The black swan (42 page)

Fran9ois's hand darted into his boot and produced a half-empty wine bottle.

M. Bas grew apoplectic. "You fumbling ninny, son of a pox-ridden hag and a three-legged mule! Your pistol!" Then he ducked with astonished nimbleness as Frangois hauled out an ancient pistol, pointing it into M. Bas's face. He screamed, "Put it away before you kill us all!"

"I do not keep it loaded, Monsieur," Francois retorted mildly, and dropped the weapon back into the cavernous boot.

Mad recovered first. "Oliver, I don't believe we'll need a postilion after all."

Oliver's eyes gleamed. "Surely, dear Mad, you haven't been frightened? It was your idea that we should suffer the discomforts of carriage travel."

"We are not goin' to take this shriveled caricature of a horseman who reeks of the scrapin's from the stable floor!"

Oliver laughed comfortably. "Very well, my dear. "I'll just settle up with M. Bas, and we'll be off."

The first few miles were quiet, Oliver snoring lightly. Mad exhausted from her efforts of the night before. Dulcie and Claudine were gazing out the windows, afraid to catch each other's eyes and start giggling. The carriage rolled over the hard-packed post road. Mad's eyelids fell.

Dulcie saw him first. Hearing acrimonious discussion, she stuck her head out the window. Then, smothering laughter, she pantomimed to Claudine the pulling on of enormous boots and pinched her nostrils. They started laughing.

"Fermez les touches," said Oliver in his lowest rumble.

"What is that disgustin' stench!" Mad exclaimed. She poked Oliver with her forefinger. "OUie, that pipsqueak postilion has followed us!"

"On the contrary, my dear, he is leading us.**

Mad digested this briefly. "Ollie dear, stop the carriage and tell that revoltin' little wretch we won't need his services any longer.'*

"It's the law.'*

"Ha! The law according to Monsieur Bas!*'

Oliver snored.

They stopped for midday meal in a shady spot along the road. From her baskets. Mad extracted bread, baked by Mme. Honflour only yesterday, pungent Camembert cheese, and wine. The festive air was only slightly spoiled by the odor of the driver, who had not bothered to climb from his seat but with a mild, "Pardon, Mesdames, Monsieur," had relieved himself copiously over the far side of the carriage; and of the postilion, who showed his respect by sitting some distance from them, unfortunately upwind.

"I am told," said Frangois, cleaning his black teeth with the point of his knife, "that there has been a voleur very near to where we are sitting. Should the rumor prove itself, you shall be happy of my services."

"What's that? A what?" Mad looked around hastily, as if for a mouse.

"Nothing, dear, he's only speaking of bandits. Don't

concern yourself," Oliver said soothingly. Then he began to talk in French with the postilion.

"What's he sayin'? What are they talkin' about, Dulcie?"

"A bandit, Aunt Mad, but it turns out he's miles from here, in the district between Morienval and Pierrefonds."

"Oh, bosh, he's only tryin' to frighten . . . Pierrefonds?'* she asked weakly.

"Aunt Mad, that's where the countess has her chateau, isn't it?"

"Ummm, yes, dear, but I'm sure—well, of course nothing exciting will happen." Then Mad brightened. In her best party voice she added, "Except possibly that we shall all die of inhaling bad air." She rose, dusted her skirts, and directed Claudine to put away the leftover food.

So they went on. They left the post road to follow cart tracks alongside vast cornfields and rich pasturelands, then through a wood that stretched endlessly. Ahead of them the little postilion, fairly sober and mindful of duty, trotted on his cadaverous pony. The bedraggled plume on his hat dipped jauntily. Oliver, who had been sitting up alertly, yawned and rested his head.

"We should be comin' to an old chateau soon," said Mad, consulting directions. Now that they were on the spot the route did not seem as clear as it had in Paris.

"That might be it," said Dulcie, nodding to Mad's left.

"Of course! Now, at the fork we go east. Dulcie, motion the driver to turn right."

At the fork there was a third road, and a hot debate between driver and postilion. Finally Frangois came back and stuck his head in the window. "Monsieur, I believe it is the center road you want to Morienval."

Oliver did not open his eyes. "If you do not take the extreme right-hand fork, I shall rise up from my seat and kick you in your skinny ass."

Francois's head disappeared. He said to the driver, "It is just as I have said, you are to follow the road to that side. Monsieur agrees."

"Nom de chien!" exclaimed Guilbert, and turned his horses east.

Chapter Nine

The road was long and tortuous, charming at a glance but monotonous with the hours. They spent the night at a large farmhouse. The driver and the postilion by preference slept in the stable. Oliver and Mad occupied their host's bed, sleeping on snowy sun-dried sheets. The farmer and his wife in the kitchen, and Dulcie and Claudine in the parlor, slept on pallets.

Dulcie turned over. The shucks rustled under her. **I shouldn't say it, Claudine, but now that we have to go home, I don't think I mind very much."

"Ah been prayin* right along we git to go home soon. Ah been missm' 'Polio's lovin'."

Into Dulcie's mind flashed a vignette of Claudine, bursting into sobs in the Louvre when she discovered she was in the Gallery of Apollo. They had shared many unexpected confidences during this trip. Sometimes Claudine would slip out for a while to meet the carriage driver or another of the passengers on their coach for what was apparently a fulfilling physical interlude.

Thinking of this, Dulcie said, "What about your Spaniard, Hernando? I keep seein' him pop up at the oddest places."

"He got the notions an* the wherewithal, but he she' ain't 'Polio. I been hopin' yo' daddy gwine let us jump ovah de broom."

"You know he doesn't like his darkies to marry."

"Oh, Miss Dulcie, Ah hope he change his min'. Ah love dat 'Polio a pow'ful lot. Ain't dere somebody you's wantin'? Somebody you jes' keep a-thinkin' 'bout no matter what else is goin' on?"

"Well, Glenn, I guess." Her voice quivered. "I don't love him, like you love 'Polio, but I miss him." Tears leaked out of her eyes and ran into the edges of her hair. But not for Glenn. She cried because there was no one anywhere she cared for enough to want to marry.

She didn't want to cry. She wanted to grow up and be all the things Patricia expected. When she returned to Jem,

it would be as an accomplished woman, able to make correct decisions, able to hold herself with poise and dignity. No longer a foolish girl playing flirtations games in the summer house with Leroy Biggs, but Dulcie Moran, woman of the world.

"Oh, Claudine, will I ever find someone?" "You gwine meet yo'seff a fine man. You see. It gwine happen."

She couldn't bear to talk about it anymore. She was too weepy tonight. "Oh, there's always tomorrow, then another tomorrow."

The next afternoon they had passed through Morienval and were within sight of the countess's chateau. Mad sat up excitedly as they entered the woods that hid the chateau from view. "We're nearly there, Dulcie! Oh, I do hope she is receivin' today! But, then, she'd nearly have to be, wouldn't she, since we have the letter from her sister?" From her reticule she brought forth the stiff, crested stationery with the spidery European handwriting on it. She stared at it hard, as if the French words would magically turn into English so she could read them.

The carriage stopped. Mad gave a little yip of surprise when a long-barreled pistol, followed by a sad pale face, stuck itself in at the window. "Madame, your bijouterie," said the hesitant voice.

"Who are you!? What do you want?" Mad asked frantically. "What did he say, Dulcie?" she whispered, as if he might not notice.

"He wants your jewelry, Aunt Mad.'*

"My jewelry!" Mad's hand went to her throat. "Certainly noti"

The man repeated his request, more firmly this time.

Mad punched Oliver with her forefinger. "Ollie, OIlie dear, it seems we have a bandit at the window and he says he wants my jewelry."

"Has he got a gun?" Oliver rumbled.

"Yes, dear, he has, but—"

"You'd better give him your jewelry, then." He appeared to doze again.

"Oliver! Oh, where is that nasty little postilion? Frati' goisr

Francois, lying unconscious under the feet of his grazing pony, did not reply.

"Donnez-moi votre bijouterie, Madame, toute de suitel"

"What's he sayin', Dulcie? Ooh! What is that stupid driver doin'? Guilbert! Guilbert!" Mad rapped in frenzied movements on the roof of the carriage. The driver, likewise unconscious, did not move.

The bandit's face was taking on a kind of bewilderment "Sacre bleu!" He gripped his pistol more decisively. "Madame, your monnaie."

This much Mad understood. Again, his demand banished her fright. "Oh, do go away! We're goin' to see the countess today."

The pistol wavered and came to a stop an inch away from Dulcie's cheek. "Aunt Mad!" Dulcie squealed. "Give him your purse. Oh, please!"

Mad dipped into her purse and came with two coins of little value. One by one she gave them to the bandit. He gestured for her to give him her rings, one set with rubies, two others with garnets and diamonds. Reluctantly, with an obedience born of Dulcie's peril, she stripped off the rings. "I certainly hope you are satisfied now!" she spat. He became possessor of Mad's treasured cameo lavaliere, Dulcie's amethyst ring, and all her money. Growing bold, he reached into Mad's lap and snatched the countess's letter.

"Give me that!" Mad made a brash, ineffectual grab for it. He held it upside down and sideways, trying to shake it or make sense of it. She attempted his own tongue. "Monnaie, non! Un laitue!"

"That's lettuce, Aunt Mad. Lettre, Monsieur."

The bandit's eyebrows rose. Plainly he did not receive much mail.

"It's worthless," Dulcie said. *'Un souvenir sans valeur."

He handed back Mad's letter. Indicating Claudine he asked in French, "Why is the lady's face so black?"

"Claudine is . . ." Dulcie paused, glanced at Claudine, then went on, "diseased. Monsieur. Un maladie de peau." She shrugged sadly.

The bandit shuddered. "And Monsieur? Why does he not awaken?"

Oliver was awake, Dulcie knew. Why he had done nothmg she didn't know. "A bad heart ... a coeur pauvre — tres pauvre. Monsieur."

The pale face lengthened. "But that is so sad, Mademoi-

selle. I shall not even disturb him. Give to me his money belt."

Dulcie, understanding only "money," reached into Oliver's waistcoat for the coins he kept for beggars and tips. 'That is all. Monsieur."

The bandit repeated his demand, accompanying it with wild gesturings.

Mad tapped Oliver with her forefinger again. "OUie dear, he wants somethin' else. Did you understand him?"

Oliver rumbled in French, **Tell him I do not possess a money belt. I am without funds until we receive a bank draft at Calais. Tell him that I will die if we do not soon get to Calais."

"But Monsieur, you are not on the road to Calaisl"

"More's the pity," Oliver rumbled.

"I have not yet searched your luggage, Monsieur."

Oliver groaned. "I am unable to lift heavy objects, so perhaps you would like to cUmb up on the carriage and do that for yourself."

The bandit, stiU on his horse, disappeared. "Uncle Oliver, what can we do?" Dulcie whispered.

"Let him take what he wants. His pistol has a bad barrel and will explode if he fires it. We could all be injured."

Guilbert of the surly disposition and the weak muscles was roused to consciousness by a cold pistol jabbed in his rear. He found an unsuspected strength and began throwing down boxes, baskets, and trunks.

Oliver stuck his head out and roared, "Guilbert! Stop throwing our luggage about! I'll tear off your balls and have them for breakfast!"

"But, Monsieur, the bandit threatens to shoot them off with his pistol!"

*Then throw them carefullyV*

"You will please get out, Mesdames, Monsieur. I wish to keep you in my sight while I select a few trinkets."

They stood in a row as the man pawed through the numerous containers, strewing the woodland path with dresses and paper wrappings.

Behind him, an expression of revenge on his dirty face, crept Frangois. He held his pistol pointed toward the bandit's head.

Oliver said plaintively, "Monsieur, do you not have

enough trinkets? My illness is worse. We must continue our journey."

Dulcie held her breath for the explosion of Francois's pistol. There was no explosion, only a rusty click. As he said, he did not keep it loaded.

"Hit him with it!" cried Oliver. Francois raised his weapon dramatically just as the bandit turned. Faced with a pistol even larger than his own, Francois shrank into his boots.

"By the Holy Rood!" exclaimed the bandit. "GuilbertI Fetch nails and a mallet! You are going to nail this mouse to a tree!"

As best he could in his huge boots, Francois fell to his knees, gabbling for mercy. His wife and ten children would starve. Had not the bandit done enough to him, knocking him senseless? Not only did he have the pain of the head, but also his pony had stood on his chest while he ate the plume from his hat. Besides, he was not fit, he was too worthless to die the brave death of the Blessed Savior.

"Stand on your feet, impious nincompoop! Would I shadow the name of the Savior by granting a cockroach like you His glorious demise? Jamais! It is your boots we will nail to the txee, with you in them!"

With Guilbert holding up the hapless postilion, the bandit nailed his boots so that he faced the tree. Though no injury was being done to him, Francois screeched constantly.

"I believe we've had quite enough of this lunacy," Oliver rumbled. Mad and Dulcie pulled him back and stood clinging to his arms.

"'low me to tend to him, Mastah Olivah." Claudine stepped forward. She pulled up her sleeves and unbuttoned her dress down to her waist, so that her small brown breasts bobbed in the V formed there. Switching her hips, waving her brown arms in snakelike gestures, she approached the bandit.