I absolutely had to get hold of this book before I was summoned to explain my behaviour – they were sure to describe it as “unspeakable” and “scandalous”. We’d caused uproar in the school and wasted police time, which just goes to show it doesn’t take many people to make a big impact. It was a good enough reason to be suspended. The library had the book in stock. I immediately registered for loans, and it was odd to see my name on the list. I flicked through the book as I was leaving: it was just the ticket. You could see the cyclists fly off the page, hear the roars of the spectators, smell the performance-enhancing substances… Yet at the same time there was something sad about it, which touched your heart. That’s the magic of literature.

Then I heard them calling Marie and me over the loudspeaker. We met up with Lucky Luke in the corridor outside his office. He looked unshaven and seemed irritated by us. He said that he had to take us to see the head, that it didn’t give him any pleasure but that we’d made a spectacle of ourselves and disrupted all the morning’s lessons.

“Wait here for me,” he said. “I’ll be back in two minutes. I’ve just got some papers to tidy up.”

He disappeared into his mysterious office – he hardly ever came out of there these days. So I took a big gamble and followed him, leaving Marie on her own. He started when he saw me come in. He was sitting in a very big armchair, looking very small. Behind the desk I spotted a new bookshelf with two books neatly arranged in alphabetical order: Cervantes just before Dumas. Blondin would fit very nicely in front of them.

“What are you doing here, Victor?”

“I wanted to talk to you about something and since we’re about to be bawled at by the head, well, I think it’s going to be hard for me to broach the subject if I don’t do it now.”

There were posters on the walls of champion cyclists busting a gut to complete a sprint or a mountain stage, sweating like chickens on a spit.

I wasn’t sure how to start, but I didn’t have much time so in the end I just plunged in.

“So. Did you like Don Quixote?”

He waved his hand dismissively.

“Not much. I was disappointed.”

“Why?”

“It’s not – how can I put it? – it’s not a serious book. I don’t like it when characters are made fun of. Because, at the end of the day, Don Quixote is nothing but a barmy old fool. I can’t be doing with that sort of thing. Have you got any other suggestions?”

Ceremoniously, I held out the book. He snatched it from me and began to sniff at it, as though he might gobble it up.