by Joan Smith
Reminded of his new role, Degan returned to her side. “Pull the chair closer,” she whispered. When he sat, she took his arm, taking care that it was done above the cloth, for the room to see the relationship between them. He sat stiff and embarrassed at the public exhibition.
“Try to look less like a disapproving parson,” she said in low, loving accents, smiling up into his face. “I warned you in that other place that we do not mention you needed a ladybird. Why did you not find yourself one, so that you would know how to behave?”
A private, reserved person, he felt a perfect fool, and began to foresee a whole new series of problems opening before him. He should be making love to her; men would be making up to Sally in this cheaply seductive guise she wore, and he would be expected to take offense and put them in their places. “I am not a total stranger to dealing with ladies,” he said.
“That I know, mon chou, but please to remember that I am not a lady now. Pretend I have been caught, by you. Remove the stick from your neck, if you can, and lean your head toward me. I won’t bite. I am straining my neck till it aches. The more I approach you, the more you pull back.”
He leaned his head forward an inch, till their heads were nearly touching. “That is a little better. Now if you could manage to wipe that frightened look from your eyes no one would know you perform under duress. Ah, here comes the waiter. Remember we are vastly important persons. Better let me do the talking.”
“Citoyens?” the waiter asked with a bow.
“Chéri, what do you wish to eat?” Sally asked Degan, but was careful to rush on with the answer before he was required to speak. “You have a boxing match this afternoon—you require I think a biftek”
“Ah, the citoyen is a boxer!” the waiter exclaimed with a congratulatory smile.
“Mais oui, Le Taureau de Limoges challenges Citoyen Malraux,” she replied, using the name of the boxer encountered at Berck, the only one she knew.
“He is a wicked fellow, that Malraux,” the waiter said.
“C’est un capon,” Sally told him dismissingly. Trois bifteks. Our manager will join us soon. A bottle of good red wine, not that vinaigre you serve to the rabble, and bread without maggots, if you please.”
“Citoyenne, for a month now we have no beef,” he answered sorrowfully. “A very nice chicken I can give you, dressed with mushrooms and onions.”
“A chicken for three? Le Taureau can eat half a dozen chickens by himself!”
“If you are not in a hurry, I bring you wine, good wine, and kill another—”
“No! We are in a hurry. Bring the chicken already cooked then, with plenty of wine and bread. And some fruit. There must be fruits this time of the year.”
“That will cost very dear,” he replied, sizing up the pair.
“Chéri, give the citoyen a little something,” she hinted to Degan, who reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin of gold.
The waiter pocketed it eagerly and dashed off to the cellar to get a bottle of the best wine, purloined from the cellar of the comte de Calvados in ‘89. When Mérigot joined them later, he found Degan unbent enough to have placed an arm around Sally’s shoulder, toasting her with an excellent Burgundy.
“You don’t have to take advantage of the situation,” Henri said angrily, with a disapproving stare at the offending arm.
“Sit down and don’t be foolish,” Sally said. “Did you get the carriage?”
“Yes, with a demmed crest on the side.”
“Sacrebleu! We can’t be seen in such a thing. It would drive us straight to the guillotine. What were you thinking of, Henri?”
“I am having the man paint over it, and install in letters six inches high ‘Le Taureau de Limoges.’ It will be ready by two-thirty. I got an excellent pair of bays—paid in gold by the ounce for them. We should make good time from now on, however.”
“If we can rent equally good teams as we go on,” Degan pointed out.
“Anything can be obtained for money. Your money.”
“We have obtained a real chicken,” Sally told him.
“Real wine too, I see,” he said, tasting the beverage. “This is better than being sans-culottes, eh?” Like any real Frenchman, he was ready to forget his worries over a glass of excellent wine.
Despite the improved viands placed before him, Degan had a perfectly wretched meal. Sally lolled against his side, occasionally even popping a morsel of food into his mouth, and at any attempt on his part to play his role, Henry glared at him. He didn’t know what to do with himself. They had as well the interest of the clients of the place, some few of whom ventured to their table to inquire when and where they might have the pleasure of seeing Le Taureau perform. “This afternoon I believe he has a match?” one asked.
Sally realized her error in having mentioned such a close date to the proprietor, but quickly changed it. “No, tomorrow morning at Amiens he challenges Citoyen Malraux,” she said, with a speaking glance to Henri, who had not been informed of this imaginary match.
“I won’t miss that match,” a man said, to their horror. It was soon being talked up as a coming attraction of great interest. She had thought Amiens a safe enough distance to mention, but it seemed there was an idle wagon that could take a dozen men.
“Where exactly is it to be fought?” the wagon owner asked.
“Just on the north edge of town. Malraux arranges it,” Henri replied.
“You ought to put up a poster. Many from Abbeville will want to go. God knows there is no work for us. We might as well have some sport.”
“Put your money on Taureau, and you will have profit too,” Sally advised, with an adoring smile at the hero of the story.
“He outweighs Malraux,” someone said.
“Malraux wouldn’t be up past your shoulder, Taureau. It seems an unfair fight,” one brave member volunteered.
It was true Malraux was a short man, smaller than Degan. Sally hadn’t realized he was known locally. “Who you want to pitch your man against is the Butcher of Lozère,” the same man suggested to Henri.
There were murmured words of delight at what a bloody spectacle this would be.”The Butcher is undefeated in these parts. Six feet and a half tall, and built like an ox. He is said to have killed a fellow in Lyons last year,” one bloodthirsty man told them.
“We are en route to Paris,” Henri said, fearing they were in danger of becoming a real party of bruisers.
“That’s good. The Butcher goes in that direction as well. You will set up a match to rival Sainte Guillotine.”
“It’s time to leave,” Degan said, before the meal was quite consumed. It was a pity to leave any food behind, but in their eagerness to get away, they all arose and went to the stableyard to load into the carriage, painted but not dry. It was an elegant equipage, whose former owners had obviously been persons of quality. There was no question of postilions, grooms or footmen in this republic. Henry and Degan must take turns driving the pair. Henry took first turn. As they drove through the town, they spotted, to their dismay, no less than three posters hastily scribbled up by hand, proclaiming the coming match between Malraux and Le Taureau.
They noticed as well the general squalor of the place. Henri, who had been there in better days, remembered Abbeville as a quiet, pretty place. It was in a state of decrepitude now, the wealthier inhabitants flown for their lives. The fine chateau on the hill had been gutted, with empty holes gaping where once leaded windows had glistened. It reminded him of a pretty face with gaps for missing teeth. The roof was caved in, and wilderness encroached to the very doorways. The Revolutionary slogan, Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité, was scrawled in fading white letters a foot high across the facade of the building.
This cliché seemed a satire on the political movement that had given it birth. The masses had achieved the liberty of a new set of tyrants more repressive than the Bourbons, the equality of all starving together, and the fraternity of mistrusting their closest friends and neighbors. Even families had
been known to turn traitor against their own.
But still the sun shone warm on the green fields, and at this distance from Paris there was a superficial appearance of peace and tranquility. They made good time in a well-sprung carriage and with a decent team expected to make Paris in two days. The potted roads were the worst obstacle. They were not behind in their schedule. Marie and Édouard had enough money to last a week yet. They had themselves plenty of money now, thanks to Degan’s gold, and a feeling of optimism prevailed that some scheme could be worked out to rescue the relatives.
Halfway between Abbeville and Amiens, Degan took over the reins. They were a little disappointed at their speed. It could have been greater, but caution was necessary to prevent losing a wheel in the huge holes that had been worn by rain and traffic.
It was after six when they approached Amiens. How was it possible someone had got there before them from Abbeville? A man mounted on horseback must be responsible for the poster that greeted their eyes, proclaiming the match the next day with Malraux.
“There will be many disappointed fans here tomorrow. Degan laughed.
“You win by default, Taureau,” Henri told him. “Citoyen Malraux will fail to show for his appointment, and it is assumed he is afraid of you. Pity we lose out on the purse.”
“Well, he might be afraid of me! I wouldn’t care to stand up against an opponent twice my size. What is that big church there?” Degan asked, pointing to a Gothic cathedral that loomed above the city.
“The cathedral of Notre Dame,” Henri told him. “The oldest of the Gothic churches—see how the two towers are different. Probably built centuries apart. Beautiful. The lack of symmetry adds something. I like it better than Notre Dame in Paris. We shall have a look.”
“We are not sightseeing,” Sally reminded him.
“The horses must rest. They are a good team. We would be wise to stop here overnight.”
“No, we hire a new team and go on to cover another fifteen miles at least,” she insisted.
“One hundred and forty-five kilometers, the sign says. What’s that, roughly eighty-five miles?” Degan asked.
“Two good days’ travel—we arrive at nightfall of the second day,” Henri said. “We don’t want to get there in broad daylight. The barricade guards are more vigilant by day.”
“What barricades?” Degan asked.
“The town is surrounded. There are barricades all around it,” Henri told him. “You have to show your card to get in or out. Not to worry. It begins to seem Paris will be awaiting our arrival. We shall be greeted by posters proclaiming a match between yourself and Le Boucher de Lozère. I put my money on you, Taureau. We shall stop overnight here, get rooms and take a stroll before dinner. It is Citoyen Degan’s first visit to France, Minou. Show him some French hospitality.”
Chapter Thirteen
While Henri went to procure rooms, Minou latched herself onto Degan’s arm in the familiar manner her role demanded and went with him to view Notre Dame d’Amiens. The rose windows of the transept were much admired. They stepped into the silent cathedral, where a few old black-gowned dames with bent heads, oblivious to all the turmoil of their country, knelt in silent adoration of the God whom they refused to believe had ceased to be because a Citoyen Robespierre said so.
The hush and the twilight glow filtering through the stained-glass windows lent an aura of sanctity to the place. Minou’s face glowed blue and green and red from the stained windows. She wore the clothing of a harlot, only partially concealed by the shawl pulled over her naked shoulders and her hair, but as he glanced at the face, Degan realized that she was so very young still. Her face might have been that of a devout child.
“You can feel the holiness, non?” she asked in a low tone. “I bet in the dark, Robespierre still believes. I am going to say a prayer for Mama—and Édouard. Light a candle to the Virgin. She doesn’t scare me so much as God. She looks understanding. She is a mother; she will hear me.”
She adjusted the shawl over her shining curls and walked slowly to the front of the church. Degan watched from the rear as she lit her votive offering, deposited her coin, which rattled noisily into the near-empty metal container, and knelt at the altar railing to voice her silent plea to the Supreme Being’s mother, who like the Son reigned on in French hearts, despite the callous treatment given her.
Sally bent her head and prayed as she had never prayed in her short life for anything. Those soaring Gothic arches had been designed to inspire awe and to express it. They reached so high above her head they seemed already halfway to heaven. Soon she arose and genuflected before returning to the back of the church.
Degan waited for her with his hat in his hand. “You believe in this?” she asked.
“It is impossible not to believe in such surroundings.”
“I think Robespierre reopened the churches because things were so bad he wanted the people to concentrate on the afterlife. If this chaos is all there is, what is the point of living?” she asked. “Religion, like everything, has become a tool of the Revolution. Still, there is something in it. La Vierge, she listened. Let us go.”
They left, returning into the sunlight to stroll through the busy town, just settling in for the night. There was some manufacturing going on despite the turmoil of the country. There were heads turning to admire the colorful pair, and occasionally a bold comment from a wayward male. “You should act jealous,” Sally reminded him. But it was perforce a mute jealousy, limited to glares.
“Let us go to the inn to meet Henri. I’m starved,” she said.
He was in the lobby waiting for them, and there was a strange look on his face, a smile which attempted to pass for chagrin. “Ah, Taureau,” he said in a loud voice, walking up to clamp Degan’s arm. Several heads turned to glance with curiosity at them. He lowered his voice and continued, “You’ll never guess who is here waiting for us—Citoyen Malraux! The damnedest thing, he saw the posters at Abbeville and came hustling to Amiens for the match. How are we to get out of it? The whole town is talking of nothing else.”
“We haven’t time to waste on that,” Sally said at once. “We must be out of here at seven in the morning, and be on our way to Paris.”
“Explain it to Malraux,” Degan added. “He can’t be anxious to meet me, that little fellow.”
“Oh, he’s short, but strong as an ox. Did you see the neck and shoulders on him? It might be an interesting match,” Henri said.
“There will be no match!” Sally insisted. “There is no contract. Tell him to go fight a dog, the cochon.”
They went to their rooms, where Degan was pleased to see Henry had taken two chambers, one as grand as could be, with faded red velvet window hangings and a dirty carpet on the floor, the other no more than a little valet’s room adjoining. “Lucky Minou gets the cupboard all to herself,” Henri pointed out with a little laugh in her direction.
“She can have the larger room,” Degan countered.
“Don’t put extravagant ideas in her head,” he cautioned. “You don’t know this one as I do. She’ll be hiring a maid and wanting a silken gown. Give the girl an inch and she’ll take a mile.”
“I wouldn’t mind sleeping on the floor,” Degan said.
“Oui, and which of us hangs himself on the wall of the closet, citoyen? Two cannot stretch out full length in that cubbyhole. This is no time for chivalry. We all need a good night’s sleep, and if this hussy can sleep in a hayrick, she can sleep in a closet. Let us go below and eat. I smelled roast beef.”
Degan smiled apologetically to the young lady, but she was already sitting on the cot of her closet, bouncing up and down and praising its softness. “Let’s eat!” she seconded Henri, and they all went below.
They were shown to one of the private tables in the public room. Half a room away from them sat Citoyen Malraux and his wench. Attention was about evenly divided between the two bruisers, though their joint appearance certainly increased the crowd’s interest.
Dega
n and his group pretended not to notice Malraux, who was eying them eagerly. They ordered their meal and ate it, with Sally taking up her place close beside the fictitious boxer, doing a little theatrical flirting with him. It was Malraux’s wench that was bent on mischief. She ogled Degan and Mérigot, sneered at Sally, and finally when no one gave her attention, she began throwing jibes to the audience. “The Bull and his cow think they are nobility,” she said, and laughed merrily at her joke. “Too high to speak to us.”
“I’ll scratch that cat’s eyes out,” Sally said, flaring up in anger.
“We know bulls are quiet and sullen, but I thought the cow would moo for us,” the wench went on. Malraux was trying to silence her, but something goaded the girl on—the wine, perhaps, or the appreciative laughter of the mob. Or maybe it was the red-haired competition whom Malraux was plainly admiring.
“Don’t pay any attention to her,” Degan suggested.
“Hey, Taureau,” the girl shouted across the room next, “why don’t you turn that old cow in on a heifer? I know a nice one would suit you.”
Sally arose to her feet, fuming, to be pulled back down by Henry. “Degan is the boxer, chérie. Let him be the one to use his fists.”
“If she calls me a cow once more, I’ll pull every hair off her head,” she declared. The crowd was becoming impatient with the disdainful attitude of Le Taureau’s group. When Malraux shoved back his chair and walked up to their table, they were sure there was about to be a free fight enacted for them, but he only bowed politely, said “Bonsoir,” and requested permission to join them. Henry nodded graciously, and the man sat down.
“Pay no heed to that little slut,” he said to Sally, as a preamble to establishing cordial relations. “I mean to be rid of her before long.”
“An excellent idea,” she replied readily. “If you travel with a bitch, you are likely to be taken for a cur.”
“She is no better than a tramp, but she is cheap and never complains of anything. The reason I came to speak to you, Taureau, is to settle the time of our match tomorrow.”