by Joan Smith
“Exactly,” Henri said, and Degan nodded his head in frustrated acceptance of her dictum.
With no change of clothing, they went to the common room to secure a table by the fire to dry their clothing on their backs while they ate. They sat at a large table with rowdy locals, discussing the wage maximum, the Revolution, the inferior quality of the food before them, with no more than a bone dipped in the pot au feu for flavor, and a dog bone at that, if they knew anything. Still, with the ravenous hunger besetting them from a day in the open air, they ate the awful food and drank the bitter wine.
Before they were finished, a short, husky man strode in, garishly outfitted in a blue jacket and wearing a cockade as big as a saucer. Degan looked at him in alarm, taking him for an official bent on making trouble. He sat silent, knowing a word would betray his origins. The man was shown to a private table, where he was soon joined by a pert girl. Food smelling deliciously of real meat was placed before them. The bread too had that succulent aroma of fresh yeast, unlike the cardboard gnawed on at the common table. Many jealous looks were bestowed on the newcomers, and the three kept their ears open to see what they could learn of them.
“Citoyen Malraux, le pugiliste,” one of the locals said to another. It was soon out that the man was a boxer, famous among the villages, and had won a match at Arras that week. The guillotine did not supply enough blood in this out-of-the-way corner of France. Other entertainments were necessary. The man was treated as a minor celebrity, the best of everything placed before him, including female companionship. The wench who sat with him was pretty, with dark flashing eyes and a good smile. Degan and Henri both looked often to the private table. Sally thought it was the girl they admired, and scowled into her bowl. Not at all pretty, that one. Shoulders like a boxer herself, and a waist as wide as a man’s. Who wouldn’t look pretty in such a gown, and her hair dressed in curls and ribbons.
“Let us go upstairs. I am very tired,” she said sulkily.
“You run along, François,” Henri said, glancing at the girl admiringly. “I am not at all tired.”
She pushed back her chair with sufficient force to knock it over. “You too remain behind to ogle the strumpet?” she asked Degan.
“I’ll wait for Michel,” he answered, not liking to intrude himself alone with Sally in the bedroom.
“Michel, eh?” she asked knowingly. “Don’t forget all your high morals, citoyen.” She flounced from the room, with that telltale swaying of the hips that would have alerted others to suspicion had they been watching, which they were not, with the exception of Mérigot and Degan.
“François is developing a green eye,” Henri said, smiling. “We must remind him to abandon his wiggle. Pity, it is so charmant.”
Degan glared at him, but Henri took no notice of it. “They live well, the boxers,” he continued. “I wish I had thought of it before leaving...home.” He was reluctant to use the word London, even in a low voice.
“There is no reason a wine grower might not do a spot of boxing on the side. Or a print setter, for that matter. Do you box at all, Ménard?” Degan asked.
“Jamais. I value my hands too highly, and my face. I use a sword on my enemies.”
“I box a little. My stupidity would be credible in a member of the fancy, would it not? We might enjoy better transportation and accommodations if I switched jobs. You could be my manager.”
“And Minou your flirt. The boxers travel with their sweethearts in France. It is the custom—for the fortunate ones at least. It is also a custom for them to box, upon occasion. If you are to adopt the role, you must be prepared to use your fists, citoyen, if the need should arise.”
“I am prepared to use them,” he replied, his challenging tone suggesting that he would like to do so at that very moment. “Well, what do you say?”
“Let us ask Minou. She may not care for the part she will have to play in this performance.”
They finished their wine quickly and left, to find Sally standing before a faded, peeling mirror, pulling her hands through her hair.
“You don’t have to tell me I look ugly. I know it very well,” she said brusquely.
“Nonsense, you are the prettiest little garçon at the inn,” Henry rallied, patting her derrière and inflaming Degan to instant fury. “And you must control your behind, Minou. Remember Degan’s mind is always on lovemaking—he doesn’t need the added temptation of you waggling in front of him. In fact, he has suggested he would like to set you up as his mistress. You like the idea?”
“What is he talking about?” she asked Degan, who could hardly credit the way Henri broached the scheme.
It was again Henri who spoke, outlining the plan briefly.
“No, it is too dangerous. Degan would be beaten up, probably killed,” Sally decided.
“He is ready to fight, he says. It would mean we could buy a decent wagon—these fellows travel in style. And you could wear a skirt, chérie, to set off the wiggle to better advantage. Real meat and fresh bread, sans maggots. I am tempted, I confess, but then it is Degan who might be forced to commit violence. I leave it up to you two.”
“A closed carriage?” she asked, rubbing her shoulders that were still damp, and becoming chilled away from the fire.
“Why not?” Henri shrugged.
“Can you really box, Degan?” she asked.
“Yes, I am a fair bruiser.”
“Let us get a look at your shoulders,” Henri said, and helped Degan to remove his jacket. Degan flexed his muscles, while Henri tried their hardness. “Built like a bull,” he said to Minou.
She put her fingers on his biceps and squeezed what felt very much like iron. “Very hard,” she said, “but are you fast? Do you have the—what do they call it—science?”
“I knocked out the Brewer, and have once floored Jackson,” he replied modestly.
These names meant little to Sally, but Mérigot recognized the champ’s name of course, and knew the Brewer as well to be a strong boxer.
“Sure you’re not afraid?” she asked him.
“Damme, Minou, he wouldn’t have offered if he were afraid,” Henri said curtly. “Well, do we do it or not?”
“We do it,” Degan said, and it was done. “Now, where do we make the switch of roles?”
“No switch,” Henri decreed. “You are still Philippe Ferrier, but turned amateur boxer on the side to make money. I am your patron, sponsoring you for a lark, like an English gentleman, while my bailiff tends to my vineyards. And Minou becomes again Agnès Maillard, your flirt. You have her card, Minou?”
“Yes, but I have no skirt. Also I must wash my hair, and buy ribbons. A bruiser’s chère amie must be stylish—in a cheap, vulgar way of course,” she added, a vision of the saucy minx below in the parlor occurring to her.
“I’ll buy the outfits here before we leave, and you can both change between here and Abbeville. By the time we arrive there, we are a boxing party,” Henri said.
“What about the closed carriage?” Degan asked.
“At Abbeville; it’s bigger.”
“You don’t think it will draw too much attention to us?” Sally asked of Henri.
“Boxing is approved by the Revolution. It takes the people’s minds off their empty stomachs, and gives them something to do on the décadi. The new day of rest, in lieu of the old-style Sunday. I don’t fear our Degan will be so good a bruiser that news of our approach will he heralded in advance,” Henry added, in a belittling way.
“I will try to control that urge to kill my opponents,” Degan retaliated with a fiery eye.
“Don’t start that childish bickering again,” Sally interposed. “All right, it’s agreed. Tomorrow early Henri gets the clothing, and we all hurry to Abbeville to get the new carriage. Don’t forget the aim is to get to the Maison Belhomme at all speed. That is all that matters. Now, everyone go to bed, at once.”
Degan looked unhappily at the two beds, on opposite sides of the room.
“I’m going to und
ress under the covers, and you put these rags to dry for me, Henri,” she said, then pulled the counterpane over her, and while Degan pretended to look out the window at a perfectly invisible yard, it was done. They all went to bed, and two of them slept soon from the fatigues of a very trying day.
Degan lay long awake, trying to assimilate what was happening. That he had been arrested, locked into a cage like an animal, that he was lying in a bed in France with Henry Mérigot, that three yards away Sally was dozing gently, and that if anyone in England ever heard a word of any of it the three of them would be social outcasts, cut by every Christian soul in the kingdom.
Most of all, that this bizarre situation seemed not only feasible, but exhilarating. He looked forward to becoming a bruiser. He had always half wanted to be one, even before he realized they traveled in such style, with their sweethearts. Funny Mérigot had pushed the scheme, as it seemed to place Sally in a bad position. Still, Henry would keep a close watch on them both. He rather wished they might dispense with their manager. What was happening to him? He was turning into that very sort of a person he despised—rackety. Henry was right—his mind was too often on lovemaking.
Chapter Twelve
By arising ten minutes before the gentlemen, Sally had resumed her dried clothing before they were up. She walked to their bed and jiggled Henry’s arm. He in turn roused Degan. It was six o’clock. She went below to order breakfast while they dressed.
“I wish you were already a boxer,” she told Degan when a very inferior meal was placed before them—gruel with blue milk.
“I thought this particular form of torture was purely English,” Mérigot said, regarding it sadly.
Only great hunger and a realization that the food was not likely to improve as they approached starving Paris enabled them to eat. It was too early for the shops to be open when they had finished, but Henry thought the wiser course was to rouse up a proprietor and make his purchases before the shop was full, and the gardes out.
“They will have no objection when they see the color of our money,” he informed Degan.
“Remember a very garish outfit for me, Henri,” Sally reminded him. “A low-cut red blouse, and a black waistcoat laced tightly at the waist. A full skirt and slippers and—”
“Red blouse with that carrot top!” he roasted.
“But yes, I wish to look as vulgar as possible, and a cockade two inches wide for my hair.”
“You can look vulgar without wearing red. Trust me, Minou. I know the habits of French strumpets better than yourself.”
“Then you have learned very quickly, in one day. You were eighteen when you left France.”
“A man of eighteen is already informed on such matters, eh, Philippe?” Henri asked Degan with a laugh, then he left.
“I feel itchy,” was Sally’s first comment when Mérigot had left. “I think there were bugs in my bed. I had a wretched sleep.”
“You were snoring within five minutes,” Degan contradicted.
“I do not snore!”
“Breathing deeply,” he countered.
The bruiser and his girl came to the dining room while they still sat, awaiting Henri. The newcomers were regarded closely to learn something of the role soon to be adopted. The female hung on the bruiser’s arm, and her chair was placed so close to his that she lolled on his shoulder while they ate in a manner that appeared even more uncomfortable than vulgar.
“How does he eat with that woman sitting on him?” Degan wondered aloud.
“That bowl of fresh eggs I could eat with an elephant sitting on me,” she answered wistfully.
“If we offer the proprietor money, I think—”
“Non! You are not at all wise, Degan. How did I used to think so? Recall we are sans-culottes, you and I. Till you turn bruiser we eat garbage and pretend to like it. Where would such rabble as we get money for eggs? Imagine, two days ago I sat at my father’s table, and could have eaten a whole dozen eggs if I wanted. I had only coffee and bread. What a fool!”
“One day ago I was chained to a rapist, and thrown into a jail. This is not so bad.”
“No, no, complaining is the only luxury we are allowed. Let us both complain to our hearts’ content. You must have regretted a hundred times already your reckless move in coming here. Let me hear how you have suffered over your one bout with madness.”
“I have not regretted it at all,” he replied, looking to see the bruiser’s girl bestow a kiss on her patron between bites.
“Don’t stare,” she warned. ‘The boxer is taking note of us. He will be jealous.”
“Good God, I hope he doesn’t think I have designs on that trollop.”
“But he does think so, and so does she. See how she smiles, strumpet. We had better wait upstairs. To sit too long might attract attention. Come, we go.”
They went up to the room to wait, to consult their map, to count their money, and to worry whether Henri had run into difficulties. He soon joined them, and there had been no difficulty in the purchases, which were already stowed in the wagon. It was not much after seven-thirty when they set out down the road for Abbeville. By nine they were passing from Pas de Calais into Somme, and at a stream with some concealing trees they stopped to change clothing.
“I bet you forgot petticoats,” Sally said to Mérigot. “Must I put this clean shirt and skirt on over rags, without even a petticoat and camisole?”
“How you underestimate me, ma mie. You will find all that is necessary in your bundle. It was not our Père Degan who made the purchases, after all.” As Degan had already darted behind a clump of trees, he missed hearing this slur.
“I must wash off in the stream, and get the mud out of my hair. Did you buy soap?” she asked.
“No, chérie, I did not observe the bruiser’s whore to be noticeably clean.”
“You will observe Degan’s whore to be clean. Keep him away while I bathe.”
“Don’t call yourself that!” he said sharply.
“It was your idea,” she pointed out with a saucy smile, then ran to the stream. The water was very cold, but removed the itch occasioned by sleeping at the inn so well that she reveled in it. She dipped her head in the stream and washed her hair as well as she could without soap, then had to dry it on her petticoat.
In fifteen minutes she returned from behind the bushes in a totally new style. She wore a low-cut white peasant girl’s blouse, with a black waistcoat tightly laced about her small waist. From below it a brightly colored flowered skirt billowed, and on her feet she wore a pair of dainty black patent slippers and white stockings. “You like?” she asked, whirling before her audience.
“Authentic. The fit is good,” was Henry’s mild praise.
“You’ll freeze in that shirt,” Degan said, showing no admiration at the pleasing sight before him.
“There’s a shawl in the wagon,” Mérigot said, and went to fetch it.
“Is that all you have to say?” she asked Degan. “Don’t I look pretty? Prettier than the trollop you were smiling at over breakfast?”
“What did you do with the other outfit?” Mérigot asked her, placing a green woolen shawl over her shoulders and draping it with an eye to aesthetics.
“Behind the bushes. Oh, and I’ll need Agnès Maillard’s card. We had better all sort out our cards now.”
“Before you dart off, let me add the coup de grace to your ensemble. Your cockade,” he said, sticking the ribbon amid her moist curls. “There,” he said, standing back and looking her over judiciously. “What do you say, Degan? You like our traveling companion? I almost think we are inviting trouble to have such a pretty wench with us. We must be on our guard to fight off the competition, hein?”
Degan managed to suppress all his admiration and most of his ire at the speech. “Sally had better hang on to François’ card, in case we have to switch back,” was his answer.
“Good idea,” Henri said, then turned his critical eye on the new bruiser. Degan looked a foot wider across the
shoulders in his padded jacket, and much better in a stylish tricorne with a cockade on its left side. “I’m afraid you’re going to give us trouble too, in that get-up. The girls will be all over you. Aye, what a handsome party we are. I think it is the stage we should have chosen instead of the ring.”
“The hat is worn so,” Sally said, reaching up to give it a dashing tilt.
Mérigot actually presented the most stylish appearance of the three. He had got for himself a well-cut black jacket and the accouterments of an upper-middle-class gentleman. His patriotism was limited to a modest cockade in his hat. It was a much more stylish trio that stood at the stream than had approached it some while before.
“Just before we go,” Henri said, “we should invent a fighting name for our bruiser.”
“How about Beau Ferrier?” Sally asked.
“How about Le Taureau?” Henri asked, smiling. “Ferrier is from Limoges, you know.”
Degan wondered that they both agreed to this so readily, and with such laughter. “Limoges is where fine china is made,” Sally explained. “Bull in a china shop, you see, Le Taureau de Limoges. Ah, you were never any good at a joke, Degan,” she chided him.
“It is not required in a boxer,” Mérigot told her.
They piled back into the carriage, with Degan sitting aft this time, covering his outfit with a blanket to protect it from dust. At Abbeville, Degan and Sally went to order dinner while Henri tried for a closed carriage.
“We are making wretched time,” Sally worried. “One o’clock, and we’ve only come twenty miles. At this rate we’ll never get to Paris.”
“The closed carriage and better horses will speed us up. Only a hundred miles to go, as the crow flies,” he consoled her.
“Don’t speak to me of crows. We have no wings. It is more like one hundred and thirty.”
Degan pulled a chair for Sally in the dining room, and went to take a seat across from her. She looked at him, startled. With a good audience sitting all around them, she posted and said in a loud voice and common accent, “Chéri, why do you sit away over there?”