Dr. Morelle at Midnight. Ernest Dudley

his lecture on nineteenth-century French literature, rested back on his heels, jutting his large stomach even further forward, and gazed round the circular amphitheatre to see how his students were reacting to his words. A few, seated at the front of the auditorium, scribbled fervently. Others were obviously less enthralled.

      The professor was afflicted with a speech impediment and was difficult to hear. Students would gradually crane forward, only to reel back, deafened, as he burst forth into a quotation from Verlaine’s famous sonnet to Victor Hugo:

      ‘Nul parmi vos flatteurs d’aujourd’hui n’a connu Mieux que moi la fierté d’admirer votre gloire: Votre nom m’enivrait comme un nom de victoire, Votre oeuvre, je l’aimais d’un amour ingénu.’

      ‘Only time I can hear him is when he starts to declaim,’ a student next to Miss Frayle said. ‘Then he gives me heart-failure. I’m sure he does it to make sure we stay awake.’

      Miss Frayle had giggled at her. ‘I can hardly understand a word. And I’m afraid my thoughts keep wandering.’

      ‘You don’t look up to much,’ the other had said frankly. ‘Anything wrong?’

      Miss Frayle had blushed. ‘I’ll tell you about it afterwards,’ she said to the student. She had pulled herself together and given her attention to the lecture on nineteenth century French literature. The subject was among the most fascinating of her studies, a pity the professor was so bizarre.

      As his voice boomed forth, Miss Frayle’s neighbour was groaning quietly. Miss Frayle had glanced at her, then somebody in the gallery moved and she looked up. The amphitheatre gallery was empty save for a sprinkling of students who sat there because they wanted to leave before the end. The doors of the lower auditorium were locked by a blue-suited porter as soon as a lecture began and opened only when it was over.

      When the lecture ended, Miss Frayle had left with the other student, making their way through others of every conceivable nationality, Chinese, German, Italian, American, Swedish, Argentinian. Students came from all over the world to enrol for the Cours de Civilisation Français, a course run by the Sorbonne to give people from foreign countries a deeper understanding of France. For herself, Miss Frayle had hardly known which to choose for her diploma studies. She had settled for French literature and L’Histoire des Idées Françaises, and whenever she could find the time she attended lectures on other subjects.

      ‘Now then, what’s your trouble?’ the girl beside her said. ‘You didn’t hear a word of that lecture.’ They had turned the arched cornerway away from the Richelieu amphitheatre and went into the cloakroom where there was a kiosk at which chocolates, cigarettes and fruit were for sale. The girl hadn’t laughed when she’d told her about the umbrellas, how once again she was without a place to stay.

      ‘My aunt has a large apartment,’ the girl had said, ‘and I know she’d like a bit of company. I’ll take you to meet her if you like.’ She had interrupted Miss Frayle’s thanks. ‘We’ve time to go and see her before afternoon lectures, if we’re quick.’

      And so it had been arranged, and Miss Frayle happily occupied a room in Madame Grimault’s spacious apartment.

      But even now she could not view a long thin umbrella with equanimity.

      Miss Frayle had searched the conglomeration of goods on the stalls of the Flea Market, she wanted to buy a very special present.

      It was then that she made her first mistake. Opening her purse she took out a five-thousand franc note. A Moroccan in a red fez, who had his wares on a blanket in the kerb, smiled at her. He held up various objects and called on her to admire them. Then he pointed to a sword. ‘M’selle would perhaps be interested? The price is nothing, not a fraction of its real worth.’

      Miss Frayle hadn’t been in the least interested, but she wished to be polite, and smiled back at him. Considerably encouraged, the Moroccan held up the sword so that M’selle could see the craftsmanship, the beauty of it. It was a genuine Samurai sword, he swore, stained with the blood of many battles. He went on to describe its astonishing history. Mesmerised by his gory tale, Miss Frayle listened, occasionally nodding.

      Then, his sales talk abruptly finishing, the man said: ‘Vous êtes d’accord, M’selle.’

      There seemed no reason why she should not agree, so Miss Frayle nodded. At once the man leapt to his feet, plucked the five-thousand franc note from her hand and ceremoniously handed her the sword, hilt first. Miss Frayle gaped at the thing helplessly. ‘Mais, je ne le veux pas.’

      He raised outraged hands to heaven. ‘But you said you did want it,’ he said firmly. ‘I said, did you agree, and you nodded your head.’ He gave an elaborate shrug and turned away, washing his hands of the matter. Feeling very foolish Miss Frayle could only wander miserably off. She tried vainly to hide the sword, it seemed even more cumbersome and hideous than when she had first examined it.

      How on earth could she pack it, she was thinking now as she left the Flea Market behind her. The prospect of travelling to Monte Carlo with a sword tucked under her arm was depressing. Then an even worse thought occurred to her. Whatever will Dr. Morelle say when he sees it, she wondered?