Turned out Elise had been pretty optimistic about how generous of heart the rest of the Frenchies in Dieppe would be. The biblioteque had - as is the case with most English biblioteques - closed, so I asked the receptionist if I could use their phone to try and call B10, whose number I'd managed frankly to scribble down from Facebook via Elise's phone on the train.
"Mais non, c'est impossible."
"But I'm willing to pay", I said in French, "I literally have no way of contacting my friends."
Shit. Or rather, "merde".
Realising that argument was fruitless, I left the building and headed back towards the train station.
The cabine telephonique was out of action, but I was able to get a map of the town from the ticket office and the (much) kind(er) lady there highlighted a bunch of other payphones for me, and also the police station - should things really turn sour.
Having managed to establish a dial tone and charged the call to my credit card, I got B10's answerphone. I left a message that I'd wait for them in Pirates bar, which was the only name I could remember of anywhere on the harbourside, and continued into town.
Before I could get too far though, I happened to look down a side street and see a sign marked 'internet'. Inside the miniscule web cafe, which stank to high heaven on account of the hormonal young Albanian men ensconced at every machine, I announced that I needed to use a computer.
"Vous", the manager said, pointing to a bloke in the corner, "get off, you're done now." Apparently, ladies came first in this establishment, and I wasn't complaining.
Once on Facebook, I returned to my SOS message thread and luckily there was someone online. And thanks to the forgetfulness of Falice, I got her mobile phone number off her profile and instructed my SOS responder to text her advising that I'd be waiting in Pirates. B10 and Welsh were also texted and finally, I thought, there's nothing more that can be done. Except find a restaurant and order some moules frites.
To be continued...