She spent the morning at the Court House library and the afternoon hanging around the shops and restaurants. When she came back to the van, the man was completely motionless and did not reply to her questions. She gave the cat some meat, then went back into town in the rain. She took shelter in a large hall where some fifty people were attending an auction sale. She couldn’t understand a word the auctioneer was saying, but he was very comical to watch with his little round glasses, sideburns and the strange monotonous chant produced by his metallic-sounding voice as he raised the bids.

She came back to the van late that evening.

The man did not respond to her “Bonsoir,” but she acted as if everything was normal. She told him how she had spent her day, she talked about Jesse James, whom she’d read about in the library, and about the terrible tuna fish sandwich she’d eaten during the auction sale. When she ran out of things to say she switched on the ceiling light and picked up a book, which she read until she began to fall asleep.

Suddenly, about six in the morning, she was wakened by the slamming of a door. For a moment she tried to get back to sleep, then she straightened up abruptly. The rain had stopped and it was a little cooler.

Wearing jeans, old slippers and a white undershirt, Jack was coming back from the toilet. He made his way unsteadily through the puddles. His hair was dishevelled and his beard heavy.

The girl opened the big sliding door.

“Bonjour, Jesse James!” she said with a little bow.

He looked up at her uncertainly. His face was gaunt, and there were circles around his eyes.

“Hi there, Calamity Jane!” he replied.

His voice was hoarse and quavery.

The girl gave him a big grin, but he stepped into the van without looking at her.

“I’m hungry,” he said.

“I’m not surprised,” she said. “You haven’t eaten for three days.”

“My legs are like rubber bands.”

He sat at the table and started to fix some orange juice while La Grande Sauterelle set up the Coleman stove, hooked up the big blue cylinder of gas and heated water for coffee.

He squeezed the oranges. His hands were shaking and . . .

“Watch out!” said the girl. “You’re getting orange juice all over my book!”

There was a book on the table, open to a page with the story of Jesse James and his brother Frank. A spurt of orange juice had landed right on the photograph on the right-hand page; Jack looked and saw that it was none other than Jesse James, the famous outlaw.

Jean-Louis Rieupeyrout, Histoire du Far-West, Tchou, 1967, p. 603.

“This is a library book,” said the girl.

“Have you ‘borrowed’ it?”

“No, but I’ll have to if you keep spraying it with orange juice.”

“I’m really terribly sorry.”