Minuet (17 page)

“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.

Degan 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.”

“There is no match,” Degan said at once, then closed his mouth and let Henry do the talking, for even these few words caused Malraux to regard him with interest, which would turn to suspicion if he said much more.

“No match! The posters are all up, from Abbeville to Amiens. I came from Berck especially for this match,” Malraux objected.

“You shouldn’t have, my good man,” Henri said. “We made no agreement—nothing of the sort.”

“But it was your own idea. You are the ones who suggested it. Why should we not meet? It will turn a good profit.”

“We are in a great hurry to get to Paris,” Henri explained.

“It is a good place to stay away from at this time,
citoyen,”
Malraux told him. “The rumors running around about that place—riots in the street with the maximum on wages. There is talk of an insurrection. Someone publicly called Robespierre a tyrant the other day, and was
cheered
for it. I wouldn’t go to Paris for the world at this time.”

“We must go on business,” Henri prevaricated.

“Don’t tell me Le Taureau is a chicken,” Malraux said, in a louder, less friendly voice. His wench arose and began wandering closer to them.

“You’re lucky Le Taureau is good-natured, or he’d beat your head in for that,” Sally said.

Eying the fellow’s shoulders, Malraux thought he could do it, too, and wondered at anyone turning down a profit. “Look, we all need to make what money we can at this time. It is all set up—if you must get to Paris, we fight in the morning. How does that suit you, eh, Taureau?”

“It does not suit me,” Degan risked saying.

“If seems to me you aren’t much concerned about money, you people. Is it possible Le Taureau, who had better be called
John Bull,
is in France for some other purpose than fighting? The
gardes
would be interested to hear of a boxer who refuses a match, and speaks with an English accent!”

“Don’t expect a bull to fight a bantam cock!” Sally said, really for the wench’s benefit, for she was coasting very close by this time. But Henri began to see that not fighting would produce difficulties that could detain them longer than a morning. Possibly indefinitely, if the
gardes
proved not open to bribery. And why should he take a bribe, when he could pocket every penny if he arrested them?

“I think my man Taureau must demand satisfaction for that remark about John Bull,
citoyen.
He will meet you at ten, at the village square.”