Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [367]
“You are speaking of my wife,” the doctor said. The length of stove wood quivered in his hand. Xavier Tocquet pulled himself from the boat onto the dock and surveyed the scene, running his thumb along the edge of his lower lip. Daspir made a protective gesture toward Isabelle, but she had moved a step farther away from him and would not let him catch her eye. He looked at Nanon, standing alone on the opposite side of the street, head lowered as in meditation or prayer. Beside her was a stack of split wood and Daspir thought distractedly that it must be destined for shipboard stoves, since all cooking in the colony seemed to be done with charcoal.
Paltre took a bloodstained hand away from his nose and plucked a splinter from his cheek, where the wood had raked it.
“You all saw him strike me,” he said as he scrambled onto his feet. “You saw him strike me in the face.”
Paltre dropped his hand to his pistol grip, but Cyprien caught him by the wrist.
“I will have satisfaction,” Paltre spluttered, as he struggled to free his hand.
“That you will,” the doctor said. He brandished the stove wood, and Paltre, still unable to loose his weapon, quailed away from it.
“Pistols. I choose pistols,” the doctor said. “Tomorrow at dawn at La Fossette.”
He let the wood fall clattering from his hand and walked away. Daspir watched him take Nanon’s arm and lead her past the half-restored façade of the Customs House toward the interior of the town.
“Wait,” Cyprien called. He was still restraining Paltre, and Daspir moved to help him. “Who stands with him? Major, is it you?”
“Yes,” said Maillart, at parade-ground volume. “I stand second to Doctor Hébert.” With a shock, Daspir perceived that Isabelle had crossed the street to stand beside him.
“But you must agree that all this, this—an absurdity,” Cyprien blurted.
“On the contrary,” Maillart boomed. “I find everything in good order. Your comrade will have the satisfaction he requires tomorrow.”
“But allow us twenty-four hours more,” Cyprien said. “Let tempers cool.”
“My friend is already cool as the dew,” said Maillart, then stopped to consider. “But I will speak to him. Later tonight, I’ll look for you.”
“We are in the barracks of the Carénage,” Cyprien said.
Maillart nodded. He slipped a hand under Isabelle’s elbow and guided her away. There was an old familiarity in the way she fit her step to his. And Daspir had begun to think of Maillart as his friend . . . he did not know what area of his confusion to attend to. Isabelle looked back once, but he could not read her glance, and then Tocquet and Elise had blocked his view, as they too moved off from the dockside. Maybe he had never read a glance of Isabelle’s aright.
Guizot was crossing the street toward them, his features contorted with concern.
“What lunacy,” Cyprien began, turning on Paltre. He cut himself off. No one had noticed Leclerc’s boat docking, but now the Captain-General himself had emerged on the quai. As often after private colloquies with his bride, he looked both irritated and sapped of all strength. He brushed down his coattail and frowned at the four captains.
“What is this disorder?”
“Captain Paltre.” Cyprien bowed, with a sick smile. “He has . . . a recurrence of his injury.” He waved a hand at Paltre, who had covered his nose with a white handkerchief into which he was vigorously bleeding.
Leclerc stared at them balefully. “Get him settled, then, and come along to Government House. Don’t tarry.” He marched off, flanked by two of his other adjutants, passing the file of porters who were coming down to retrieve all Pauline’s baggage. From below the dock they could hear her tittering voice as Moustapha and the others pulled and heaved her up the ladder.
“Come on,” said Cyprien. “Let’s get out of this.”
They found a tavern a block from the waterfront.