The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle Read Online Free PDF Page B

Quickly, s’il vous plait .”
    Mademoiselle Lesage swept into the street behind my classmates, who eyed me suspiciously. “Mac, Penelope told me about your parachuting accident in California.”
    â€œOh, it’s just a little flare-up, Mademoiselle Lesage. I’m sure with rest, it’ll be fine.”
    â€œBut today we are to climb the one thousand six hundred and sixty-five steps of the Eiffel Tower, just as Gustav Eiffel, its creator, did as he ascended to his office with its view of the exquisite Champs des Mars and the neoclassical Trocadero across the Seine....”
    I got to my feet unsteadily. “I suppose I’ll unfortunately have to miss today’s activities.”
    Penelope mimed playing a violin behind Mademoiselle Lesage, and the others stifled giggles. I hobbled into the lobby and checked out the front page of Le Devoir, which featured a shot of the domed church surrounded by police cars.

    In my spotless room with the bed still made, I quickly changed clothes, then headed for the Pont Neuf, grabbing baguettes and brie for Rudee and myself on the way.
    We drove up the hill to Montmartre and sat on the steps of the Sacre Coeur church, looking over the magnificent city while an organ grinder pumped furiously on an ancient wooden box and a monkey dressed as a gendarme dashed through the crowd striking poses and collecting contributions in his little policeman’s hat. Rudee dropped in a handful of change, then we headed down into the city.
    â€œThe financial section,” said Rudee. “The wheelers and stealers,” he added as we passed men and women in suits walking faster than anyone I’d seen yet in Paris. Caressing their portable phones like hand warmers, lugging shiny briefcases, eating hunks of gooey pastry as they walked, they seemed careful not to look at each other.
    It was then that we noticed a big commotion at the Place St. Augustin. A jovial crowd was forming around a truck labelled “Fruits Fantastique” that had driven right into a sign painter’s ladder. The driver and the painter were nose to nose. The driver was claiming that he hadn’t seen the traffic light at all, never mind the colour. There were oranges, kiwis, and lichees covered in red paint rolling all over the square being squished by the cars trying to avoid the scene. The flics, as Rudee called the police, seemed to agree with the truck driver that the light was too hard to see and were preparing to let him go. This upset the sign painter so much that he climbed up the traffic pole and painted all three lights red as the crowd cheered him from below. When he climbed down, they carried him off on their shoulders to a bar down the street while the cars in the Place St. Augustin got more and more tangled. We sat on the hood of Rudee’s cab and watched it all unfold.
    â€œRudee, that’s the silliest thing I’ve ever seen,” I said, laughing at the cars slipping and sliding, splashing fruit juice and red paint on the business people in their perfect suits.
    Rudee nodded. “ Oui , ridiculous, Mac, but to me it also is one more sign of something strange with the light in Paris. It’s getting darker all the time.” I saw what he meant. “I hope this traffic clears up soon. We’ve got to get you to Sashay’s.”
    On the way we passed a tractor-trailer full of sand for a fake beach at the Tuileries Gardens pond, another “Lighten Up” project. A picture of a grinning Luc Fiat in his white suit filled the side of the truck.
    â€œHey, Rudee, look, a cup of California.”
    â€œ Excusez-moi , Miss Mac?”
    â€œLooks like Luc Fiat’s been busy again,” I said, pointing at the moving beach.
    â€œWe can use all the warm thoughts we can get right now, little one. It only shines on the sunny side of the street, you know,” Rudee replied.
    His odd expressions sometimes made it hard to respond, although I was