That Scoundrel Émile Dubois

by Lucinda Elliot

  “Gilles Long Legs?” The woman looked Sophie up and down in surprise. She fired off questions which Sophie couldn’t follow, then said something about ‘Adeline’s’. “Viens.” She took Sophie’s arm. She smelled sweaty, too, though nothing like as bad as the youth. She led Sophie down the narrow, dirty street, away from the crowd, talking meanwhile.

  Sophie’s legs felt wobbly and her cheek hurt from that slap. The woman held her arm, and Sophie found her support helpful. The woman was so strapping Sophie was sure she was never troubled by assaults from seedy youths.

  Ridiculously, Sophie brushed at her dress and fretted her hair had been disarranged in the fight. She realised her dress was the grey one that had seemed to mean so much to Monsieur.

  The woman took her across a road scarcely wider than the narrow passage, avoiding another cart laden with produce. A group of small boys stampeded past. They passed a man selling vegetables, shouting so loudly Sophie wondered he didn’t injure himself. He wore the red hat that for her was an object of terror.

  The woman led Sophie down some roughly fashioned steps littered with rubbish to another lane. Facing them was an eating house with a couple of tables wedged into the narrow space outside.

  A long lanky man in a scruffy brown breeches and waistcoat, shirt sleeves rolled up like a workman, lounged by the doorway, talking with two other men. Absurdly, seeing him in that outfit, which could have been cleaner, Sophie didn’t recognise him a moment. Then she saw the slanty green eyes, high cheekbones and the freckles across the bridge of his nose. The others looked as wild as pirates, although the thin one with dark shadows under his eyes had a thoughtful air.

  The woman claimed Gilles Long Legs’ attention. He turned away from his associates, his look one of someone recalled to duty. As he gazed at Sophie, she felt ridiculous surprise to see their speculative, penetrating look unchanged. She saw mild pleasure in them as he looked at her, though, of course, no recognition.

  The woman spoke volubly and accusingly. His eyes began to flash while the piratical looking men growled.

  Gilles Long Legs held out a chair for her at one of the tables, asking if she was hurt.

  “He slapped my face.” Knowing how fluent he was in English, it seemed absurd to keep trying to speak in French.

  “Ah, shall we speak in English? Hit you, eh? Did they take your money?”

  “No, I had none…It is such a long story.”

  He was regarding her with indignant sympathy and concern, but showed no sign of falling in love with her at first sight. That was a disappointment. It even made her wonder if this could possibly be the same place in time and space where Gilles Long Legs had fallen so violently in love with her displaced self. Also, she was anxious that another of him staggered about bemused nearby.

  The strapping woman was saying she would know the men again. Monsieur Émile/Gilles Long Legs addressed her by some familiar name Sophie was later to find out translated – incredibly – as ‘Ma SlapEm.’ He gave some order to the other men, part of which Sophie understood. “You look after her, Felix.”

  He was making off with the others when Felix shouted after him, stopping him in his tracks to make some point before beginning to cough. Gilles Long Legs gave a disappointed snort, reminding Sophie of his snorting when outraged by her not remembering this meeting. He came back to her side.

  Felix ran off, still coughing, with the piratical looking men and ‘Ma SlapEm’. Sophie thought he looked in no state to be getting into a fight. Gilles Long Legs shouted some order after them. Still running, the dark fellow grinned over his shoulder in complicity before speeding away.

  Sophie’s grand relative turned back to her solicitously. He wore his dismal clothes with the same air of relaxed negligence as he did his finery. Sophie supposed that came of being an aristocrat; it gave you such self-confidence.

  “Permit me get you a drink to – put you to rights.” He looked triumphant at bringing the phrase out, and she had to smile. “I am sorry such a thing should happen to you here.”

  He bent and took a closer look at her face, even touching it softly with his long fingers. “He bruised your face, ma pauvre petite. Ma tells me they – they had their hands on you, aussi. If we can find them we will serve them so they will never do that again.” He went into the squalid café, and was soon back with some wine.

  “Take this. Then we shall have some coffee. Alors, more than that. Take a – a big swallow.”

  His eyes are not quite the same; there is something in them that is missing now; what is it? Of course, it is comparative hopefulness. He has only lost half his family at this time. One sister and his parents remain to him.

  “You are very kind –” she paused; she must be careful not to say ‘Monsieur Émile’ – he might think her some sort of spy. She was about to say, ‘Monsieur Gilles’, but, remembering the title ‘Monsieur’ was frowned on by the revolutionary government, and not wanting to risk getting him into trouble, she said, “Mr Gilles.”

  He didn’t show any surprise that she knew about him; he must assume that Ma SlapEm had suggested they go to him.

  “Do not be absurd. To me, it is a pleasure. What is your name?”

  “Sophie de Courcy.” She realised, too, admitting to the ‘de’ wasn’t exactly discreet.* A true irony, in light of her family’s déclassé status. He nodded, assessing her with the sharp glances of someone who had to live on his wits.

  He showed no sign of associating her with the cadet branch of his family, though presumably he knew Mistress de Courcy was taking care of his sister Charlotte in England.

  “You do not live – near?” Only his occasional pause as he searched for a word showed he hadn’t spoken English in years.

  “No, I – I found myself in this area by a mistake.” The surge of energy which had carried her through the attack and its aftermath suddenly vanished. She began to shiver, though it was a warm evening. She felt herself begin to snivel and groped for her handkerchief.

  He searched in his own handkerchief, but it was so grubby he gave it a shocked look and quickly put it away again. He took her hands and chaffed them. “Do not think we are all like to those swine in these rough parts.”

  A dishevelled women, her mob cap stained, came out with the coffee.

  Gilles Long Legs made Sophie finish her wine.

  “Will they find those men?” From the looks of Felix and the others, let alone the redoubtable – if less agile – Ma SlapEm, Sophie feared atrocities would be done. Detestable though the louts had been, she didn’t want to be the cause of their murder.

  Gilles Long Legs smiled savagely. “Should they, I shall be happy to get my hands on them myself. If the Professor hadn’t recalled me I would have gone with them, forgetting I was to meet with a fellow here. Don’t look like he is going to come.” He went on rubbing her hands and beaming at her.

  She would hate to think what the meeting was about or what violence these solicitous hands had done. For all that, his warm concern made such a delightful contrast to those two weeks just passed – eight months in the future – that she had to like him.

  You rather more than like him, you idiot. You managed to fall in love with him during those two weeks of his icy resentment.

  “What time is it, please?”

  He reluctantly let go her hands and pulled out a timepiece. “It – how do you say? – wants ten minutes of four o’clock.”

  She rubbed her face ruefully. “Is my face swollen?” She patted her hair. “My hair is half down, oh dear. What a slattern I must look.” She tried to pin some of her hair back into place without a mirror.

  He bent over to touch her face again. “Your cheek is – is – un peu d’enflée.” His eyes flashed with violent thoughts for a moment before he went back to beaming upon her. “As you must realise I am hardly a gentleman, I don’t suppose you will blame me if I am – how is it – insolent – and tell you outright it doesn’t make you any less beautiful.”

  She tingled all over wi
th delight. She was sure she must look awful but, as he somehow didn’t see it, she suddenly felt glowing and beautiful. As she gazed at him the corners of her lips turned up by themselves.

  She sensed with great relief there wasn’t another Émile Dubois going about ill and in a state of undress in Paris, only this one. It was as if two of him had merged into one. But how? He seemed to have no memory of what was now the future. Surely this must be the day when she herself had unaccountably had fallen asleep? Here must be the explanation.

  She smiled, feeling her eyes sparkle wickedly. “I think you are a gentleman in all the ways that are of any consequence.” After all, what was a little villainy between friends?

  He laughed. “You are an unusual well bred young lady. I do find that delightful.” He stretched luxuriously and smiled upon her some more. “This idiot isn’t coming. Good. I wouldn’t have been in the mood to have a stupid, solemn discussion about – certain things – of which you wish to know nothing. How do you feel now?”

  “Much better, I thank you.” Sophie did some eyelash batting quite naturally. Despite the small matter of being lost and without any money in this rough part of a foreign city back in the past, she felt absurdly happy at the way that he looked at her. Now, she knew they were in the same point in time and space he had remembered after all.

  “Now, may I be insolent again and ask what a young Anglaise is doing here?”

  She sighed. They were at the moment she had been dreading. “You would not believe me if I told you, Mr Gilles, but I owe you an explanation.”

  He was looking at her intently, leaning on arms crossed on the table, “I think I would believe you, Mistress Sophie.”

  She blushed, remembering his taunts of the future. “I hope you will believe me when I say it was not through doing anything of which I should be ashamed.” She saw the irony of feeling the need to defend her moral conduct to a man leading such a ruffianly existence; certainly, the world was hard on women.

  She began, then: “I am here by accident. I came here because –” even as she spoke, the words seemed to echo in her ears and her tongue hardly to move. She felt she was in yet another reality or trapped between two. Overcome with dizziness, she gave up speaking, shaking her head.

  He was bending over her in concern. “Why, you are faint still! Do not talk any more.” He took hold of her hands again to chaff them (he seemed to have taken to that, and she liked it too). Would you care for some soup? The food is good here. I forgot to eat today since my petite déjeuner.” She suspected he often did.

  “Would you forgive me if I do not explain until later? I would love some soup, but I left my money at home, along with my outdoor things.”

  “Don’t be absurd. Of course I shall pay.” Gilles Long Legs picked up the coffee cups and bounded off into the shabby little eating house to order.

  He came out with a glass of wine for each of them. They were sipping these and smiling at each other when a passer by with a red face paused to stare at Sophie. With a look of wry appreciation, he muttered something to Gilles Long Legs Sophie could only partially translate. “High class company.”

  Dishevelled as she was, Sophie thought she looked anything but ‘high class.

  “Not with you about us. Don’t embarrass the young lady, idiot.”

  The man held out a hand, which felt she had to take. He kissed it passionately. Even before she could react Gilles Long Legs was snatching her hand away: “Assez!”

  It had been much less disgusting than Kenrick’s attack on her hand.

  “Get away with you, or I will become annoyed, you’re drunk.” Gilles Long Legs spoke in rapid, slangy French, but Sophie guessed his words, for the man drew himself up outrage. He appealed to Sophie in a burst of eloquence out of which she could only translate, “Mademoiselle…I have never in my life…” Dismissing Gilles Long Legs’ stupidity with a laugh, he tottered away.

  Sophie and Gilles Long Legs took one glance at each other, and then burst out laughing. Perhaps it was a hysterical reaction to all her recent alarms, but she found herself giggling until the tears ran down her cheeks. Then they smiled on each other until the woman slopped out with the soup and more wine.

  The onion soup tasted nicer to Sophie than anything she had ever eaten, despite their squalid surroundings. Still, they didn’t pay much attention to eating, talking of slight matters suddenly delightful to discuss.

  Once Gilles Long Legs gave his head a shake and looked confused a moment, but then smiled at her quite normally. “The others are long. Alors, I am not sorry. I will – escort you home – of course, but I am happy we must wait.” His face brightened. “We are holding une petite soirée in our lane tonight. Felix plays a funny little whistle and Marcel plays the – fiddle. Would you come with me? No, bien sûr, you are too delicately raised.”

  “But I would love to come! Firstly, I must give you this…” She began to undo her sapphire necklace. “I would like to give you it as – as a type of surety.”

  He waved aside the idea. She found herself saying, “I want you to keep it anyway, as thanks and because – well, I want you to keep it anyway, and believe me honest –” The odd, disconnected feeling came back and she broke off while he looked at her in concern.

  The catch was awkward, and as she fiddled with shaking fingers, two clumps of her hair came down. “Gracious, how annoying!”

  “I will keep this only so you do not disappear quite.” He put the piece in his pocket and she winced. This was awful; it was as though he had a premonition of what must happen.

  Could she change this past and so alter the future by making him an explanation in time so that when they met again he wouldn’t hate her for not remembering?

  Besides, then he wouldn’t go off to his doom with Ceridwen Kenrick. Sophie was realist enough to see how to a rake Ceridwen Kenrick must be a great temptation; still, from the way he had looked at her in the hall at Plas Uchaf, she knew he would have stayed away from her if only Sophie herself had said what he longed to hear.

  “That would not be through any choice of mine.” She struggled to speak, and once more was lost in a strange state almost outside time.

  He asked anxiously, “What ails you, Mistress Sophie? You are not faint again?”

  “I – I try and tell you and each time it happens, my head swims…”

  He looked concerned rather than suspicious and went back to the hand chaffing. “Then we must wait, eh? I think you to be so sweet a young lady – forgive me my familiarity, for the reasons I gave you before – that I scarce need explanations for your delightful presence. It is strange, I had such a sensation myself an hour or so back, and not through excess. I will tell you of that later. Would you let down all of your hair? It is such lovely hair. Why before did I admire the brunette?”

  Sophie knew her heavy, waving fair hair to be one of her best features. “Like to a schoolroom miss? Well, why not?” She unpinned the rest, and it tumbled about her shoulders and back, curling from the grips.

  His eyes glowed appreciation. “You look as beautiful as a mermaid.

  “We are a long way from the sea, here in Paris. No wonder I am lost.”

  “How can you be lost with me to look after you?” She delighted in his sentimentality. “As I wish to, if you allow me.” He took her hand and squeezed it.

  She said on impulse, “If the others bring back those louts, please do not beat them too badly.” Again, she only just stopped herself form saying, ‘Monsieur Émile’, which might make him think her some sort of spy.

  “Alors, ma petite Sophie – if the Sly Boots and Felix have caught them then they will have already beaten them half senseless. I am glad of it. Après tout, we must make an example of them.” He stood up. “Do not run away whilst I pay the bill.”

  She sat, waiting in a happy stupor. He was soon back, the woman bustling after him. She tried some English. This Sophie found hard to follow, partly because the woman didn’t have many teeth, so Sophie nodded at everything she sa
id.

  Then she realised in horror the woman was suggesting, with gestures, how as Gilles had such long legs, no doubt another part of his anatomy was equally impressive.

  Sophie felt her face burn. Gilles Long Legs looked abashed. “Tais toi, Adeline! She is a nice young lady.”

  The woman gave Sophie’s arm a squeeze. Sophie congratulated her on the soup, while Gilles Long Legs gazed on her as if basking in the warmth of his glowing pride in her.

  Then he took her arm, and they began to walk through the mild sunshine of the spring evening along narrow streets lined with miserable buildings.

  If it all was squalid and foetid then Sophie’s mood invested it all with a tint of glamour. People they went by turned to stare, and she thought if she hadn’t been with who she was they might well shout after a woman they instinctively recognised as not only a bourgeoise, but Anglaise. Perhaps some of the small boys who struggled together might even have given chase, hooting.

  The costermonger broke off from his stentorian roaring to address them quietly and hoarsely, “Ça va, Gilles? Cityones, tu aussi.” Gilles Long Legs told him to call in at the party. Sordid looking though he was, Sophie beamed on him.

  Gilles Long Legs slowed down his long stride to suit her, smiling on her now and again. “I will be so proud to have you as a partner.”

  “I am so glad, Mr Gilles...”

  “‘Come, try, ‘Gilles’…Ecoute, there’s Marcel’s fiddle.”

  “Gilles, then.”

  How could she explain what she must? She couldn’t guess what had happened herself. She only remembered his exclaiming that the scenes on the ceiling into which they were pulled came ‘From that Jade’. He had told her himself that Kenrick was experimenting with time travel.

  Why, whenever she tried to speak of it to him, did she feel as if she was drowning in air?

  They came to a ragged woman sitting on a sort of crate, suckling a threadbare bundle. Even as her companion halted, Sophie yearned for her purse. Gilles Long Legs was excusing himself and releasing Sophie’s arm to grope for his money.