‘The Ganges, Titi. You see, you see that’s your river. There are two princesses, one to the right and one to the left. It’s not like the oasis. There, there’s only Jeannot. And the ships have sailed everywhere. They’ve gone far, very far, fifteen days far. The Ganges, it’s the river. It’s all purple. The elephant is all white. I go to the wedding. The ships go to the wedding. There are forests. There’s a wedding. The prince has buttons with faces in them. Oh, yes,’ he said, smiling.

The nanny came and said, ‘At whom are you smiling, Pierrot?’ She was alone now.

‘Jeannot, Jeannot,’ he cried, and jumped on the gravel. Jeanne looked very happy.

‘Take me up?’ he said. She lifted him and held him in her arms.

‘I go to the wedding,’ he shouted.

‘What wedding?’

‘Your wedding,’ he said, and gave her a bite on the cheek.

‘Petit nigaud!’2 she said, happy.

‘Jeannot,’ he said. ‘Do you know where we are?’

‘At the Luxembourg.’

‘Non, petit nigaud,’ he answered back. ‘We are far, far away, fifteen days by steamship. There are no sands. There are no camels. There are forests—and then, there are elephants. Then, there’s the Ganges.’ I smiled. ‘This monsieur, he’s the prince of India.’

‘Yes,’ I said. The wind blew hard and cold. The boats fell against one another.

‘We must be going home now. Oh, it’s so cold,’ said Jeanne, as though to the wind. She was looking at the gate of the garden, the one near the Medici fountain. The young man was gone, and the path had gone with him. The leaves were black against that grey sky.

‘Jeannot,’ said Pierrot, ‘in that country, there are two princesses. But me,’ he whispered, hugging her against his cheeks. ‘I have only you.’

‘His father,’ explained Jeanne, ‘is a colonel and is in Morocco. Pierrot’s mother died at her second childbirth. It’s now almost two years since this happened.’

‘You are my friend,’ he said to her, begging.

‘Oh, yes, I am your sweetheart,’ she said. In the Luxembourg everybody heard it. The Sorbonnard girl looked up and let fall her book on her lap, and reflected. Time flies in the spring. One should not grow big-bosomed like some Anne of Austria (1629–87?).

‘We’re going to the wedding, to the wedding!’ cried Pierrot, on his way.

‘And Kiki?’ asked Jeanne, anxious.

‘Kiki is in the oasis. I know that,’ he said.

‘Ah, petit nigaud, and what will grandfather say to me? ‘You’re a harlot, a liar, a hypocrite!’ And you, and your Kiki? What have you done with her, Pierrot?’