“Sounds logical,” he said.

He gave her a curious look.

“I don’t know how you manage to have such clear ideas,” he said. “My head’s full of a sort of permanent fog and everything’s all muddled up.”

A few minutes later, Jack was in the library. The girl had stopped in the lobby to have a word with the cleaning woman, who was leaving. The library was small but well lit, and it had a large table, upholstered chairs and a card file of titles and authors. The man selected a number of books about Jacques Cartier’s voyages and sat at one end of the table to consult them. Through the open door he could see the girl and the woman embracing, talking very softly. The girl was much taller than the woman, but their hair was exactly the same colour.

He skimmed several books and had just found the text by Jacques Cartier when La Grande Sauterelle came in. He showed her the text, which was on page 43 of a book by Joseph-Camille Pouliot, La Grande Aventure de Jacques Cartier, with the following note: “Facsimile taken from the original account of Cartier’s 1st voyage, containing a description of the erection of a cross in the Baie de Gaspé, 24 July 1534.”

“I like that man Pouliot a lot!” declared the girl.

“He was a judge,” said Jack.

“Well then, thank you, Your Honour!”

She sat at the other end of the table and began to ruminate. Suddenly she stood up.

“I’ve got an idea,” she said cheerfully.

“Another one?”

“We’re going to conduct a little experiment, my dear Watson!”

She took the book and led Jack out of the library. At the information counter the young man was drinking a cup of coffee and smoking a cigarette.

She placed the open book in front of him.

“I’d like to have a photocopy of the facsimile.”

“A photocopy of what?”

“This text.”

She put her finger on it. He looked very closely at the round, eccentric handwriting of Jacques Cartier.

“Funny, I feel as if I’ve seen that somewhere . . .”

“You’re very observant,” she said.

“Thanks,” he said. “Unfortunately there’s no photocopier in the museum.”

“No?”

“No.”

“So how do you get photocopies?”

“I have no idea.”

She did not despair, but asked, “Are you a student?”

“Yes. Why?”

“There’s a photocopier at your school, isn’t there?”

“Naturally.”

“So what’s to stop me from taking out this book and having the photocopy done at your school?”

“Nothing,” he said.

He reflected and added, “You can take a book out of the museum as long as you put your name and address in the visitors’ book.”

“I don’t understand,” said the girl, a hint of emotion in her voice. “Did you say: ‘In the book . . .?’”

“. . . The visitors’ book,” the young man repeated.

Jack and the girl looked at each other.

The young man took the book from a drawer and, opening it to the page for that day, placed it in front of her without a word. She wrote her name and address at the spot he pointed to.