Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [358]
He must not stare. Daspir looked around the room at random. The Cignys had not rebuilt with such exactitude as Pauline Leclerc had been able to command, but certainly they must have some resources. There were a new roof and new floors smelling of fresh wood, though Isabelle apologized for the boards being covered with painted canvas rather than the rugs lost in the burning. The walls were all bright with fresh paint and each of the round-topped doorways of the salon framed a new wooden door, now folded open onto the balcony with its new railings of filigreed iron. The afternoon downpour had freshened the air, but still mosquitoes kept floating in through the open doors. Daspir winced, crushing one against his neck, and lowered his hand with its bright dot of blood.
Claudine Arnaud, who sat beside her husband in a straight wooden chair against the wall, seemed to look with disapproval on this action. Furtively, Daspir crumbled the mosquito beneath his chair. Madame Arnaud sat painfully upright, stiff in a black silk dress that rustled if she moved a hair, though for the most part she held herself perfectly still, silent, her three-fingered hand curled in her lap inside the whole one. Of course her every look seemed disapproving, no matter what came before her long sharp nose and glittering eye. She was reputed to be quite mad, though tonight she did not give much sign of it, unless her silence was a sign. She said nothing, and let the other women’s prattle shower over her.
For the past ten minutes, Paltre, sitting with his legs sprawled a little too widely for politeness, had been half-surreptitiously kissing his fingers to Nanon, and now abruptly he crossed the room to join her on the small striped sofa where she sat, though she did not seem to much welcome his company. A closer look at the talking bird was his pretext, but his real mission seemed to be to get a hand on her haunch. Of a sudden, the bird flew into his face and scratched it. It rather looked to Daspir as if Nanon had launched it there.
“Putain!” Paltre flailed the bird from his face and started back, then clutched the crotch of his tight white trousers to make it plain that his “Whore!” was no random expletive, but quite personally intended. Daspir found himself on his feet, his two hands tightening, but Leclerc had also drawn himself up to his meager height.
“Captain Paltre!” he rapped out, and Paltre deflated, turning away from Nanon, who sat with her knees together and her head lowered. The posture reminded Daspir of how he’d borne his own humiliations recently.
Leclerc bowed to Isabelle. “I must ask that you excuse us,” he said. “We have a tour of duty to perform.”
Isabelle arched her neck and simpered something which Daspir did not catch. Leclerc had already stooped to touch Pauline’s fingertips. He beckoned crisply to Paltre, who followed him out of the room. As their boots went thumping down the stairs, Nanon also rose and silently departed.
“La pauvre!” Pauline coaxed the parakeet onto her wrist and fondled the feathers between its wings. Poor thing! The bird hunched its green shoulders uncomfortably.
Daspir sat down, a little confused by his own reaction. But Isabelle was certainly looking at him now. It was not her flirtatious glance, but something steadier, more decided. Though he did feel an inward flutter, he had no difficulty holding her gaze; in fact it communicated to him something of her certainty. She caught her lower lip and let it go, reddened and plumped by the white points of her teeth. Daspir’s response to this tiny gesture was so vivid and ardent that he had to sit up straighter and cross his legs to cover it. But by then Isabelle had rejoined the ladies’ talk.
“Captain-General,” Paltre began, as soon as they had