It was a long day of waiting. First in the Gare d’Austerlitz, and then in the station in Limoges, and finally in the streets of old Périgueux.
Even though she’d never been here, this place brought back a lot of memories. D’Artagnan was there, everywhere, dashing into taverns exclaiming: “Greetings, you rogue! Greetings, you devil of a barkeep! Our best wine!” Otherwise there were bottles of walnut oil, preserves, stuffed duck necks, and the same logo-emblazoned clothing as everywhere else in the whole world.
The fleur-de-lis had had a setback in the place. In China, it must be said, they embroidered them a lot more cheaply.
Ah well . . . it was our world, and you had to love it. These old stones, which told swashbuckling historical romances . . . they didn’t hurt, either.
Mathilde wandered around, killing time, because she had decided to wait for the end of the dinner service. To reveal herself to him in the twilight. Not because it was more romantic, but because she was terrified.
She may have acted like an idle onlooker observing the local lifestyle, but the simple truth is that our young friend was scared. The anger of the head chef who had sent her away had rattled her. Maybe the guy in question really was crazy. Maybe she was walking into a lion’s den . . . or worse, into the clutches of a half-wit. Or someone who really didn’t give a shit about the poor little rich girl from the Champs-Élysees with her false promises and her words, who remembered . . .
Or, much, much worse even than that, someone who would say to her in a few hours, pointing to the clock:
“Sorry. We’re not serving anymore.”
Yeah, it was entirely possible that she was about to lose another life to this idiotic game she had invented to pass the time.
God help me.
Greetings, barkeep! An ice-cold Coke to help the little girl pluck up some courage!
At the Place du Marché she stood on her tiptoes to photograph a pretty statue of a pilgrim on the Route of Santiago de Compostela.
Click. Holiday memory.
Worst-case scenario, if things really went badly, she’d make it her desktop background.
Like a Post-it stuck up to remind her forever how risky it was to love your neighbor, and to believe again.