Read Online The Stone Boy by Sophie Loubière - Free Book Online
Authors: Sophie Loubière
Tags: Suspense, Mystery, Fiction / Thrillers / Suspense, Fiction / Literary, Fiction / Psychological
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to the Monoprix store with the buggy. Modern family living favored isolation and withdrawal. The lack of communication between individuals insured the State against any mobilization and eradicated any breeding grounds for social activism. Society was working steadily toward mental manipulation and marginalization.
The flow of students dried up.
Madame Préau sighed.
There were two hypotheses she could consider: the boy stayed on to study until six o’clock and she would have to wait until then, or he was at home, suffering. She would have to make inquiries at the school. But under what pretext could she make such a move? She didn’t even know the child’s surname: her neighbors’ mailbox was marked only with the initials “PD.”
“Are you waiting for a student?”
Madame Préau started. On the other side of the fence at the Blaise Pascal Junior School, a beautiful woman in her forties was staring at her.
“Are you little Damien Delcroix’s grandmother, madam?”
This was presumably the headmistress of the school.
“He was ill this morning, his dad picked him up at two this afternoon. Did he not tell you?”
Madame Préau smiled at her sweetly. It was time to reveal her identity.
20
Open, sesame!
Being in the school where she had been the headmistress for many years brought it all back to Madame Préau. Other than a coat of paint and new floors, little had changed. The school had been entirely renovated, but the shape and size of the classrooms, the windows, the location of the toilets, the canteen and kitchens that they shared with the infant school, everything was there, exactly the same, even her small office to the left of the entrance to the playground.
“This will be a flying visit—I haven’t much time.”
The headmistress, Madame Mesnil, went ahead of her, trotting along in a belted black dress, showing her around her establishment with a degree of self-importance. A long pearl necklace rubbed against her mohair cardigan. There wasn’t a single crease in her black Lycra tights where they met her polished ankle boots. She was new to the area and had taken over the school just that year. Its syllabus for the children was full of outings and various artistic activities. Their “flavor of the day,” for example, was a daily morning snack designed to promote trying new foods. The brand-new headmistress made it a point of pride to adhere to national guidelines.
“The school aims to make the students independent in their learning and responsible for it, but we strive for each child to succeed.”
The headmistress swept her fringe back into place. Providing access to culture writ large was also a priority for all students, “whatever their standard of living.”
Madame Préau liked the idea. But it was nothing new to her; it was the very foundation of her teaching for years before she was gently pushed toward the door.
“In addition, we are fortunate here to have a great educational tool at our disposal in our Nature and Garden class, where students learn to plant and maintain plants to discover and respect nature.” Madame Préau asked her host if she knew who had the idea to create this Nature and Garden workshop in 1991. The headmistress raised her eyebrows, impressed.
“No—you? That’s great! Did you know that Blaise Pascal became a pilot school because of it?”
Understanding that she had now made it into her good books, Madame Préau asked if it were possible for her to see one or two classrooms. To her glee, the headmistress agreed.
Bright, decorated with drawings, with its little kitchenette and ironing corner, paint pots, box of cuddly toys and pretty books to read, the reception classroom made you want to curl up in it.
“Here is my class.”
Above the desk, a photo showed the children gathered in front of the blackboard. Madame Préau immediately approached and put on her glasses. Sitting cross-legged to the left of the teacher, she recognized the little one who was
The flow of students dried up.
Madame Préau sighed.
There were two hypotheses she could consider: the boy stayed on to study until six o’clock and she would have to wait until then, or he was at home, suffering. She would have to make inquiries at the school. But under what pretext could she make such a move? She didn’t even know the child’s surname: her neighbors’ mailbox was marked only with the initials “PD.”
“Are you waiting for a student?”
Madame Préau started. On the other side of the fence at the Blaise Pascal Junior School, a beautiful woman in her forties was staring at her.
“Are you little Damien Delcroix’s grandmother, madam?”
This was presumably the headmistress of the school.
“He was ill this morning, his dad picked him up at two this afternoon. Did he not tell you?”
Madame Préau smiled at her sweetly. It was time to reveal her identity.
20
Open, sesame!
Being in the school where she had been the headmistress for many years brought it all back to Madame Préau. Other than a coat of paint and new floors, little had changed. The school had been entirely renovated, but the shape and size of the classrooms, the windows, the location of the toilets, the canteen and kitchens that they shared with the infant school, everything was there, exactly the same, even her small office to the left of the entrance to the playground.
“This will be a flying visit—I haven’t much time.”
The headmistress, Madame Mesnil, went ahead of her, trotting along in a belted black dress, showing her around her establishment with a degree of self-importance. A long pearl necklace rubbed against her mohair cardigan. There wasn’t a single crease in her black Lycra tights where they met her polished ankle boots. She was new to the area and had taken over the school just that year. Its syllabus for the children was full of outings and various artistic activities. Their “flavor of the day,” for example, was a daily morning snack designed to promote trying new foods. The brand-new headmistress made it a point of pride to adhere to national guidelines.
“The school aims to make the students independent in their learning and responsible for it, but we strive for each child to succeed.”
The headmistress swept her fringe back into place. Providing access to culture writ large was also a priority for all students, “whatever their standard of living.”
Madame Préau liked the idea. But it was nothing new to her; it was the very foundation of her teaching for years before she was gently pushed toward the door.
“In addition, we are fortunate here to have a great educational tool at our disposal in our Nature and Garden class, where students learn to plant and maintain plants to discover and respect nature.” Madame Préau asked her host if she knew who had the idea to create this Nature and Garden workshop in 1991. The headmistress raised her eyebrows, impressed.
“No—you? That’s great! Did you know that Blaise Pascal became a pilot school because of it?”
Understanding that she had now made it into her good books, Madame Préau asked if it were possible for her to see one or two classrooms. To her glee, the headmistress agreed.
Bright, decorated with drawings, with its little kitchenette and ironing corner, paint pots, box of cuddly toys and pretty books to read, the reception classroom made you want to curl up in it.
“Here is my class.”
Above the desk, a photo showed the children gathered in front of the blackboard. Madame Préau immediately approached and put on her glasses. Sitting cross-legged to the left of the teacher, she recognized the little one who was
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