SMALL, DIRTY FEATHERS drift down onto Madeleine's upturned face. Far above her, Mme. Cochon is flapping valiantly.
Do you see him? Madeleine calls. Is he coming down the road?
Possibly, the fat woman says. He is tall?
Oh yes, says Madeleine. Quite tall.
And wearing a smock?
Oh yes, says Madeleine. All the patients at the hospital must wear them.
But he no longer wears a moustache?
The matron made him take it off.
And his shoulders sag when he walks?
His life, says Madeleine, has not been easy.
In the stately manner of a hot-air balloon, Mme. Cochon floats down from the sky. Her whole self seems to have swollen with her expanded responsibilities. She is not only in charge of publicity, and spotting Le Petomane from afar; her title as stage manager is now official, and among her several duties is welcoming the performer, brushing out his coat, preparing him for his splendid entrance, as Madeleine warms up the audience.
Your star approaches, the stage manager announces, rearranging her wings: He is headed for the barn. He is crossing over ditches and climbing over stiles, as if he already knew the way. As if he were drawn here, like a pigeon flying home.
Of course he is drawn here, Madeleine replies. I have built him a stage.