moon.”
That deplorable habit his father had of always divulging the family secrets! Jean would still have endured it, under all circumstances, but before this man!
“Sh … Don’t make this big young man blush. I am sure that his journeys to the moon are thrilling—aren’t they?”
Jean’s confusion would have known no bounds if at this moment his attention had not been distracted by two light but firm raps on the door. Samba Diallo appeared. Jean’s confusion gave way to surprise. Wearing a long white caftan and white sandals, Samba Diallo entered the room with a graceful and silent step, and made his way first toward M. Lacroix, who smilingly held out his hand. Then, with his own hand open, he stepped up to Jean:
“How do you do, Jean?”
“How do you do, Samba Diallo?”
Their hands met. Then Samba Diallo turned away and greeted the knight in the dalmatic. Neither of them wassmiling any longer; they merely looked each other in the eyes for the space of several seconds, then, with the same movement, moved aside, their faces lighted up anew.
“I see that these young people are already acquainted,” M. Lacroix said.
“Samba Diallo is my son,” added the knight. “Where have you met, then—if that is not an indiscreet question?”
His tone was ironic as he spoke the last words.
“We sit at the same table in M. N’Diaye’s class,” Samba Diallo replied, without taking his eyes off Jean. “Only we have hardly had any opportunity to talk together, have we?”
Samba Diallo’s ease of manner, since he came into the room, left no doubt in Jean’s mind: the knight’s son had already met M. Lacroix. But none of this had been allowed to be seen at the school.
Blushing, Jean confirmed the fact that they had never spoken with each other.
Samba Diallo began to talk to his father in a low voice. Jean took advantage of this to go over to M. Lacroix.
The two boys left the office at the same time. Without speaking, they made their way into the white marl roadway, bordered with red flowers, which led to the portal of the Résidence. Samba Diallo snipped off a flower and began to look closely at it. After a short time he held it out to Jean.
“See, Jean, how beautiful this flower is,” he said. “It smells good.”
He was silent for an instant, then he added, unexpectedly,
“But it is going to die.”
His eyes had been sparkling, and his nostrils had quivered a little, when he said that the flower was beautiful. Amoment later he was obviously sad.
“It is going to die because you plucked it,” Jean ventured to say.
“Yes—and if I had not done that, look what would have happened to it.”
He picked a dry and spiny pod and showed it to Jean. Then, with a springlike motion, he turned clear around, threw the pod away, and turned back to Jean, smiling:
“You wouldn’t like to come and take a walk with me?”
“I should like it very much,” Jean answered.
They went away from the Résidence and took one of those long streets of white marl that furrow the red sand of the little town of L. They walked along for some time without speaking, and soon abandoned the white marl for the red sand, a broad stretch of which, surrounded by milky euphorbia, lay straight ahead of them. In the middle of it Samba Diallo stopped, sat down, then lay out flat on his back, his hands at the nape of his neck and his face to the sky. Jean seated himself.
The sun was setting in an immense sweep of sky. Its rays, which are golden at this time of the day, had been dyed purple in their passage through the clouds that were setting the west afire. Struck diagonally by the light, the red sand was like seething gold.
Samba Diallo’s basalt countenance had purple reflections. Basalt? It was a face of basalt because, also, it was as if turned to stone. No muscle in it, now, was moving. In his eyes the sky showed red. Since he lay down on the ground had Samba Diallo become riveted to it? Had he ceased to live? Jean was
That deplorable habit his father had of always divulging the family secrets! Jean would still have endured it, under all circumstances, but before this man!
“Sh … Don’t make this big young man blush. I am sure that his journeys to the moon are thrilling—aren’t they?”
Jean’s confusion would have known no bounds if at this moment his attention had not been distracted by two light but firm raps on the door. Samba Diallo appeared. Jean’s confusion gave way to surprise. Wearing a long white caftan and white sandals, Samba Diallo entered the room with a graceful and silent step, and made his way first toward M. Lacroix, who smilingly held out his hand. Then, with his own hand open, he stepped up to Jean:
“How do you do, Jean?”
“How do you do, Samba Diallo?”
Their hands met. Then Samba Diallo turned away and greeted the knight in the dalmatic. Neither of them wassmiling any longer; they merely looked each other in the eyes for the space of several seconds, then, with the same movement, moved aside, their faces lighted up anew.
“I see that these young people are already acquainted,” M. Lacroix said.
“Samba Diallo is my son,” added the knight. “Where have you met, then—if that is not an indiscreet question?”
His tone was ironic as he spoke the last words.
“We sit at the same table in M. N’Diaye’s class,” Samba Diallo replied, without taking his eyes off Jean. “Only we have hardly had any opportunity to talk together, have we?”
Samba Diallo’s ease of manner, since he came into the room, left no doubt in Jean’s mind: the knight’s son had already met M. Lacroix. But none of this had been allowed to be seen at the school.
Blushing, Jean confirmed the fact that they had never spoken with each other.
Samba Diallo began to talk to his father in a low voice. Jean took advantage of this to go over to M. Lacroix.
The two boys left the office at the same time. Without speaking, they made their way into the white marl roadway, bordered with red flowers, which led to the portal of the Résidence. Samba Diallo snipped off a flower and began to look closely at it. After a short time he held it out to Jean.
“See, Jean, how beautiful this flower is,” he said. “It smells good.”
He was silent for an instant, then he added, unexpectedly,
“But it is going to die.”
His eyes had been sparkling, and his nostrils had quivered a little, when he said that the flower was beautiful. Amoment later he was obviously sad.
“It is going to die because you plucked it,” Jean ventured to say.
“Yes—and if I had not done that, look what would have happened to it.”
He picked a dry and spiny pod and showed it to Jean. Then, with a springlike motion, he turned clear around, threw the pod away, and turned back to Jean, smiling:
“You wouldn’t like to come and take a walk with me?”
“I should like it very much,” Jean answered.
They went away from the Résidence and took one of those long streets of white marl that furrow the red sand of the little town of L. They walked along for some time without speaking, and soon abandoned the white marl for the red sand, a broad stretch of which, surrounded by milky euphorbia, lay straight ahead of them. In the middle of it Samba Diallo stopped, sat down, then lay out flat on his back, his hands at the nape of his neck and his face to the sky. Jean seated himself.
The sun was setting in an immense sweep of sky. Its rays, which are golden at this time of the day, had been dyed purple in their passage through the clouds that were setting the west afire. Struck diagonally by the light, the red sand was like seething gold.
Samba Diallo’s basalt countenance had purple reflections. Basalt? It was a face of basalt because, also, it was as if turned to stone. No muscle in it, now, was moving. In his eyes the sky showed red. Since he lay down on the ground had Samba Diallo become riveted to it? Had he ceased to live? Jean was
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