by Joan Smith
“What, again?” he muttered, as the blood began to fall in drops from his chin.
She helped him into the room and set him on a chair, pouring water into the basin and ringing out a towel to pat gingerly at his eyebrow and chin. “What a mess! You’ll be scarred for life. What made you do such a foolish thing?”
She scolded like a harpy, but when Degan was able to see, he saw there were tears on her cheeks, and her lips trembled. He took the towel from her hands and pulled her onto his knee. “You know why I did it,” he said, kissing her wet cheek.
“You think I care what that animal calls me? It doesn’t bother me.”
“It bothers me, to hear you traduced. Henry should have told me what we were fighting for. I would have finished him sooner.”
“You’re lucky he didn’t kill you. Oh, I’m worried about that eye, Degan. It should be tended by a doctor.”
“About the prize we were fighting over, Minou...” he said, kissing her neck, her throat.
“There is no prize. Henri made it up.”
“You’re caught now, my girl,” he laughed weakly, and tried to hold her to kiss her, but his arms were trembling from fatigue, as though he had carried a hundred pounds of coal for ten miles.
She wrenched free and hopped up. “If Henri should come in and catch us—”
“To hell with Henry! I’m not likely to worry about him when I’ve just floored the Butcher!” he said, and pulled her roughly back onto his knee, for he was too weak to stand up. He thought he was too weak to take his reward as well, but felt a new swell of energy pulse through him when he kissed her. His arms found the strength to crush her against his chest, where he could feel her heart fluttering, and his own pound when she tightened her arms about his neck. His arms felt as strong as the Butcher’s around her, and as dangerous. Whoever thought her placid Degan would arouse such excitement? He had seemed so safe, but there was a new danger in him. She felt submissive, and it frightened her.
Pulling reluctantly away, she said, “Henri just made it up about the prize, to frighten you.” She peered closely at his battered face to see traces of this danger she had felt, but saw only Degan looking at her, with infinite tenderness.
“A good idea. It frightened me very much. We’ve got to get you out of here, Minou. Home to safety.”
“Why do you call me Minou now? You didn’t use to.”
“I’m pretending I’m French, as you dislike cold Englishmen. I want you to like me, as well as love me.”
“I didn’t say I loved you!”
“You said it,” he answered, smiling softly with a satisfied, possessive smile, at the tears drying on her cheeks. “I expect you’ve known for some time how I feel about you.”
“Ah no, we are too incompatible, mon chou, to speak of love.”
“You are mistaken, mon chou,” he contradicted bluntly, and kissed her again in a way that tended to make her overlook any incompatibility of spirit, or anything else but securing him forever.
“Maybe you’re not quite so proper as I feared,” she murmured happily.
“You’re just the ladybird to smarten me up, ‘tite Agnès.”
There was a discreet shuffling at the door, and Sally hopped off Degan’s knee to retrieve her towel and pat his face. It was Mérigot, smiling broadly. “Félicitations encore une fois, Taureau,” he said, walking in. “How bad is the damage?”
“I’ll live,” Degan replied.
“We’re proud of you, my friend. The Butcher is still out like a lamp. Hein, that eye looks bad. A deep gash.”
“He should have a doctor,” Sally said.
“It’s my stomach that hurts like the devil,” Degan said. “I hope he hasn’t ruptured something with those damned hamhocks of his.”
Sally looked at him in alarm, and noticed that where his face was not red or purple, it was pale. The eyes too looked strange. He stood up, weaving slightly, took one step toward her, and fell over into her arms.
Mérigot dashed forward to take up the weight. “We won’t get far today,” he said, dragging him to the bed. “I’ll go for a doctor. There must be a sawbones in the town.”
“What should I do for him?” Sally asked.
“If he revives before I am back, I expect you’ll go on doing what you were doing when I interrupted,” Henri said with an arch look. He glanced to the bed, where Degan’s eyes were closed. “So, it seems you have caught yourself an English melor, Minou. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“You told him that lie on purpose, didn’t you?” she asked in a low whisper.
“It seemed a good way to gauge his seriousness. I didn’t think he’d go through with it. He’s brave. Stupid, but brave.”
“He is not stupid!”
“Ah, it must be love!” Henri laughed, throwing up his arms. Then he kissed her on the cheek. “He’s not half good enough for you. You should have held out for a Frenchman, like Henri Mérigot.” Then he went off for the doctor.
Sally turned back to Degan, but as he was dead to the world, she could do no more than clean him up a little more and wait. Before long Henri returned with a man who made some claims to being a doctor. He had been called already to tend the Butcher belowstairs. He poked around at Degan, and when the patient had returned to consciousness, inquired for aches and pains.
“The liver!” the man proclaimed. “Certainly the liver is inflamed. I will leave my liver draught.” He also patched up the eye and chin, and soon left.
Sally poured a mud-brown liquid into a glass and held it to Degan’s lips. He sipped it with a grimace. Henri, taking the brew and smelling it, walked to the window and poured it out. “These small-town quacks know only three parts of the body—the palate, the liver, and the...and one other. It is not your liver, Taureau, but a stout punch in the stomach that bothers you. A good rest, eat lightly, and we will be able to proceed soon. Trust Dr. Mérigot.”
“Not today, Henri,” Sally said. “We can spare one day. It is only the twenty-seventh. Mama and Édouard are safe till the end of July. And in any case, the carriage is not ready.”
“True, that damned wheeler promised it for noon, but it was not ready. Yes, you are right. We sequester till morning, but tomorrow morning very early we must leave.”
“We might hear some new word from Paris too. Hear whether the Convention has succeeded in routing Robespierre,” Sally mentioned.
“A rocket will be required to oust that one,” Henri replied.
Degan lay listening to them. He had been shocked to see the medicine casually poured out the window. He was the sort who would have drunk whatever was prescribed, though in truth he had never found any doctor’s magical cures very effective. These French were really up to anything. He smiled in tolerant amusement, without feeling an iota of rancor. “I’m well enough to travel. We’ll leave as soon as the carriage is ready,” he said gamely, trying to sit up.
“Non, mon ami, you will stay in your bed till morning,” Henri told him, pushing him back against the pillows with one finger. “Minou, we have not yet had lunch. Let us have what you brought for our picnic.”
“Degan can’t eat cheese. Get him some soup from below.”
“A good idea,” Mérigot said, and went obediently below to order soup.
Degan noticed that there was some new acceptance of himself by Mérigot as a result of the fight. He wasn’t sure whether it was his being incapacitated that accounted for it, or something else. Whatever the cause, he settled back to enjoy being nursed by Minou, who took her duties seriously, and didn’t exclude the therapeutic powers of a gentle touch or kiss from her care either.
Chapter Sixteen
The group ate together, Degan his soup, the others the bread and cheese. “You are the hero of the town. You’ll have an alleyway named after you,” Henri told him. “It is the style to rechristen every place in France these days, to get rid of all the saints. A pity you can’t drink to yourself, but Minou and I shall drink a bumper to Le Taureau de Limoges. You
will drink to that, Minou?”
‘To Degan and to success,” she modified the toast, and drank. “Then it is necessary for him to have a rest. You go out and see what you can discover in the town, Henri. I shall stay with my patient.”
The patient was not at all desirous to waste this private moment in sleep, but found to his dismay that his lids were heavy. Sally set up her chair at a discreet distance that allowed a good view without inciting him to passion, and sat quietly observing. When his eyes had closed and deep breaths indicated he was dozing, she arose and examined him more closely. It was impossible to see much of the old Lord Degan in this man with a rakish bandage over one eye and another on the chin. Sleep lent a vulnerable, almost boyish quality to his face that had used to appear so stern and stodgy to her. He was not a bit cautious or prudent either, to have come on this escapade—he was surely mad to have challenged the Butcher.
All he had required was a little excitement, a little shaking up, to make him interesting, and she felt he had been shaken enough these last days never to settle back into quite the model of propriety he had been. Now if only they could all get home alive, all would be well. This new Degan would have no objection to Henri. He was no longer like Papa. Home—how strange to think of England as home. Yet she had spent her early childhood there, and in Paris used to think of England as home. It was only after going to London that France had begun to seem like home.
Henri stayed away a longish time. She wondered whether he hung around in hopes of hearing some news, or whether something had arisen to cause a change of plans. An hour stretched into ninety minutes and still he did not come back. Had he been caught? How on earth would she and Degan ever manage without him? Wearied with waiting and worrying, she was tempted to awaken Degan, to have someone to talk to, but he looked so very peaceful she couldn’t bring herself to disturb him. She must curb that selfish streak. She knew she was a little spoiled, the baby with always a host of older relatives around to pamper her.
A pretty, precocious child, she had become not only spoiled but bold. Mama had warned her that what brought smiles in a child was unattractive in a young lady, but with no real formal introduction to society, the lesson had never been driven home. She regretted it. She would make a perfectly wretched wife for Degan.
She was still considering this when Henri came back. His entry roused Degan, who sat up rubbing his eyes and asking the time.
It was four o’clock and there was no real news. Talk of the sans-culottes putting on a demonstration at the Hotel de Ville in Paris to protest the maximum on wages, and trouble brewing, but at the moment, nothing. He had stood about in the boiling sun for two hours, and finally decided to wait and go back in the evening. He went to get the carriage and return it to the inn, ready for an early departure. When he returned, he had bought some cards to pass the evening in this fashion. Dinner was brought up to them. Nothing too good for the new champion, who unfortunately could eat very little of the biftek.
They played cards, drank wine and talked. Of course they must go on to Paris; there was no avoiding it. But it would be risky. With Le Taureau now a minor hero, they decided to maintain their guise of a boxing party, and trust to luck and God. No mention was made of the fact, but there was a new harmony between the three. The jealous wrangling over Minou had been settled without a word.
“Might as well turn in early. There is nothing to do here but sleep,” Mérigot said at about ten o’clock. He made a last trip downstairs before going to bed, and heard the sans-culotte demonstration had taken place. A traveler had seen it, but had not waited around to discover the outcome. He was too anxious to get out of Paris.
At seven they were up, feeling a mounting nervous excitement that robbed them of their appetites. Degan was well enough to travel, and they would be in Paris by nightfall. They went to the dining room, looking about for anyone who might have news from the capital. There was a stranger there, stirring his coffee, with a troubled frown on his face.
Henri immediately accosted him and asked the ever-repeated-question. “Any news from Paris?”
“You have heard Robespierre is arrested?” the man replied.
“No—I hadn’t heard! When?”
“There was a demonstration of the sans-culottes yesterday. The Incorruptible was placed under arrest and taken prisoner to the Luxembourg, but the officer in charge there, probably afraid for his life, refused to lock him up. There was a noisy crowd for Robespierre shouting in the streets, and before anyone knew what had happened, the Incorruptible was in charge of a force to suppress the insurrection against the Convention. The Commune was behind Robespierre, and the Commune controls the gardes. It seemed the Incorruptible would triumph again, but the Convention held fast. Declared him an outlaw. He got shot in the jaw during some fracas, and is put under arrest. St.-Just and Hanriot as well, the commander of the gardes. The ninth Thermidor will go down in history. Aye, the guillotine will be busy tomorrow.”
This all sounded very confusing to Degan, who wondered that Robespierre should be trying to defend the Convention when it was declaring him an outlaw, but he supposed that if he defended it, it would be more likely to defend him.
“How is Paris? Is it in a state of chaos?” Henri asked.
“Paris is waiting,” the man answered ominously. “There are few people about.”
“But if the Commune and the gardes were behind Robespierre, how did he lose?” Henri asked.
“Eh bien, the Commune members were not too enthusiastic to get themselves shot for the man who applied the maximum to their wages. The military schools and some of the gardes stayed with the Convention.”
“But the city itself is quiet—there is no violence in the streets?” Henri asked again.
The man shrugged. “There were section meetings all over town, but orderly. The loudest noise in the city was the drummers and tocsins announcing the meetings. There were the usual executions yesterday, but the crowds were not great. The victims were all protesting and making speeches, like the early days of the Revolution, but still their heads fell in the end. When I left, the place was like a tomb. No one goes out unless he has a good reason. The citoyens, they have left or hide behind their doors, to let the leaders fight it out among themselves. They are fed up with it all.”
“Are the barriers open?” Sally asked.
“Oh yes, they are happy enough to let the mobs escape, and naturally no one is trying to get in at such a time.”
“Of course not,” Henri replied automatically, his heart sinking ever lower. He then bade the man farewell and turned to his companions.
“It was Robespierre’s supporters who had the deal with Belhomme at the asylum,” Sally said. “This may change everything. We must leave at once.”
“The Maison Belhomme is a very small fish, Minou,” Henri cheered her. “One asylum will not be the first matter on their agenda, when they have the execution of Robespierre to see to. We have a few days. All these arrangements will be stopped eventually, but it won’t happen in a day.”
“They may shut the barriers,” was her next worry. “Robespierre has some popularity in the countryside—Lyons, for example. They might shut the gates to keep his supporters out.”
“The man says they’re open. Let’s grab a cup of coffee and leave, before the Butcher comes down demanding a rematch.”
None of them needed any urging to leave the place. In fifteen minutes they were headed south on their last lap of the trip to Paris. Henri drove the team, while Degan rested and recuperated inside. Sally sat with him, asking often, “How do you feel? Are you comfortable?”
“I would be more comfortable if you would sit beside me and hold my arm, as you used to do in London,” he replied.
“I only did it to shock you—épater les bourgeois, as we say in France.”
“I don’t know what an épater may be, but I do not consider myself quite a bourgeois,” he answered.
“You have the genteel notions of the French bourgeoisie,” sh
e informed him. “All concern for what Monsieur Un Tel will think, and whether this or that one will approve of your jacket or chapeau. It is all nonsense, you know.”
“I do know it, now. People need something to worry about, however, and if there is no reason, we invent pretexts.” How ridiculous, incredible really, it seemed to him that he had scolded Minou for wearing a rather dashing bonnet a short few weeks ago. He had seen her in trousers since, and she had been the most welcome sight of his life, when she walked brazenly into the office of the gardes to save him.
“Good, you come to your senses. It remains now only to teach you to laugh and dance and sing, and enjoy this too about life we are given, and you will do very well. Time is too precious to waste in worrying about little nothings.”
“It’s too precious to waste a moment. Stop wasting time, and come over here and sit by me. I am feeling weak.”
“You do not look weak, citoyen. You look très féroce. Are you sure I will be safe there beside you?” she asked with a bantering smile.
“I won’t guarantee your safety if you don’t, Minou.”
“Ah, the tyranny of the invalid. Still, if I can’t control an invalide, I turn in my bonnet rouge,” she said saucily, and went to sit beside him, placing her hand on his arm.
“I feel better already,” he told her, placing his hand over hers.
She looked out the window, smiling to herself. It was no longer the saucy feline smile of the urchin, but the quiet, satisfied smile of a woman who has got what she wants.
For several miles they jauntered on thus, talking of many things, but never of the ordeal ahead of them. It was the calm before the storm. After a very short stop for lunch at twelve-thirty, they had gone thirty miles, and were only ten miles from their destination.
The countryside was quiet, ominously so. There were no hordes fleeing the city. Had the barricades been closed? Or had some interesting event there caused the people to stay? The innkeeper could tell them nothing. He had not heard the barricades were closed, but then no one, not one single soul from the city, had stopped all day. It was very strange, non? He shook his grizzled head and sighed, and the travelers did the same.