When he had finished, Sylvie sat in the shop while Isabelle ate, then they changed places; but Sylvie had no appetite.
After the meal was over, Sylvie returned to the shop. There happened to be no customers, and Isabelle said immediately: ‘What are you so worried about?’
Sylvie told her about Pierre Aumande.
Isabelle looked anxious. ‘You should have arranged to meet him again, and learned more about him, before telling him to come to the shop.’
‘I know, but what reason would I have to meet him?’ Isabelle gave her an arch look, and Sylvie said: ‘I’m no good at flirting, you know that, I’m sorry.’
‘I’m glad of it,’ Isabelle said. ‘It’s because you’re too honest. Anyway, we must take risks, it’s the cross we have to bear.’
Sylvie said: ‘I just hope he’s not the type to have an attack of guilty conscience and blurt out everything to his confessor.’
‘He’s more likely to get scared and back out. You’ll probably never see him again.’
That was not what Sylvie was hoping for, but she did not say so.
Their conversation was interrupted by a customer. Sylvie looked at him curiously. Most of the people who came into the shop were well dressed, for poor men could not afford books. This young man’s clothes were serviceable but plain and well-worn. His heavy coat was travel-stained, and his stout boots were dusty. He must be on a journey. He looked both weary and anxious. Sylvie felt a pang of compassion.
‘I would like to speak to Giles Palot,’ he said in an out-of-town accent.
‘I’ll fetch him,’ said Isabelle, and she passed from the shop into the factory behind.
Sylvie was curious. What did this traveller want with her father, if not to buy a book? Probing, she said: ‘Have you come a long way?’
Before the man could answer, another customer entered. Sylvie recognized him as a clergyman from the cathedral. Sylvie and her mother were careful to bow and scrape to priests. Giles did not, but he was grumpy with everyone. Sylvie said: ‘Good afternoon, Archdeacon Raphael, we’re very glad to see you, as always.’
The young man in the dirty cloak suddenly looked annoyed. Sylvie wondered if he had a reason to dislike archdeacons.
Raphael said: ‘Do you have an edition of the Psalms?’
‘Of course.’ Sylvie unlocked a cabinet and took out a Latin version, assuming that Raphael would not want a French translation, even one approved by the Faculty of Theology at the Sorbonne. She guessed that the archdeacon was buying a gift, for he must already have the entire Bible. ‘This would make a beautiful present,’ she said. ‘The tooling on the binding is gold leaf, and the printing is in two colours.’
Raphael turned the pages. ‘It is very pleasing.’
‘Five livres,’ said Sylvie. ‘A most reasonable price.’ It was a small fortune for ordinary people, but archdeacons were not ordinary.
At that moment a third customer entered, and Sylvie recognized Pierre Aumande. She felt a little glow of pleasure at the sight of his smiling face, but she hoped she had been right in thinking him discreet: it would be a catastrophe if he started talking about Erasmus in front of an archdeacon and a mysterious stranger.
Her mother emerged from the back of the premises. She spoke to the traveller. ‘My husband will be with you in a moment.’ Seeing that Sylvie was serving the archdeacon, she turned to the other customer. ‘May I show you something, Monsieur?’
Sylvie caught her mother’s attention and slightly widened her eyes in a warning expression, to indicate that the latest arrival was the student they had been talking about. Isabelle responded with an almost imperceptible nod, showing that she understood. Mother and daughter had become skilled in silent communication, living as they did with Giles.
Pierre said: ‘I need a copy ofThe Grammar of Latin.’
‘At once.’ Isabelle went to the appropriate cabinet, found the book, and brought it to the counter.
Giles appeared from the back. There were now three customers, two of whom were being served, so he assumed the third was the one who had asked for him. ‘Yes?’ he said. His manner was usually gruff: that was why Isabelle tried to keep him out of the shop.
The traveller hesitated, seeming ill at ease.
Giles said impatiently: ‘You asked for me?’
‘Um . . . do you have a book of Bible stories in French, with pictures?’
‘Of course I do,’ said Giles. ‘It’s my best seller. But you could have asked my wife for that, instead of dragging me here from the print works.’
Sylvie wished, not for the first time, that her father could be more charming to customers. However, it was odd that the traveller had asked for him by name before coming up with such a mundane request. She glanced at her mother and saw a slight frown that indicated that Isabelle, too, had heard a wrong note.
