Honeymoon in Paris: A Novella Read Free Page B

the fiddler stopping mid-note. The air felt electrified. Dinan blinked, struggling to right himself.
    ‘Apologize to my wife. She is worth a dozen of you.’ Édouard’s voice was a growl.
    Dinan spat something, possibly a tooth. He lifted his chin, a thin scarlet trickle bisecting it, and muttered, so quietly that I thought only I could have heard him: ‘
Putain.
’
    With a roar, Édouard went for him. Dinan’s friend launched himself on Édouard, throwing punches at his shoulders, his head, his broad back. They bounced off my husband as if they were gnats. I could just make out Édouard’s voice: ‘How
dare
you insult my wife?’
    ‘
Fréjus
, you blackguard!’ I turned to see Michel Le Duc landing a punch on someone else.
    ‘
Arrêtez, Messieurs! Arrêtez vous!’
    The bar erupted. Édouard pushed himself upright. He shook Dinan’s friend from his shoulders, as if he were shrugging off a coat, and swung a chair behind him. I felt, as much as heard, the wood crack on the man’s back. Bottles skimmed the air over our heads. Women shrieked, men swore, customers scrambled for the doors, while street boys ran in through them to join the mêlée. In the chaos, I saw my moment. I stooped, and pulled the groaning Dinan’s wallet from his jacket. I took a five-franc note from it and tucked a piece of handwritten paper in its place.
    ‘I have written you a receipt,’ I shouted at him, my mouth close to his ear. ‘You may need it if you ever choose to sell Édouard’s painting. Although, frankly, you would be a fool to do so.’ And then I straightened. ‘Édouard!’ I called, looking around for him. ‘Édouard!’ I was unsure whether he had heard me above the commotion.
    I ducked to avoid a bottle and made my way through the scrum towards him. The street girls were laughing and catcalling in a corner. The
patron
was shouting and wringing his hands, the fight spilling out onto the street now, tables crashing. There was not a man in there who wasn’t throwing punches – indeed, they had all embraced the prospect of pitched battle with such relish that I wondered if it was a fight at all.
    ‘Édouard!’
    And then I spied Monsieur Arnault in the corner by the piano. ‘Oh, Monsieur Arnault!’ I yelled, as I fought my way over to him, holding up my skirts as I trod over the bodies and the upturned chairs. He was sliding along a banquette, evidently hoping to make his way to the door. ‘Two charcoal sketches! The women in the park? You remember?’ He glanced at me and I mouthed the words: ‘You owe Édouard for two charcoal sketches.’ I crouched, one hand raised to protect my head and used the other to pull the IOUs from my pocket, flicking through them and ducking to avoid a shoe. ‘Five francs for the two, it says here. Yes?’
    Behind us, someone screamed as a tankard hit a window, smashing it.
    Monsieur Arnault’s eyes were wide with fear. He peered swiftly behind me, then scrabbled in his pocket for his wallet. He peeled off the notes with such haste that I discovered later he had given me two francs too many. ‘Take it!’ he hissed, then bolted for the door, his hat pressed to his head.
    And there we had it. Eleven – no, twelve francs. Enough to keep us going.
    ‘Édouard,’ I called again, scanning the room. I could just make him out in the corner, where a man with a ginger moustache, like a fox’s brush, was swinging vainly at him, as Édouard held him by the shoulders. I put my hand on his arm. My husband looked at me blankly, as if he had forgotten I was there. ‘I have the money. We should go.’
    He didn’t seem to hear me.
    ‘Really,’ I said. ‘We should go now.’ He dropped the man, who slid down the wall and felt in his mouth with a finger, muttering something about a chipped tooth. I had hold of Édouard’s sleeve now, pulling him towards the doors, my ears ringing with the din, fighting my way through the men who had come in from outside. I cannot believe they had any idea