Love of Seven Dolls Read Free

proverb, “Beware a sleeping dog, a praying drunk or a Bretonnaise.”
    Mouche snatched her hand away and quoted back at him: “When the fox preaches, guard your geese . . .”
    Mr. Reynardo let out a yapping bark of laughter and retired to the side of the booth. “Kid, you’ve got some guts in that skinny carcase of yours. Hasn’t she, friends?”
    This last was addressed to the workmen who had finished loading the lorry and were now standing by listening.
    “She has your measure, old boy,” one of them replied, grinning.
    The fox yapped again and then called down below the counter, “Hey, Ali! Come up here a moment and see if you can scare this one.”
    The upper portion of a huge, tousle-headed, hideous, yet pathetic-looking giant rose slowly from beneath and stared fixedly at Mouche, who stared back. She could not help herself.
    Mr. Reynardo performed the introductions: “This is our giant, Alifanfaron—Ali for short. Ali, this is Mouche and she’s crazy about me.”
    Mouche started to reply indignantly, “I am not,” but thought better of it and decided to let it go and see what would happen. The giant seemed to be trying desperately to recall something and finally said in a mild, friendly voice, “Fi-fo-fe . . . No no—fo-fe-fi—— Oh dear. That isn’t it either. I never seem to get it straight.”
    Mouche prompted him, “Fe-fi-fo . . .”
    Ali nodded his head. “Of course. And then the last one is fum. But what’s the use? I don’t really frighten you, do I?”
    On an odd impulse, Mouche solemnly felt her heart beat for a moment and then replied, “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m afraid you don’t.”
    The giant said sadly, “Never mind. I’d really rather be friends. Then I can have my head scratched. Please scratch my head.”
    Obediently, Mouche gently rubbed the wooden head while Ali sighed and pushed slightly against her fingers like a cat. Once more Mouche felt herself strangely moved and even more so when the fox yipped, “Me too, me too,” like a child that has been left out of something, and came whipping over and leaned his head against her shoulder.
    A battered and paint-shy old Citroën with a luggage rack on the roof and a trunk fastened to the rear drove alongside the booth from out of the darkness, and a fearful and astonishing apparition climbed out.
    He was a one-eyed negro in the tattered remnants of the uniform of a Senegalese line regiment, a wrinkled old man with a large, rubbery face, naked, glistening skull and a mouth full of gold teeth that testified he might once have known more opulent times.
    He wore not a black, but a soiled white patch over his blind left eye which gave him a terrifying aspect though this was belied, however, by an innocent and child-like grin. There were sergeant’s stripes on the uniform sleeve and he had an old World War I kepi on the back of his head. Around his neck was slung a guitar.
    He took in the group and shook his head in marvel, chuckling, “Whooeeeee! Who you chasing up this time, Mr. Reynardo? Can’t leave you alone two minutes before you go making eyes at something in skirts.”
    Mr. Reynardo leered at the Senegalese. “You, Golo! Cough up that ten franc piece I saw you palm when you took up that last collection this evening.”
    The Senegalese grinned admiringly. “You saw that, Mr. Reynardo? By my life, you don’t miss much, do you?” He fished the coin out of his pocket and laid it down on the counter where the fox immediately pounced on it, saying to Mouche virtuously, “You see? It’s good someone is honest around here. Golo, this is a friend of mine, by the name of Mouche. We’re thinking of getting married. Mouche, meet Golo. He’s our orchestra.”
    Mouche found herself shaking hands solemnly with the negro who bowed courteously and carried her hand half way to his lips as though she were a queen.
    Mr. Reynardo rasped, “Break it up. You’ll be giving her ideas.” Then to Mouche, “By the way, kid, can you