Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [369]
“Guizot is right,” said Paltre. “We oughtn’t to quarrel among ourselves.” He forced a smile toward Daspir. “You’ve spilt your drink,” he said. “Let me buy you another.”
“All right,” said Daspir. He lifted his fist, unrolled it, and began picking small ceramic shards out of the edge of his palm.
“Another round,” Paltre called. The tavernkeeper, a griffe who sported three gold rings in his left ear, brought over the jug and a replacement cup. Paltre paid for the rum and also for the cup Daspir had broken.
“But I won’t be deported in any case,” Paltre said, when all had drunk. His voice resumed something of its sullenness. “Not with so many good officers dead.”
“No,” said Cyprien. “You’ll only be buried. Tomorrow at sunrise in La Fossette. Or the day after, if they are willing to wait so long.”
Paltre looked at him, rolling his cup in his hands.
“You challenged him,” said Cyprien. “He has the first shot. And I tell you, I saw him put a bullet through the hole of the nine on a nine of clubs.”
“What’s your solution, then?” said Paltre.
Cyprien leaned a little forward, setting his fingertips on the tabletop. “Apologize.”
Paltre let out a hoarse laugh and pushed his chair back. “ Apologize? You must be joking.”
“Of course,” said Cyprien. “You’d rather die.”
The doctor had not known that he would act until he came to himself standing over Paltre with the echo of the insult and his reply still ringing in his ears. He didn’t even know how the chunk of stove wood had come to be in his hand, but all of it seemed to be inevitably the outcome of that sense of fatality he’d brought down to the waterfront from Morne Calvaire. He walked homeward, Nanon’s hand clenched in his own, suffused in his feeling of déjà vu. Now she would not look at him. And after all, it would not rain. The wind was dying as the clouds went drifting back over Morne du Cap. He knew the night would be calm and clear.
At the Cigny house, Nanon retired, complaining of a headache. The doctor poured three fingers of rum in a glass and carried it into the inner courtyard. Here the ash had been plowed under, and there were fresh plantings of hibiscus and the red brushes of Indian ginger—also some shoots of aloe, which Isabelle liked to use on her skin. In twenty minutes’ time he heard the noise of others coming into the house from the street, and presently Maillart’s voice broke the stillness of the evening air.
“Such a rogue you are for dueling, Antoine.” Maillart carried a bottle of rum, with glasses for himself and Tocquet, who sat down on the stone sill where the doctor was sitting. Maillart poured them each a measure.
“You have the first shot,” he said. “I do suggest that you spend it well— don’t fire in the air as you did the other time.”
The doctor fixed him with his eyes. “I don’t intend to.”
“That’s the spirit.” Maillart frowned into his glass. “In fact they have asked a day’s delay . . . what do you think?”
“It’s all the same to me,” the doctor said. He set his rum down on the stone, took off his glasses, and polished them on his shirttail. “Well, I don’t know,” he said as he replaced the glasses on his nose. “Really I suppose I’d as soon have it over.”
“I’d feel the same,” Maillart said. “I am to meet them somewhere tonight. I’ll let them know your preference.”
Tocquet reached into his shirt and fanned out three crooked black cheroots like a hand of cards. The doctor accepted one of them, though he did not ordinarily smoke. Tocquet struck a light and the three of them put their heads together above the flame.
“Cyprien and Paltre . . .” Maillart blew a smoke ring toward the darkening sky. “I remember those two cubs from the time of Hédouville. They used to come sniffing around this house, the pair of them. Cyprien looks to have seasoned a bit, but Paltre . . .” He sniffed. “I will not miss him.”
“Nor I,” said the doctor, and swallowed a cough. The tobacco was making him slightly dizzy. Inside the house a hand bell jingled and Isabelle