Devon brought her something to eat. Which she put aside as soon as his back was turned to dig into the final sandwich – lettuce, ham, mustard – from Bebette. The meat is chopped fine and tastes of cloves, the crustless bread is saturated with mustard, there’s even a hint of butter; it’s luscious. After all those hours of pointless chit-chat, Rhéauna has finally managed to disregard the old woman, and while she chews she looks out as the lit-up farms – some even have electricity – speed by in her field of vision. Pinpricks of yellow light on a black silk curtain. The night is moonless so it’s possible to see millions of stars through the barrier of fir trees that come very close to the railway. The milk that Devon brought her is just a tiny bit too warm for her liking but she doesn’t get upset and takes long gulps, being very careful not to let any of it run onto her chin or her cheeks. The last serving of the pink-and-green cake is down – more icing was left than cake, which made her very happy – she stuffs into the now-empty bag the greasy paper, the crumbs of bread and cake, the paper napkin on which she has just wiped her mouth and she gets up to look for a bigger wastebasket than the one hanging under the window.

At that very moment, Madame Robillard leans over, places one hand above her eyes and presses her nose against the window.

“We’re arriving in Toronto. See how beautiful it is!”

Rhéauna places the bag on the seat, comes back to the window.

Something that looks like a huge yellow boat stands out in the distance. A long ribbon of light, like the reflection of the starry sky but in shades of gold and copper. Soon it covers the horizon, comes closer, then disappears because the train is turning south. The pitch-black night comes back, the sky falls again, swooping over everything. Rhéauna has the impression that she’s just experienced a hallucination, that she didn’t really see a yellow ribbon of light, that it was a remote reflection, maybe the northern lights in the middle of the summer … Northern lights on the ground instead of in the sky? No, impossible. It was Toronto, all right. Then it comes back, even closer, so dazzling that it’s nearly disturbing. She has never seen so many electric lights in one place; it’s more than beautiful, it’s sublime. And so imposing that it’s frightening. The train – a foolhardy butterfly in front of an oil lamp – is quickly swallowed up by the shimmering golden light. And for the first time, it is lit from outside: the lighting coming from outside is stronger than that which it projects into the night. It is now drowned in light, it passes quickly, it runs along every side, houses go by at full speed, streets are lit up, too, and viaducts that straddle the railroad. Three prolonged whistle blasts, the train starts to slow down. Brand-new warehouses come closer, a station even more imposing, more gigantic than the one in Regina, than the one in Winnipeg, a lantern of unimaginable proportions, swallows up the train that’s now surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of parallel tracks forming an inextricable network of intersecting roads that run in every direction before they end up at an incalculable number of concrete platforms.

Madame Robillard has of course been holding forth non-stop but this time, Rhéauna doesn’t hear her, plunged as she is in the bath of light.

The platform is packed with people waiting to board the train. The stretch between Toronto and Ottawa is a very busy one and the train is a little late. Impatient travellers holding suitcases are already craning their necks in search of cars that aren’t too full.

Madame Robillard puts on her coat, her crows’ nest, her gloves, all the while commenting on what’s going on outside. She describes to Rhéauna what they can both see perfectly well, the idiot! Then she concludes as she places herself right in front of the little girl.

“I want you to know, you won’t be on your own to Ottawa, poor child … I hope that Devon will take good care of you … At night there aren’t the same people as in daytime, you never know who you’re travelling with … In any case, good luck. Say hello to your mother for me. I’ve never met her but I’ve heard a lot about her …”

No hug and no kiss, not even a handshake, she turns her back, walks away, erect as a fence picket painted black.

Devon appears, looking busy, and gestures to Rhéauna to stay where she is, most likely to let her know that she’s not in Ottawa yet. As if she didn’t know. Then he disappears with the bag she wanted to throw out.

The new passengers are noisier than those who’ve just left the train. Some, crimson-faced and out of breath, reek of alcohol, and Rhéauna hopes that she won’t have to deal with a bunch of drunken uncles who will shout and tell stories she won’t understand while they keep sucking at their forty ounces of gin on the sly. But Devon arrives with what seems to be a family: a father, a mother, two children – boys – people who speak French as well and who sit down beside her. The boys give her a look, frowning, a funny look; she chooses to ignore them and pretends to be asleep.

She falls asleep for real even before the train leaves the platform in Toronto.