Read Online A Very Bold Leap by Yves Beauchemin - Free Book Online

came the verdict of Mademoiselle Laramée, which was also favourable. Charles received it in her apartment, along with a piece of chocolate cake made especially for the occasion. The former teacher had flushed out a hundred mistakes in spelling and punctuation, which weren’t many for a text of such length; in a few places the narrative dragged on far too long; and some of the scenes she found muchtoo violent. “But,” she added, “you mustn’t pay any attention to the likes and dislikes of an old fuddy-duddy like me.”
    On a scale of one to ten, she would give
The Dark Night
a seven and a half. Considering it was a first novel, Charles had accomplished something truly remarkable; she shook his hand warmly and told him he must continue with his writing. Charles, however, wondered if her affection for him hadn’t clouded her judgment.
    The ultimate authority on the subject, however — Les Éditions Courtelongues — maintained a total silence that, after weeks, and then months, had passed, became all but unbearable. Taking the prolific Balzac as his model, however, Charles launched into the writing of a second adventure novel, this time one that took place in the forests of northern Quebec, near Abitibi. Since he had never set foot in that part of the country, he drew strongly on his reading of a number of works by Jack London. The work went slowly, however, as though the fate of this second novel hinged on that of the first.
    Three times he called the publishing company to find out where his manuscript was in the assessment process, and each time he was told that the selection committee was swamped and would come to a decision in due course. The fourth time, he learned that the literary editor, a Mr. L’Archevêque, was in Europe; he would be back in two weeks, at which time he would, without fail, communicate with Charles either by post or by some other means. On the fifth call, Mr. L’Archevêque was in a meeting, and for the next several calls it seemed to Charles that all the editor ever did was go to meetings.
    On March 22nd, 1986, at ten after three in the afternoon, still without news, Charles put on his boots and coat and went down to the corner restaurant to call the overworked editor again. The response was the same. With the determination of one who knows he has nothing more to lose, he jumped into a taxi — a luxury justified by his rage — and twelve minutes later presented himself at the office of Les Éditions Courtelongues, on Laurier Street in Outremont. When he arrived at the reception desk, however, he found the dark wood panelling, the high ceiling, and the thick, wine-coloured carpeting intimidating, making him conscious of the audacity of his actions. At the far end of the room, seated behind a large desk, was a young woman apparently engrossed in a fashion magazine.
    He stopped, unsure of his next move.
    “May I help you?” she said, giving him a polite smile.
    Too late. How could he turn and run from such a good-looking woman who was eyeing him with the cool precision of a laboratory instrument?
    He walked towards her. “I would like to speak with Mr. L’Archevêque,” he said.
    “I’m very sorry, Mr. L’Archevêque is in a meeting.”
    “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
    She looked at him in surprise. “He can’t see you, I’m afraid. He’s very busy.”
    “Then I’ll wait.”
    He sat facing her in a large leather armchair.
    “Mr. L’Archevêque cannot see you this afternoon,” the receptionist replied, fixing him with an acid gaze. “He has meetings right through to six o’clock.”
    “Then I’ll see him after six. I have nothing pressing.”
    Disconcerted, she stared for a moment at the pile of papers on her desk, then made a tentative gesture towards her telephone. Charles felt his heart leap. The brick wall he’d been beating his head against for months was about to crumble and fall. A few more whacks and he’d be through.
    “Your name, sir?” she asked