Chapter TwelveAt the farm next door to Achille Labiche’s, nine-year-old Gilbert wished for his mother to hurry up and finish dinner, but oh, she was so very slow about everything. So methodical, so plodding. He felt as though he might burst into flames from impatience.
“Maman, is there anything outside you’d like to me do to before I start my homework?” he asked, thinking that even doing chores would be an improvement over sitting at the table for one more minute.
Madame Renaud tilted her head. Then she pushed some peas onto her knife and ate them, chewing slowly. She took a sip of wine. “Gilbert, you know I don’t like you going outside at night. Do you want to be snatched up like poor Valerie Boutillier?”
Gilbert jerked his head up, and then looked down at his plate. Before today, he w
