Love of Seven Dolls

by Paul Gallico

  But Balotte, when he came sliding down the rope, was pleased, though not surprised, that Mouche had remained there watching him and said, “Well? All right, little one?”

  Mouche replied sincerely. “Oh yes, indeed. I thought you were wonderful.”

  “Oh, that wasn’t anything. Wait until you see the new routine I am working up. Something really sensational.”

  “But isn’t it fearfully dangerous?” Mouche asked. “Without a net or anything?”

  Balotte preened himself. “But of course. That is what the public likes. See here, what about coming out with me for something to eat and a glass of beer?”

  He was amazed at the expression of panic that crossed Mouche’s face. “I . . . I don’t know whether I can. I’ve never been before . . .”

  Balotte came quickly to the point. “Is he your husband, that one? The fellow who calls himself Capitaine Coq?” he asked.

  Mouche shook her head quickly. “Oh no. He is not.”

  Balotte was intelligent enough not to inquire any further. “Well then, put on your street clothes and I’ll meet you inside the stage door as soon as I have changed.”

  It was several minutes before Mouche could bring herself to believe that she was free to accept such an invitation. The bondage in which Capitaine Coq held her had become almost a habit, but even more, she belonged to the seven dolls and felt as though she ought to have asked Carrot Top for permission.

  She hurried then to keep the rendezvous but found herself wishing she might have discussed with Madame Muscat the propriety of going out with a young man who had just introduced himself to her.

  Balotte arrived shortly, hair sleeked down, the inevitable acrobat’s white silk scarf around his neck inside his jacket, and smelling faintly of perspiration mingled with liniment.

  He was delighted by his success and flashed magnificent white teeth at her. Also he took her most solicitously by the arm to guide her as though she were fragile. It had been so long since a man had been gentle with her that it quite warmed Mouche’s heart. All of a sudden she remembered that she was a young girl and laughed happily and leaning on the sturdy arm of the young man asked, “Where shall we go?”

  They went to a water-front café at the far end of the Quai du Midi.

  There, sitting out under the stars they supped on highly seasoned bouillabaisse which called for quantities of beer which in turn made them light-headed and merry.

  They danced together and contact with this strange girl made Balotte quite ardent and he held her close, but yet tenderly. The tenderness found an answering response in Mouche. Youth was wooing youth. For the first time in longer than she could remember, Mouche was enjoying herself in a normal manner. She felt as though she could never have enough of this magic night.

  Everything was heightened, the sparkle of her eyes, the glitter of the stars, the swing of the music, the movement of her limbs, and of course the good looks of Balotte and the impression he was making.

  Indeed, she was almost insatiable for innocent pleasure and did not wish to go home. Balotte, certain that it was his person and enthralling tales about his triumphs in the circus and variety world and his plans for future successes that made her so happy and gay, humoured her, for he was enjoying himself too. When at four in the morning the café finally closed, they were the last to leave.

  Balotte, for all his vanity, came of a good circus family, and therefore, in love as he felt himself to be with Mouche, was respectful of her and honourable in his attentions towards another in his own profession. He took her home on a tram and left her at the door of her hotel with no more than a warm pressure of the hand and a loving look from his dark, liquid eyes.

  When Mouche went inside she found Capitaine Coq in the lobby waiting for her. He was slumped in a chair in the dingy, ill-smelling lobby, a cigarette hanging from his lip, but he was sober. The flute-player had proved flabby, damp, self-accusing and had drenched him with tears. His temper was even more vile than usual and he took it out on Mouche.

  He said, “Come over here. Where the devil have you been? You’ll be getting a regular salary now. You don’t have to go out whoring in the streets.”

  Mouche felt hatred of this man so intensely that she thought she would become ill or faint. Yet the small taste of freedom she had enjoyed, the echoes of the innocent evening enabled her to face him. She replied, “I was out with Balotte. He asked me to have supper with him.”

  Coq laughed harshly. “Until four in the morning? That kind of dining we know . . .”

  “It is not true. We were dancing. Why shouldn’t I dance with him? He is kind to me.”

  Capitaine Coq got up out of his chair, his hands and face working with rage. He ground his teeth and took her by the wrist so that she cried out with pain.

  “That, and more of it,” he shouted at her, applying more pressure. “If ever I catch you with that walking sweat gland again, I’ll smash every bone in your body and in his too. Remember. Now get up to your room.”

  At the performance the next day Dr. Duclos of all people came up with a present for Mouche. It appeared he had been shopping and, passing a perfume counter, had so far abandoned caution as to invest in a small flacon. Oddly, it was the first perfume Mouche had ever had. They made her open it and try it on; Gigi jealously sampled some, Mme. Muscat sniffed disdainfully, Ali tried to drink it because if it smelled so good it must taste better. For twenty minutes they elaborated this slender theme to the enchantment of the audience and ended with Mr. Reynardo in Mouche’s arms quite overcome and swooning.

  As Mouche came off stage, Balotte, waiting to go on, whispered, “Tonight again?”

  Mouche looked about her in alarm. “I don’t dare. He has threatened to do you an injury.”

  Balotte snorted, “Ho! I can take care of myself. I know of a place where the music is even better. Be at the stage door again the same time, little one, eh . . .?”

  Mouche replied, “I don’t know.”

  But she was there, hoping that Coq would not be about. She longed so for the gaiety and the sweet ease of being with someone who was kind. She did not have to wait. Balotte was there. And Capitaine Coq stepped out of a shadowed corner.

  Capitaine Coq said, “Well, I can see that you both are asking for it. Have it then!” He whipped the backs of five bony fingers across Mouche’s face, knocking her up against the wall. “Gutter slut!” he bawled at her.

  Balotte made a menacing movement. Coq turned on him, “As for you, you muscle-bound idiot, you can hang by your tail like a monkey, but you wouldn’t lift a finger for her or anybody else. I’m going to teach you to keep away from her.”

  But Capitaine Coq was wrong. Balotte was no coward and furthermore he had a body like iron, wrists of steel and more than a little knowledge of the science of attack and defence.

  The fight was short and savage, both men moiling, writhing and striking in silence with no sound, but the whistling of their breathing, the thud of blows and the grunts of pain. Then it was over with Capitaine Coq lying in a battered, bloodied heap upon the floor, stunned, whipped and unable to rise. He was bleeding from the nose and mouth and a gash in his cheek, and one eye was closing.

  With his red hair, crinkled pale face and black suit, he was the personification of the devil dethroned, evil conquered by good, as the young acrobat stood over him panting, but unmarked. He was the villain foiled, the wicked bully who at last receives his just deserts. He lay in an untidy heap like a horrid insect that has been squashed.

  Mouche stood by the wall, her hand to her own bruised lips, staring down at him. So had she prayed to see him, beaten, cowed, mastered. Yet she was conscious only of being filled with sadness and of an ache in her throat comparable to those experienced sometimes before the puppet booth when one or the other of its inhabitants was particularly moving. She had not known that a wish fulfilled could be so empty and that the physical destruction of the object of her hatred would yield no more than the desire to weep for the downfall of evil
.

  Balotte moved over to him, prepared to kick him unconscious if need be, and asked, “Want any more?”

  The glassy eyes of Capitaine Coq filled with venom, but he shook his head, mumbling something unintelligible and did not attempt to get up.

  Balotte said, “Come along then, Mouche. This fellow won’t give you any more trouble.”

  They went out then arm in arm and Mouche did not look back at the heap on the floor, for had she done so, she could not have gone. This time they did not dance—as if by mutual understanding they recognised it was not the time—but instead sat in a corner booth, eating and getting acquainted. And under the stimulus of the youth and wooing of Balotte, Mouche’s mood of sorrow evaporated. They walked home and stood for a while by the promenade looking out over the harbour with Nice’s necklace of lights curving away from them and the stars cascading over the black, frowning wall of the mountains behind the city. Balotte kissed her and, gratefully, Mouche returned his kisses.

  At the next performance of Capitaine Coq and his Family, Carrot Top appeared with a black eye and was raucously greeted by Mr. Reynardo and the rest of the cast demanding to know how it had happened, with Carrot Top insisting that he had walked into a door in the dark. They devoted the act to discussing the truth of this plus the best remedies. Madame Muscat finally arriving with a small piece of filet which Mouche solicitously bound to the optic. All through the show she felt herself unaccountably close to tears. Yet she was glad for the pressure of Balotte’s hand as she passed him and whispered, “Petite Mouche, tonight we dance.”

  This was the night too that the manager of the theatre stood at the door and counted more than two hundred patrons who had been there the week before and who had returned to see what mischief the family of Capitaine Coq were up to.

  As the second month of the engagement drew to a close and it was obvious that the puppet show was as popular as ever and a decided drawing card, the management decided to retain them, but change the rest of the bill. This meant that amongst others, the company of aerialists of which Balotte was a member, would be moving on.

  One night, therefore, a little more than a week before this was to take place, as they sat on their favourite bench on the sea promenade and watched the moon set, Balotte asked Mouche to marry him and was accepted.

  “You will see,” he had said, “as my assistant in my new act, you will make me famous, and yourself too. We will tour the world together.”

  But also he had told her that he loved her.

  Mouche responded to his sincerity and his gentleness. She had been happy during those weeks that Balotte had been courting her. Against the normality of their relationship and his simplicity, the walks they took together, the picnic lunches in the hills, the nightmare of her relationship to Capitaine Coq could be recognised and Mouche knew that an end must be made to it. She was sure that she loved Balotte, for he was handsome, kind and sympathetic to her and there was no reason why she should not.

  It had been a particularly trying week for Mouche for although, since the beating, while Coq had offered her no further violence, or tried to interfere with her dates with Balotte, he was bitter and sneering and his tongue had never been nastier as he took her to task before stage hands and performers. His movements became more and more mysterious. Sometimes she would not see him for a whole day. Then the next he seemed always at her elbow, biting, mocking, sardonic or abusive.

  It was said that he would spend long hours sitting in the puppet booth in silence, and once the night-watchman making his rounds in the theatre between the hours of midnight and eight when the charwoman came, swore that he heard the voices of the puppets coming from the booth in some kind of argument, but by the time he made his way from the balcony to the stage there seemed to be no one there, and only the empty gloves of the Reynardo and Gigi puppets were found lying on the counter of the booth.

  Capitaine Coq received the news of Mouche’s forthcoming marriage and departure from the show with surprising calmness. Perhaps he had been expecting it. They went to him together, for Mouche had not the courage to face him alone. She declared her intention of remaining with the show until the end of the month when the contract expired. Then she and Balotte would be married and she would leave.

  He had listened to her with a curious expression on his cynical countenance and then had simply shrugged and turned away, vanishing in the direction of his dressing-room which was on the other side of the stage from that occupied by Mouche. And thereafter for the remainder of the engagement she never saw him again.

  But if Coq appeared to accept Mouche’s decision to marry Balotte and leave the act with a certain amount of resignation, the seven little creatures whom Mouche met twice daily in the pool of spotlights focused on the shabby little puppet booth onstage, took the event over, discussed it and harped on it endlessly.

  Each reacted according to his or her nature to Mouche’s romance and engagement, and Mme. Muscat’s attempts to ascertain whether Mouche knew the facts of life and her advice to her for her wedding night was one of the most hilarious evenings the old theatre had ever known.

  Day after day Mouche went through some kind of catechism, with regard to her plans and her future. Where would she go, where would she live, where was she going to be married? Gigi wanted to know about her trousseau, and Dr. Duclos gave a pompous pseudo-scientific lecture on genetics and just why her children were likely to be acrobats. Mr. Reynardo tried to get the catering job for the wedding and Alifanfaron applied for the job of nurse.

  Yet, to anyone witnessing one or more of these performances, it became evident that for all of the childish interest and seeming light-hearted banter, the fact of Mouche’s approaching marriage and departure hung over them filled with the tragic implications of children about to lose the security of the presence of one who was both loved and loving.

  Through every show, there ran a vein of dread of the day, a forlornness, a helplessness and a dumb pleading that wrung Mouche’s heart, for with her departure becoming imminent, she herself did not know how she would be able to leave these little people who in the past year had become such a part of her and the only real friends, companions and playmates she had ever known.

  Often, while Mouche would be in conversation with one character, another would appear from below, retire to the end of the booth, stare, silently and longingly at her, then heave a large sigh and vanish again. The pressure upon Mouche was becoming intolerable and she did not know how she would be able to reach the final night without breaking, for Balotte could not help her. He was pleased with the publicity that had come his way and the applause that greeted his appearances now that he was the bride-groom-to-be of a romantic story that had been written up in the newspapers. He had no idea of what was happening to Mouche.

  The final performance of Capitaine Coq and his Family which took place in the Théâtre du Vaudeville on the Saturday night of December 15th, was one that Mouche would not forget as long as she lived.

  The old theatre with its red velvet drapes, gold-encrusted boxes and shimmering candelabra had been sold out for more than a week. Word had spread along the Côte d’Azur, and there were visitors from Cannes, St Tropez, Antibes and Monaco. Half of the audience present were regulars who had fallen in love over the weeks with Mouche, or the seven dolls, and who had paid premiums to be there. The front rows sparkled with jewels and décolletage and white shirt fronts. The playboys and playgirls of the gold coast had a wonderful nose for the unusual, the slightly amer, the bitter-sweet in entertainment, the story behind the story, the broken heart palpitating onstage for all to see. The gossip had gone around the cocktail circuit, “My dear, it’s frightfully amusing. She talks with all these little dolls, but there’s supposed to be the most fantastic man behind them. No one has ever seen him. He’s supposed to be madly in love with her. Philippe has four tickets. We’re all driving over and dining at the Casino first.”

  It began as usual with the strains of “Va t’en, va t’en”
dying away in the orchestra pit, followed by curtain rise showing a corner of the village square with the puppet booth set up, and Golo, the white patch gleaming over his vacant eye socket, strumming his guitar in front of it in a little song dedicated to calling the village folk together to see their show.

  The spotlight on Golo would dim; the light pools by the booth would narrow. One of the puppets would appear with startling suddenness in the limelight and claim the attention of all. Mouche was never on stage as the curtain went up.

  This night it began with Mr. Reynardo making a furtive appearance on the counter of the booth, looking carefully to the right and left and behind him as well. Then he called: “Pssssst! Golo!” And when Golo appeared from behind the booth, “Where’s Mouche?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Reynardo. You want me to call her?”

  “In a minute. I’ve got something for her.” He ducked down and appeared with a handsome red fox fur scarf, tipped with a bushy tail at one end and a small fox mask at the other. He stretched it along the counter and for a moment snuffled up and down its length. “It’s for her,” he told Golo.

  “Dieu!” remarked Golo, “but that’s rich. I’ll go fetch Mouche, Mr. Reynardo.”

  While Golo went off into the wings, Mr. Reynardo scrutinised the scarf closely. “Eeeeeh!” he said with some slight distaste. “Awfully familiar. Say, she was a nice-looking babe . . . I seem to remember her from somewhere.” He moved up to the head of the scarf and bestowed a surprisingly gentle kiss onto the muzzle of the foxmask. “Requiescat in pace, kid,” he said. “And keep Mouche warm.”

  Mouche walked onstage into a storm of applause that lasted for several minutes and brought the ache back to her throat. Whenever she was shown kindness or approval it brought her close to tears.

  At last she was able to proceed. She began, “Golo said you were looking for me, Rey . . .”

  “Uhuh. Glad you got here before the others. Er . . . ah . . .” The fox was looking not entirely comfortable. He reached and taking the scarf in his jaws he held it out to the girl. “This is for you. It’s a wed . . .” he seemed to gag over the word and switched, “. . . a going-away present for you.”