I shook off these depressing thoughts as I entered the pine forest. This time, I did not stop off at Dino’s but drove on to the main gate of the lycée. From the look of him, the young guard was Pavel Fabianski’s son. He was watching an episode of Seinfeld on his cell phone. I didn’t have a pass, but I pretended I was here to help with preparations for the Alumni Prom, and he raised the barrier and then went back to staring at his screen. I drove onto the campus and, since I was flouting the rules, decided to park in the plaza right outside the Agora.

I walked into the library, hopped over the turnstile, and made my way to the main reading room. Good news: Zélie was nowhere to be seen. A notice pinned to a corkboard by the desk announced that the drama club—of which she was the high priestess—met every Wednesday and Saturday afternoon.

In her place behind the reception desk, a young woman with glasses was sitting cross-legged on the office chair reading Bukowski’s On Writing in English. She had soft features and was wearing a sailor’s top, tweed shorts, embroidered tights, and two-tone lace-up oxfords.

“Hello. Do you work with Eline Bookmans?”

She looked up from her book and smiled.

I instantly took a liking to her. I liked the way her severe chignon contrasted with her diamond nose piercing; I liked the tattoo that swirled down from behind her ear and disappeared under the collar of her top; I liked the READING IS SEXY mug from which she was drinking tea. It was something that rarely happened to me. It was nothing like love at first sight, simply an immediate sense that the person I was dealing with was on my side rather than in the enemy camp or in the vast no-man’s-land of people with whom I had nothing in common.

“I’m Pauline Delatour,” she said. “Are you one of the new teachers?”

“Not really, I’m—”

“Just kidding; I know who you are, Thomas Degalais. Everyone saw you on the place des Marronniers this morning.”

“I used to go to school here, a long time ago,” I said. “Probably before you were born.”

“I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration, and if you’re attempting to pay me a compliment, you’ll have to try harder.” Pauline Delatour laughed, pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, uncrossed her legs, and stood up. I realized what it was about her that I found attractive—she was confident in her sexuality without being in the least conceited; she had a real joie de vivre and a sort of natural grace.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” I asked.

“Around here?”

“The south, the Côte d’Azur.”

“No, I’m from Paris. I came here six months ago when the position was created.”