Noah's Child by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt Read Free Book Online Page A

and smell of it, even rolling in it contentedly, until the realization dawned, mercilessly, that I had wet the bed yet again! I was all the more ashamed because I had succeeded in staying dry for years by that age. Now the Villa Jaune was making me regress, and I couldn’t understand why.
    For a few nights − perhaps because, as I nodded off with my head on my pillow, I was thinking about Father Pons’s heroism − I managed to control my bladder.
    One Sunday afternoon Rudy came over with a conspiratorial look in his eye.
    â€˜I’ve got the key . . .’
    â€˜What key?’
    â€˜The key to the chapel, of course.’
    We could now check on our hero’s activities.
    A few minutes later, out of breath but still keen, we were stepping inside the chapel.
    It was empty.
    No pews or pulpit or altar. Nothing. Roughly plastered walls. A dusty floor. Dry shrunken spider’s webs. Nothing. A tired old building with nothing interesting about it at all.
    We daren’t look at each other, each afraid we would see our own disappointment reflected in the other’s face.
    â€˜Let’s go up the bell tower. If there’s a radio transmitter, it’ll be high up.’
    We flew up the spiral staircase. But there were only a few pigeon droppings waiting for us.
    â€˜Oh come on, this can’t be happening!’
    Rudy stamped his foot. His hypothesis was falling apart. Father Pons was slipping through our fingers. We couldn’t get to the bottom of his mystery.
    What was worse for me was that I could no longer convince myself he was a hero.
    â€˜Let’s go back.’
    As we cut back through the woods, tormented by what Father Pons could possibly be up to every night in that empty place with no lights on, we didn’t exchange a single word. I had made up my mind: I wouldn’t wait another day to find out, particularly as I was risking a renewal of my bedwetting.
    Night. The countryside dead. The birds silent.
    At half past nine I took up my post on the stairs, with more clothes on than the last time, a scarf around my neck, and my clogs wrapped in felt stolen from the craft workshop so that I didn’t make any noise.
    The shadow hurried down the stairs and set off into the grounds where every outline had been erased by the darkness.
    Once I reached the chapel I jumped into the clearing and tapped out the secret code on the wooden door.
    The door was drawn ajar and, without waiting for a reaction, I slipped inside.
    â€˜But . . .’
    Father Pons hadn’t had time to identify me, he had simply seen a rather smaller than usual figure nip past. Out of habit he had closed the door behind me. So there we were, trapped in the gloom, unable to make out each other’s features or even an outline.
    â€˜Who is it?’ cried Father Pons.
    Horrified by my own daring, I couldn’t manage an answer.
    â€˜Who is it?’ he said again, in a threatening voice this time.
    I felt like running away. I heard a scratching sound, then a flame flared up. Father Pons’s face appeared behind a match, distorted, twisted and disturbing. I backed away. The flame came closer.
    â€˜What? Is it you, Joseph?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜How dare you leave the Villa?’
    â€˜I wanted to know what you do in here.’
    In one long breathless sentence I told him about my doubts, my tailing him, my questions and the empty chapel.
    â€˜Go back to your dormitory at once!’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜You will do as you’re told.’
    â€˜No. If you don’t tell me what you do here, I’ll start screaming and the other man will know you haven’t managed to keep the secret.’
    â€˜That’s blackmail, Joseph.’
    Just then the knocking sounded on the door. I fell silent. Father Pons opened the door, put his head out and brought in the bag after a brief hurried discussion.
    â€˜You see, I was quiet,’ I pointed out once the clandestine delivery man