He made a big show of grabbing the telephone and looking up the number. I began to panic, because he’d figured out what would get to me.

“So I should repeat it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, so there we were waiting in line. Then out of the blue it started to rain. You know, Monsieur Luc— Monsieur Guénolé, those big drops of summer rain which are like flies banging against dry window panes…”

“Spare me your literary talents.”

“All the same, literature is important, isn’t it, sir…?”

“I don’t give a stuff, I just want you to repeat what you said when you were standing in line.”

“Have you read The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas, sir?”

“No, I haven’t read The Three Musketeers… Why? Have you read it?”

“Yes … well, nearly… Did you know that Alexandre Dumas took three whole years to write that book, one year for each musketeer?”

“No, I didn’t know…”

Suddenly, he seemed to pull himself together.

“Right. Come on! I want to know what you said in the line.”

“What I said? You really want to know? Well, OK then, when I was in the line I said, ‘So what do we do now? Play with ourselves?’”

He said nothing for a few seconds, as though it was taking a while for the words to sink in. I couldn’t tell if he was going to smile or burst into tears.

“You disappoint me, young man, you disappoint me. And yet you’re not a bad fellow.”

“No, sir.”

“You could do well…”

“Absolutely, sir. It’s mostly a question of method, according to the specialists.”

“Do you want to please your father?”

Ouch!

All at once there was a miracle: I remembered the local newspaper that Dad rolled his greasy tools in. A secret weapon. A counter-attack worthy of the musketeer d’Artagnan.

“By the way, sir, I know I’m changing the subject, but congratulations on Sunday’s bike race. I really thought the other cyclists would catch you up, but you gave it that one last push…”

Touché. This really was just like The Three Musketeers. I’d hit upon the fact that Lucky Luke was also a top-ranking cyclist. All his spare time was spent in the saddle. It was funny to think his bum must always be hurting.

He gave me a strange, slightly suspicious look.

“Were you there?”

“Yes,” I said, trying to remember what the newspaper article had said. “I’ve never seen a breakaway like that before. Even in the Tour de France. If you want my opinion, you could have been a professional, a real champion.”

“Perhaps, but you have to take so much stuff… I never wanted to do that: taking care of one’s health is what matters most.”