a good look as I went by.

Just as I came even with them, in the midst of the girl's talking, Armand said in a low voice: "Coming, Pierrot?"

The bakery boy sprang up and perched sideways on the bicycle frame between the butcher's thighs and arms. The girl drew in her breath sharply, then caught herself up probably thinking of the neighbor-women who might be watching.

"Have a good ride and a good swim," she called out as the boys glided away. "And bring me back a fish to fry."

was

The butcher, legs apart, pedalling slowly. Beyond the covered market he coasted to the Beal Bridge. I followed a little behind him as though drawn on by a magnet.

Pierre was wearing a white cotton sleeveless upper, very low in the neck, and his white canvas trousers. The thin shoes he wore in the bakeroom were dangling loosely from his toes. When they came onto the Alagnon Bridge road, Armand started pedaling again; the bike swerved sharply; one of Pierre's shoes fell off.

"Don't stop!" I called, "I'll get it." But Armand had already put his feet on the ground and was waiting. The baker glanced over his friend's shoulder.

"It's Rene," he said, "Madame Gerlan's grandson."

When I rode up to them, the sight of Pierre nestling in Armand's arms stirred me. There was a striking contrast between the two men. One was blond, slender, and supple. And then for the first time I saw that the butcher boy seemed relaxed, nearly smiling, with an expression of inner joy, of peaceful happiness, quite unlike his grave look of the morning. He gave me a friendly wave and Pierre stretched out his foot for me to slip the shoe on. But, changing his mind ("I'd better carry them"), he took off the other one too. Then,

one

calling me by my first name, which he hadn't done at the shop, he asked: "Going swimming, Rene?"

"I haven't got my trunks and I don't swim well enough." "Better not, then."

He winked goodbye and Armand pedalled off.

I followed a few yards behind, suddenly filled with sadness. For the first time I understood that I was alone, that neither my parents nor the other boys at school could give me what Pierre and Armand were apparently finding in each other. I had pals; I didn't have a friend. When would the time come for me to have one?

Of the two, Pierre and Armand, it was Pierre who attracted me. But I felt I wasn't the right age and didn't have the build now to take Armand's place, and, worse still, since I was so different from Armand physically, I felt sure Pierre never would find me interesting.

We had left behind the last houses of the avenue and were riding under a vault formed by the foliage of magnificent plane trees. Pierrot's blond hair was showing above Armand's left shoulder. Suddenly, I saw the charming head lean frankly against Armand's shoulder and Armand lower his cheek. They rode on like this, close together, as far as the narrow side road, by which carts reach the river, and turned into it without moving apart.

I pedalled on by myself to the Alagnon Bridge, laid down my bike, leaned on the parapet, with my back to the sun and looked out over the valley.

Below the bridge was the dam that supplied power to the Baryta works. The entire left bank was covered with white dust. I remembered how sorry my father had been when this industrial development had replaced the old water mill and, as he said. completely ruined the place. On the