The Circle by Bernard Minier Page B

right.’
    Servaz held his breath.
    â€˜Did he say anything else?’
    â€˜No. Just that he really wasn’t well and he … he wanted to go home. We were all … surprised. Because the match … the match was about to start.’
    The young man had hesitated over his final words, realising that what he said could make things worse for his friend. But Servaz saw it quite differently. Had Hugo used this as a pretext to get away and go to Claire Diemar’s – or was he really sick?
    â€˜And then?’
    â€˜Then what?’
    â€˜He left and you didn’t see him again?’
    Once again, the young man hesitated.
    â€˜Yes, that’s right.’
    â€˜Thank you.’
    He saw that David looked concerned, worried about how his words might be interpreted.
    â€˜He didn’t do it,’ he said suddenly. ‘I’m sure he didn’t. If you knew him as well as I do, you would know that too.’
    Servaz nodded.
    â€˜He’s really brilliant,’ the boy insisted, as if it could help Hugo. ‘He’s enthusiastic, full of life. He’s a leader, someone who truly believes in his destiny and who knows how to share his passions. He really has everything. He’s a loyal friend. This isn’t like him at all!’
    As he spoke his voice trembled. He wiped away the raindrops dripping from the end of his nose. Then he turned around and walked away.
    For a moment Servaz watched him go.
    He knew what David meant. There was always someone like Hugo at Marsac: an individual who was even more talented, more brilliant, more outstanding and more sure of himself than anyone else, someone who caught everyone’s eye and had a flock of admirers. In Servaz’s day, that person had been Francis Van Acker.
    He looked to see who had called him. The tracking service. He called them back.
    â€˜Her password is on file,’ said the voice. ‘Anyone could get at her mailbox. And someone emptied it.’

12
    Van Acker
    He stopped by the concrete cube and leaned against a tree as he took another cigarette from the pack. The voice reached him through the open windows. It hadn’t changed in the last fifteen years. As soon as you heard it you knew that you were dealing with someone who was smart, formidable and arrogant.
    â€˜What I have here is nothing more than the excretions of a group of adolescents who are incapable of seeing beyond their tiny little emotional world. Priggish pedantry, sentimentalism, masturbation and acne. For God’s sake! You all think you’re so brilliant – wake up! There isn’t a single original idea in any of this.’
    Servaz clicked the lighter and lit a cigarette – the time it would take for Francis Van Acker’s declamatory prose to come to an end.
    â€˜Next week we are going to study three books side by side:
Madame Bovary, Anna Karenina
and
Effi Briest.
Three novels published between 1857 and 1894, which established the form of the novel. Might there, miraculously, be one of you who has already read all three of them? Does that rare bird exist? No? Does anyone at least have an idea what these three books have in common?’
    Silence, then a girl’s voice said, ‘They’re all stories about adulterous women.’
    Servaz shuddered. Margot’s voice.
    â€˜Exactly, Mademoiselle Servaz. Well, I see there is at least one person in this class whose reading is not limited to
Spider-Man
. Three stories about adulterous women, another common thing being that they were written by men. Three masterly ways to deal with the same subject. Three absolutely major works. Which goes to show that Hemingway’s sentence, according to which one must write what one knows, is hogwash. As are a good number of other sayings by dear old Ernest. Good. I know that some of you have plans for theweekend and that the school year is more or less over, but I want you to have read these three books before the end of next