Minuet (18 page)

Degan’s shoulders sagged, but Malraux had gained what he wanted, and was all affability. He reached out to shake Le Taureau’s hand. “A good clean fight, eh, Taureau? No low blows. Maybe we go on and fight again at Rouen. A good crowd turns out there. I had six hundred people last time I fought. We split the take fifty-fifty.”

“Winner takes seventy-five percent,” Henri objected.

“What about
egalité?”
Malraux asked.

“You are at
liberté
to refuse the match,” Henri countered.

“We make a deal—sixty-forty, and at Rouen I fight for twenty-five percent.” He seemed to take it for granted he would lose each time.

“Le Taureau always fights on terms of seventy-five percent for the winner,” Henri insisted, more to lend an air of authenticity to the proceedings than from greed. The whole purse would not be ten pounds.

“You drive a hard bargain,” Malraux said, but still in a good humor, foreseeing a whole string of matches across France. “I’ll buy a bottle of wine.” He turned and beckoned to his girl, who minced forward and perched on his knee, as there was no other chair at the table.

Degan arose to offer her a chair, and Sally grabbed his arm, holding him down, shaking her head slightly. The two females sat opposite each other, glaring with open hostility, while occasionally tossing a smile to the other’s protector. If that bold hussy meant to toss her cap at Degan, she needn’t think her Malraux was not ripe for the plucking. He could hardly keep his eyes off her, and she gave him enough encouragement to make sure he didn’t. The wine came, and they all drank.

“Music! Let us have music!” Malraux shouted.

He and Taureau were entertainers in the crowd’s view.

Watching them flirt and dance would be as enjoyable as
watching them fight, and as strenuous for the participants. The chairs were pushed back, fiddlers appeared, and the jiggling rhythm of the
Carmagnole
was struck up. Malraux and his girl, whose name was Madeline, were the first on their feet. “Come, we must join in,” Sally said, taking Degan’s arm and trying to drag him to the floor.

“I don’t know the dance. I can’t do it.”

“You must! It is practically a counter-revolutionary act not to dance the
Carmagnole,”
she insisted, her toe already tapping. “That bantam cock already half suspects you of being English. You must
try.”

“Let me watch it a bit first,” he parried.

“Henri, you dance with me,” she said, turning to him.

“Enchanté, Mam’selle Agnès,”
he replied with a bow, and offered her his arm.

Degan sat perplexed. How had Henry, who hadn’t been in France but once for seven years, learned this jig? Having seen the steps, at an émigré party perhaps, how did he or anyone else perform it? Their feet flew over the floor. Skirts were floating, giving a glimpse of trim ankles, hands were clapping, mouths smiling, and eyes flashing, as he sat over his wineglass. This bacchanal bore no slight resemblance to the stately minuets and cotillions that were called dancing at home. So lively, so gay. The contagion of the music, heightened by a few glasses of wine, went to his head. He wanted to be one of them on the floor, wanted to dance with Sally, but they had named him well Taureau. He would only make an ass of himself if he tried it. Bulls did not dance.

After a long interval, the musicians took a rest, and the whole party returned to the table. “You don’t dance, Taureau?” Malraux asked.

“He saves all his strength for the fight?” Madeline inquired, in a mocking way. She sat on a chair this time, making it necessary for one of the others to have to either stand or double up. Henri offered the chair to Sally, but she pointed for him to sit, then sat on the corner of his knee, with an arm around his neck to keep her balance.

Malraux’s eyes widened at this performance. What sort of a boxer was this, who did not dance, and allowed his woman to sit on another man’s knee? He looked with interest to Sally, to see whether the little redhead might not prefer a more gallant escort. But Le Taureau had at least enough sense to be jealous. He thought he might even get a preview of Taureau’s science, for he looked ready to land a punch in his manager’s mouth. Eventually it was Henri who said, “You have landed on the wrong knee, Agnès.”

She laughed lightly, saying, “One knee is much like another to me,” but she arose and changed to Degan’s knee. Then with a glance to Madeline to see what else was expected of her, she took up the wineglass and held it to Degan’s lips. Under the pretext of whispering some endearment in his ear, she said, “You might try to act as if you
like
me
.
I am supposed to be your
chère amie.
You see how Malraux is devouring his friend’s shoulder?”

Feeling like a clown, he tightened his grip around her waist, pulling her closer to him, and kissed her bare shoulder. She laid her head back against him and took his hand in her fingers. Degan, looking uncomfortably around the table, noticed that Henry was noticing every move, and was unhappy with every one. Before any further troubles arose, the strains of the fiddle sounded again, playing a simple country tune.

“May I borrow your
fille
for a dance, Taureau?” Malraux asked. “You are welcome to mine.” He pushed Madeline forward, while snatching Sally’s hand. She hopped up readily enough to go with him.

Degan was strongly inclined to object to this exchange, but with a warning glance, Henri intervened. “Taureau does not dance, but I would be enchanted if Madeline would stand up with me.”

Madeline, her face saved, accepted what she personally considered the best hand at the table and went off with Henri. Degan was deserted again, left alone to watch the others enjoy themselves. His only consolation was the wine, which he drank up quickly, without feeling a shred of cheer. He ordered another bottle.

Malraux was a good dancer. He was a stocky man, ought to have been awkward, but from his chosen profession he had acquired a nimble foot; and apparently a glib tongue as well. He was chattering to Sally, laughing, flirting outrageously, and she enjoying it from the way she managed her damned yellow eyes. What was she saying to him? The music seemed to last forever, but finally it ground to a halt.

He waited for their return, screwing up his courage to take to the floor if they didn’t play another impossible
Carmagnole.
Malraux stayed on the floor with Sally, hanging back, planning to have another dance with her. Henri and Madeline came back to the table; the others did not. For two minutes he sat, becoming increasingly angry, till at last when the music recommenced and Malraux put both his arms around Sally’s waist, Degan arose and stalked on to the floor. He said not a word—the man had already detected his accent. He took her hand and pulled her forcibly from the floor. She did not seem surprised at this. She shrugged her shoulders to Malraux with a little quizzing smile, and took a step toward the table.

Degan, bursting with annoyance, and wanting to be able to give vent to it with words, took her in the other direction, out of the room into the privacy of the hallway. “It’s about time you showed some reaction!” Sally said, turning toward him angrily.

“Time you remember who you are, and stop encouraging that damned cockroach!”

“Bantam cock,
chéri,”
she corrected. “And much more amusing than John Bull.”

“Rolling your eyes at him like a harlot, and letting him put his hands all over you.”

“Around my
waist!
Where did you expect him to put them, in my ears?”

“Don’t pretend you weren’t enjoying it.”

“I was enjoying myself very much,
citoyen.
The Revolution has not yet abolished enjoyment. Only in England is it not permissible to dance and laugh and flirt.”

“It’s not the place for you then.”

“No, it is not, and a cold, dull Englishman that won’t even stand up and dance is no man for me either. I wish we had made Henri my lover.”

“He’s another! You’re a fine pair of wastrels!”

Her hand came out, swift and hard, and smacked against his cheek. “We didn’t ask you to tag along. It was your own idea, and a very poor one, to come bungling after us, making our job nearly impossible with your wretched accent and clumsy interference, and ruining any enjoyment that comes our way.”

His blood boiling, he grabbed her hand, and looked as though he would like to strangle her. Suddenly two clients from the dining room stumbled in on them, or perhaps they went on purpose to see what was happening.

“Do something. They’ve seen us,” she whispered in a frantic undertone.

“What should I do?”

“Hit me!”

“I can’t...” He peered in the direction of the intruders, who stood unembarrassed, quite obviously waiting for some amusement.

“Do something!
You’re supposed to be a jealous lover. Kiss me then,” she ordered.

Degan swallowed and put his arms around her, hesitantly, loosely. She threw her arms around his neck, pulling his head down to hers. “Ah,
chéri,
I’m sorry!” she said in a loud, dramatic voice. Just before he kissed her, he saw the laughter in her eyes. Then he closed his eyes and saw nothing, but felt her warm lips pressing against his, her soft body in his arms. He forgot the audience, was aware only that he was doing what he had been wanting to do for a long time now. After a prolonged embrace, she released her stranglehold on his neck and tried to push him away. He held her even more tightly against his chest, enjoying her efforts to free herself, enjoying more a surge of power when she stopped struggling and returned his passion. He felt as guilty as sin, realizing in some secret corner of his mind that this heightened the excitement, the enjoyment.

When at last she was released the laughter was gone out of her eyes. She looked frightened.
“Mon Dieu,
I hope you fight as well as you kiss,” she said in a small voice.

They both remembered their audience simultaneously, and looked at them with impatience. “Go on. Leave us,” Sally commanded with one of her imperious glances. “Come,
chéri.
We go to bed.” She took his hand and they went toward the staircase, with the gawkers staring after them, smiling and pleased with their free show.

He put his arm around her waist, holding her close to his side, and with a look over her shoulder, she did the same, till they were around the bend of the stairs that put them beyond view of any onlookers, then she dropped her arm and pulled away from him. They went into the larger room, dimly lit with one taper.

“I’m dead tired. I’m going to bed now,” she said in a carefully nonchalant voice that was only a little breathless.

Smiling softly, Degan pulled her into his arms. “No one is watching us now,” she pointed out.

“Good. Now I can kiss you as I want to.”

“Degan! This is not at all...” She came to a halt as he covered her lips with his own, embracing her with a fury that was unknown to her, and to himself as well before this night. She became frightened, struggling and pushing him away.

“If Henri saw you doing this to me he’d cut out your liver!” she threatened.

There was a sound at the door. Sally moved a foot away from Degan as Henri came in the door, regarding them both suspiciously. “What happened?” he asked.

“Citoyen Ferrier showed more initiative than we thought,” she told him. “He decided he should enact the jealous lover for the sake of the mob. Must we go through with this stupid fight, Henri?”

“Yes—too dangerous not to. It won’t delay us by much.” He continued looking from one to the other questioningly, but found their faces inscrutable. “In future, Minou, it will not be necessary for you to flirt quite so strenuously with any scarecrow who happens along.”

“Bah, you men! Both flirting your heads off with that ugly Madeline, and I am allowed no fun. Degan has just been delivering me the same lecture, Henri. Repetition is very boring. I am going to bed.
Bonsoir.”
She turned and left with a toss of her shoulders, and without even glancing at Degan.

“I knew this is how it would be,” Henri said philosophically. “They’re all baggages at heart. Especially Minou. We might as well sleep too. Tomorrow will be a busy day.”

That night it was Sally who lay awake, on her narrow lumpy cot, wondering what had got into Degan. She didn’t think he was a good enough actor to simulate such jealousy and passion. And alone in the room, it was quite unnecessary. He must be in love with her. This strange, unsettled joy inside her—was this love then? Had she learned to love big, calm Degan, who was not dull at all when he kissed her? How unhappy he would be, to find himself in love with a Frenchwoman. And what would he say when he found out about Henri? Papa hated it, but after all, it was not
her
fault.

Chapter Fourteen

There was a certain constraint between the party of rescuers over breakfast. Had it not been for the approaching boxing match, it might easily have degenerated into an argument. Henry, with his sharp eyes and keen perception, recognized some new attitude between the other two. They were regarding each other too closely. Degan he had long known was infatuated with Sally. The Englishman did not actually like her but he desired her, and being English, was perhaps trying to convince himself there was some love there as well.

Abroad, it was not unknown for an Englishman to thaw, or even to flame. If it was an affair Degan had in mind, however, he would soon find himself disillusioned. He would be turned loose in France to suffer the inevitable fate. It was Sally who bothered him even more. She was not flirting with Degan as she customarily did. She was behaving with a certain missish propriety that was even more irritating than her other way.

Henri was too busy to give the matter much thought. They had to get out to the green and prepare for the match. He procured a towel, a bottle of cognac and a stool for the bruiser to rest on between rounds. As to an outfit, it amounted to no more than removing the shirt. They arrived at the green at nine-thirty, to find a small crowd already assembled, with Madeline taking charge of the price of admission, and undoubtedly pocketing every second fee.