Minuet

by Joan Smith

  With only one Englishman in the crowd, the talk was in French, and he had to use every bit of attention to make the least sense of it. He understood the name Belhomme easily enough, thought they were talking about plans to storm it, to spirit the Harlocks from the country. Sally, with absolutely no discretion, was soon entertaining them, a roomful of strangers, with tales of her adventures.

  He glowered at her, glanced at his watch, suggested at two-minute intervals that they leave, but she sat on, enjoying herself immensely, and suggesting as often as he mentioned going that he need not feel compelled to stay. Still, he felt it was only his own presence that kept back her stories of dancing with the gypsies and sleeping in hayricks, and he sat it out to the end, hating every minute.

  She drew out the carte civile of Agnès Maillard and gave it to one of the men, the plan being that he would see about getting duplicates made up in various names by a friend of his who had turned forger. Another knew a French woman who would knit up the long red toques. Sally pointed out to them that all this was en dernier ressort. First Lord Harlock would attempt diplomatic channels. But with France and England at war it was well to have an alternative plan.

  Sally listened closely to their advice. Her father, she knew, wished to help, but with the best will in the world, he had not the grasp of the situation that her own countrymen who had been there had. For a full hour Degan made up a quiet part of the crowd, then he overrode all objections and insisted that Lady Céleste must go home. He escorted her to Mérigot’s carriage, which was so full of parcels that it made a good excuse to take her home in his own. His real aim was to conceal her appearance in the closed vehicle. As Henri must go along to the house with her parcels and she knew she would see him then, she accepted this arrangement.

  “It was unwise of you to talk so freely in front of those Frenchmen,” he told her as soon as they were alone.

  “Henri knows them all. They are friends. Their being French does not disturb me. Au contraire. They would not be here if they were sans-culottes. You heard how eager they are to help me. Do you think it true Papa will have no luck going through diplomatic channels?”

  “He thinks he will succeed. Fox is a powerful man. He may have some connections that can be of help,”

  “Still, I am glad duVal makes up the cartes civiles and madame the bonnets rouges. It is well to be prepared, n’est-ce pas?”

  “It can do no harm. Time is limited, and if Fox does nothing then we must make other plans.”

  “We?” she asked.

  “I am your cousin, mademoiselle.”

  “Your outing with les français has smartened you already. You have learned the mode of address I prefer.”

  “It seems I must also learn the language you prefer. I missed a part of the discussion. What was the little dark fellow with the gold tooth saying about getting into the asylum?”

  “The comte de Rasselin said he had a mad cousin, and would happily act the part of a moonling to gain entrance.”

  “Not a bad idea. But don’t the patients come from the Conciergerie? Belhomme no longer takes regular patients, does he?”

  “Occasionally, to keep up the illusion he runs an ordinary establishment. If the price is right, he would take a cow or a pig. In any case some hint could be dropped that the person in question was in danger from the Tribunal. It would make an excuse to get in the door. It is a good idea.”

  Degan then went on to straighten out a few other points he had missed, and by the time they were home, he was beginning to think the Frenchmen were on the right track.

  A direct trip to the asylum was the likeliest way to gain a hasty rescue.

  Mérigot had reached Berkeley Square before them, and was just piling the shopping into the arms of a footman when Degan’s carriage drew up. With an unhappy glance at him, Degan lifted his hat and said he would do himself the honor of calling on mademoiselle very soon. She hoped it would not be too soon. Henri, she noticed, was displeased with the Englishman’s attentions.

  Chapter Six

  Lord Harlock was as malleable as putty in his daughter’s hands. He refused to find anything amiss in any of her whims. Her cropped, unpowdered hair, her English liberty bonnet, her unusual gowns—all were fine with him, being so reminiscent of the girl’s mother, who also delighted in setting a new mode.

  With the daughter, it was pure pleasure. Of Marie he had to be jealous, but if Sally had a bunch of beaux trailing at her heels, it did him credit. Even the hated Mérigot he accepted with equanimity, feeling that a little friendship with the fellow now would stand him in good stead with Marie, after his having neglected the chap for full ten years.

  When Sally told him Mérigot was taking her to a masquerade party at the racy Pantheon, he offered no demur, but only a caution that she must not leave Mérigot, for it was a rackety crew who hung out there.

  “I am used to the rackety crews, me,” she told him. “I learned a few tricks to defend myself en route from Paris to London. Do not fear, Papa. I will not be caught.”

  With a waggish shake of his head, Harlock bade them good evening, and took out a map of Paris to locate exactly the Maison Belhomme, for passing along to Fox, who had told him there was a perfectly legal ship going to France, to deliver stoves, which peaceful commodity was allowed entry, even in times of war. He didn’t know the exact date of departure, but mentioned it was to be very soon.

  While Harlock pored over the map, Lord Degan was announced. “Ah, John, I am happy to see you have got a map of Paris. I trust this means you are going to bypass the government and send men after your wife and son yourself?”

  “No. Fox wants me to show him the exact location of the asylum. He is seeing to it.”

  “It is not a good idea to make official inquiries. It will only draw attention to your family.”

  “Exactly what Fox said. He is down as a nail, Fox. The lads will slip over in a merchant vessel, and go without making any inquiries at all, to free Marie and Edward.”

  “Good. Some friends of Mérigot’s can arrange cartes civiles and those bonnets rouges. You’ll want to contact some of them to make up the party.”

  “Fox is looking after it. He is handling all the details.”

  “Mérigot can give you names. He is acquainted with all the émigrés. Might as well make use of him.”

  “He’ll want to go himself if I approach him. I would prefer to keep Mérigot out of it.”

  “Don’t you trust him? I thought he was a relative of Marie’s.”

  “He is, and that is exactly why I do not wish to place him in jeopardy. She’d never forgive me if anything happened to him. He is a nobleman—too dangerous.”

  “They’re all noblemen, or claiming to be. I expect she puts her own and her son’s safety first.”

  Harlock shook the question away with a frown, stating again that Fox was handling the whole. He would foot the bills, of course, but Charles Fox was in charge of the operation.

  Charles Fox was known to be one of the wiliest men in the country, and Degan, with no real authority in the matter, was forced to accept this. He looked around the room, asking, “Is Lady Céleste not in this evening?” For some reason, he felt foolish calling her Mademoiselle Sally in front of the father.

  “She is gone out to a little do with Mérigot.”

  “Some French party, I suppose?” Degan asked, uneasy.

  “No, just an ordinary party.”

  “The Casselmans’ rout?” Degan asked unconcernedly, thinking he would have to waste time going home for his own invitation.

  “No, the Pantheon,” Harlock answered.

  “The Pantheon!” Degan howled, on his feet. “You’ve never allowed Sally to go off to that brothel!”

  “Pooh! Nothing of the sort. Everyone goes. Marie used to like it herself.” Marie also used to be forced to avoid the place, but a new set of rules was being devised to ingratiate the venturesome daughter. He had been too strict. There was just the trouble.

  “Who is wi
th her?” Degan asked.

  “Just Mérigot.”

  “You place too much faith in that scoundrel. He is only after her money.”

  “I have told you he is not a suitor.”

  “You’d better tell him. He acts mighty like one.”

  “It is only the French way. There is nothing of that sort between them. I am her father. I know what I’m doing.”

  “You don’t know what they’re doing. You’re being a good deal too lax with the girl. I’m going after them. What is she wearing?”

  “A sheet. She hadn’t a domino, and had the servants running around to fix up a sheet for her to wear.”

  “Good God, from curtains to sheets. She’ll be taking to the streets in a tea towel next thing we hear.”

  “She wore one for a hood,” Harlock told him, laughing.

  Degan was beyond speech. He dashed back the two blocks to his own home, to send servants scouring the house for a domino worn six years previously to a private masquerade party. It took them an age. He had half a mind to rip a canopy off a bed himself, but before he was put to such shifts, the domino, smelling of camphor and creased in wrinkles, was handed to him. He threw it on over his evening clothes, took up the half mask, and was off in his waiting carriage, without realizing he wore an anticipatory smile, which broadened into a grin of satisfaction as he envisioned Sally caught in some dreadful situation, where his sword was required to extricate her.

  A white sheet and a tea towel were not so very hard to pick out at a masquerade where stylish silk and satin dominoes in a variety of bright colors were the more usual costume. She was in no worse strait than standing up with a rather awkward dancer, and if the tall, elegant black domino standing with his arms crossed watching her was not Mérigot, Degan would have been much surprised.

  He stood observing the scene for several minutes, noticing her dainty steps, her slipping tea towel that gave a peek at her curls, which gleamed like polished copper under the hanging chandeliers, and confirmed beyond a doubt that the ghostlike costume concealed Mademoiselle Sally. Even in a sheet she managed an air of elegance. It was her haughty way of carrying herself so erect with her shoulders back that did it, he thought. She walked almost like a little soldier, except for that telltale swaying of the hips that was not at all military, nor very English either. Why was it the English girls all loped, like horses?

  Degan waited impatiently for the dance to be over that he might stand up with her. Seeing the gentleman who partnered her, he realized he would do himself no credit with his rusty maneuvers. This would be the first time he had danced in months. He couldn’t think how he had come to fall out of the habit of dancing. He used to like it when he was younger. He decided to have a practice session with some other woman first, and was accepted by the first domino he asked. No introduction—nothing!

  It was a reprehensibly low spot for Mérigot to have brought the girl. That his own partner turned out to be Lady Mary Stuyvesan was no consolation either. It only proved the whole body of society had become inexplicably lax in the rearing of its daughters. He lost sight of Sally during the demands of the dance, and wasted several minutes peering around the hall for the white domino after it was over. Then he saw her at a table, with Mérigot he thought. As he was about to approach them, they arose to have a turn about the room. When they both disappeared into a private parlor, he was off in hot pursuit.

  Sally was enjoying her evening immensely. Henri was an exquisite dancer, and the music and gay crowds took her back to the revels held at Grandpère’s home before the troubles began. Her partners, approved by Henri, were all French, so that she could speak her preferred tongue, heightening the similarity to home. If only Mama and Édouard could be here, it would be perfect. But they would be safe soon. Papa was taking care of it.

  It was Henri’s habit to come to her at the end of each dance to present her to her next partner. A short while ago, however, he had put the comte de Rasselin in charge of her, for he had to speak to some man on urgent business. When a stranger asked for permission to dance with her, she thought very little of it. The man was an execrable dancer, but he was polite and sober, even if he was not French, and seemed well behaved. Not all the men present were quite sober, she had observed. The gentleman amused her with some bantering flirtation, at which she was particularly adept, and at the dance’s end offered to escort her to her table. Henri was not there when she arrived, which bothered her a little, but it was their table. Henri’s gloves were there, and her own fan.

  The stranger, seeing her deserted, took the notion she was no lady, and began to alter his plans accordingly. “Would you like to go out for some air?” he first suggested.

  No, no, she would wait for her friend. But still, when the music began, her friend did not return, and the man became more pressing. He waited with her while she sipped her wine and searched the room with her eyes, till finally she accepted his offer to walk around the room’s edge to allow a better view of the dancers.

  As they passed a private parlor where the door stood open, he suddenly pulled her inside and began embracing her. She was a good deal surprised, but more annoyed than frightened. She pushed him off expertly, and made to walk past him, but his hand went out for the door handle, and his other grabbed her wrist.

  “Not so fast, my little strumpet,” he said, joking and in a good mood.

  “Strumpet? Qu’est-ce que c’est que strumpet?” she demanded.

  “Odd you don’t know the word, as you are one yourself, or I miss my bet. But as I see you prefer French, I believe the word is—” He stopped in midspeech as there was a sound at the door. It was thrown open, and Degan stepped in in his wrinkled domino, drawing his sword.

  “This time you have gone too far, Mérigot!” he said in a hot voice.

  “Ah, citoyen, it is you!” Sally said, not at all pleased to see him. “Mais vous vous trompez. This is not Henri.”

  “Mérigot? Good God, you’re not Harlock’s daughter!” the stranger exclaimed in fearful accents, for the tale of Lady Céleste’s arrival and shopping trip had already begun to make the rounds.

  “Allan! Surely it’s not you!” Degan shouted, and reaching out he pulled the half mask from the stranger’s face.

  The stranger at this moment recognized the intruder as well, and shouted, “Good lord, what the deuce are you doing here, Degan?”

  “Qui est-il?” Sally asked Degan.

  “It’s Lord Ashmore,” Degan said, astonished to the marrow of his bones to find a friend whom he had always believed to be a sober and responsible gentleman involved in such a contretemps.

  “Monsieur, je suis enchantée de faire votre connaissance,” Sally said with a polite curtsy.

  “How do you do, ma’am?” Ashmore replied, coloring up, and trying to redeem some shred of respectability in the young lady’s eyes. “I had no idea who you were.”

  “Yes? May I know who it was you meant to treat so rudely?” she asked him.

  “I didn’t know you were a lady. I thought you were... Degan, how do you let your cousin come to a place like this, and abandon her so shamefully?” Ashmore demanded, turning on poor Lord Degan.

  “He thought I was a strumpet,” she explained to Degan, while Ashmore grimaced at her. “What is it, a strumpet? Is it what one takes with tea?”

  Degan turned to Lord Ashmore, hastily considering whether to hit him or demand the more formal satisfaction of a duel. “I had no idea who she was!” Ashmore rushed in, in a tone of abject apology. “In a place like this, you know...” Then he turned to Sally, still babbling, “I am truly sorry, ma’am. Pray forgive my rudeness.”

  “Very well, but you mustn’t call me names again, and when I wish to leave a room, I do not expect a gentleman to bar the door, but open it. Comprise?” she asked in a coquettish way.

  “Yes, certainly,” he said, leaping to the door to hold it wide. Degan, envisioning the scandal of a duel in the lady’s honor, jerked his head toward the door in a dismissing gesture. As
hmore was not tardy in escaping.

  “I hope you’re satisfied!” he said, turning to Sally in a fine rage. His heroics were all reduced to farce, and the lady not grateful but laughing.

  “No, monsieur, I am not at all satisfied to find Englishmen such poltrons. If you were French, you would have demanded satisfaction in a duel. I think I am insulted, to be called a strumpet. What is it, the strumpet?”

  “I think you know very well what it is, and it is what you will be taken for if you carry on in this loose way.”

  “No, but I don’t know, Degan. Is it the prostituée? Is that what that vaurien called me? And you let him walk out the door with his head still on his shoulders. Morbleu, I must tell Henri. He will protect my name.”

  Things were going from bad to worse. “No! Don’t tell him! If he’d been with you as he should have, this wouldn’t have happened. No one but riff-raff comes to a place like this. The women are all lightskirts, and the men here to pick them up.”

  She stared at him with fascination. “Mon Dieu, you amaze me! I would not have expected to find Citoyen Degan at such a place, but saying his prayers in church. Which lightskirt is it you mean to take home, citoyen?”

  “You.”

  “Ah, you forget! I must not be caught till I am safely married. I am not a lightskirt, but have my pockets weighed down with Aunt Dee’s gold. Cela change tout, n’est-ce pas?”

  “I didn’t mean that!” he said through clenched teeth.

  “I do not appeal to you? Your friend Lord Ashmore has better taste.”

  “That is a matter of opinion. I came here to take you home to your father. I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

  “Well, I think I have,” she said consideringly, while she ran her eyes over his getup. “This Pantheon is not at all comme il faut. When a gentleman is allowed to enter an assembly wearing an unpressed domino that reeks of camphor, it is not the thing. But first I must find Henri.”