quartiers, and then in a perfume shop on the Grands Boulevards. The Taylor Agency might find me a more secure job. But I had no illusions about my chances. I was not a performer like my mother had been. When I lived in Fossombronne-la-Forêt, I used to work at the Auberge Verte on the Grande-Rue. A lot of customersfrequented this hotel, often people from Paris. My work was not very demanding: I was either at the bar, or in the dining room, or sometimes at reception. Every evening in winter, I used to light the fire in the little wood-panelled room near the bar, where you could read the papers or play cards. I worked there until I was sixteen.
    The rain had stopped by the time I entered the metro at Place Blanche. I got out at Porte Maillot and was filled with dread. I knew this neighbourhood. I told myself that I must have dreamed about visiting these people for the first time. So now I was living what I had dreamed: the metro and the walk to their house, and that was why I had the sensation of déjà vu. Boulevard Maurice-Barrès ran alongside the Bois de Boulogne and, as I continued walking, the sensation grew stronger and stronger until I became alarmed. But then I wondered if I wasn’t in fact dreaming. I pinched my arm, I hit my forehead with the palm of my hand in an effort to wake up. Sometimes I knew I was in a dream, that I was in danger, but that none of it was really serious because I could wake myself up at any moment. One night, I’d been condemned to death—it was in England and I was to be hanged the following morning—and they’d taken me to my cell, but I was completely calm, I smiled at them,I knew I was going to give them the slip and wake up in the bedroom on Rue Coustou.
    I had to go through a metal gate and down a gravel path. I rang the doorbell at number 70, which looked like a mansion. A blonde woman greeted me and told me that her name was Madame Valadier. She seemed embarrassed to say ‘madame’, as if the word didn’t apply to her but she was obliged by circumstances to use it. Later, when the fellow from the Taylor Agency asked me, ‘So, how did you find Monsieur and Madame Valadier?’ I said, ‘They’re a nice couple.’ He seemed surprised by my response.
    They were both about thirty-five. He was tall, dark-haired, with a gentle voice, and quite elegant; his wife was ash-blonde. They sat next to each other on the couch, as self-conscious as I was. It was as if they were camping out in the huge living room on the first floor where—apart from the couch and an armchair—there was not a stick of furniture. Nor were there any paintings on the white walls.
    That afternoon, the little girl and I went for a short walk on the other side of the avenue, along the paths near the Jardin