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The Life of a Sensitive – Madame Michael Bouissou

A smell of orange peel and a rustle of sweet wrappings came from the hall, and suddenly a tough youth appeared in the centre gangway. Hands in his pockets, wearing a jacket over a turtle-necked sweater, his cap well on one side, he approached with a grin and a great rolling of the shoulders. A few stifled jeers from the seats he had just left proved to me that he was perfectly certain he would tie me up in knots. A joke, eh? I saw him climb up onto the stage. His cap still over one ear and still smiling, rocking slightly on his feet, he was obviously waiting gleefully for the magnificent "bloomer" which would send the hall into paroxysms of mirth.

I suddenly remembered how easily I could "see" the organs as though outlined in luminous rays, a particular type of clairvoyance which did not demand any great concentration. Yes, but unfortunately this "tough" deserved the title. There was nothing sickly about him, no infected adenoids, septic tonsils, weak teeth that called for an immediate visit to the dentist; in short, none of those small infirmities which could be described without offending the most susceptible subject. Nothing at all.

Still smiling, the tough offered me outwardly and inwardly the picture of a man in perfect health. Slowly and without much hope my eyes wandered over his body and suddenly . . . no . . . this was too lucky! Below the right knee there was a superb little callus showing a fracture which my sixth sense told me was recent. I heard myself ask calmly:

"Didn't you break your right leg recently, Monsieur?"

The tough winced a little and my exasperation coming to my aid at this moment, thanks to this trifling success, the boy's story began to unfold. His dark blue jersey served as a screen on which a series of images appeared, and I could tell him that he had done his military service in the navy, had fallen during a big storm (a brief description of the storm) and had fractured his right leg. After completing his service he returned to Paris to live with a friend and he had just become engaged to this friend's sister. In a few days he was going home to Brest (things were going well now and the tough had turned a trifle pale) to start working with his father as a carpenter, and in due course he would take over the business.

There was no more laughter. I suddenly noticed that my voice carried without effort and I gave myself the additional luxury of speaking of his fiancee, who was with him that night in the hall (it was probably she who had laughed a few moments before), and offering her my best wishes for their approaching marriage. The tough, rather unsure of himself, left the stage. He was now looking embarrassed and was twisting his cap in his hands.