Love of Seven Dolls Read Free Page A

sing?”
    Mouche replied, “A little. Can you?”
    “Oh yes,” Mr. Reynardo admitted. “Heroic tenor. And I’ve got a friend who is a pretty good basso. We could have a trio. Hey, Ali, send the Doc up. Golo, you play something for us.”
    The giant disappeared to be replaced by a solemn-looking penguin who wore a pince-nez attached to a black ribbon and was introduced by the fox as Dr. Duclos, a member of the academy.
    The penguin bowed and murmured, “Charmed indeed. Forgive the formal clothes. I have just come from the annual dinner of the Anthropofumbling Society.”
    Golo leaned against the dented wing of the Citroën and fingered the advance ghost of a melody on his guitar, then struck a firm chord and thereafter, without further introduction, Mouche found herself singing the popular Parisian song hit of the moment:
“Va t’en, va t’en, va t’en!
    Je ne suis plus ton amant . . .”
    She had not much voice, it was true, but there was a softness and an ingenuous earnestness in it with a slight throaty quality that was young and pleasing and blended astonishingly well with the unctuous but not unmelodious tenor sung by Mr. Reynardo, supported and interlarded by deep basso “poom-pooms” contributed at the proper musical moments by Dr. Duclos.
“Be off, be off, be off!
    I am not your lover any more . . .
    Another has taken your place . . .”
    The music completed the spell under which Mouche found herself and carried her away into this strangest of all strange lands of make-believe into which she had wandered out of the unhappy night.
    The song was catching the ears of their neighbours too. The fortune teller and her husband ceased quarrelling and came nearer to listen, their gypsy eyes glistening in the torchlight. The workman and the truck driver were clapping their hands to punctuate the “Va t’en”. A passing cab-driver pulled up to the kerb and got out. Late home-goers lingered. Other concessionaires came over from nearby pitches which they had been engaged in dismantling. Soon a considerable crowd had formed a semi-circle about the dingy little puppet booth.
    These were hard, rough people, mostly; the night was cold and the hour late, but they too succumbed to the spell of the odd little talking dolls, the music and the new ingredient that had been added—the waif.
    Even this brief space of time had seen a transformation worked in Mouche. The listlessness and despair had been shed. If anything, her gauntness, the hunger-thin frame and the large, tender, believing eyes shining from the pale countenance added to the attraction as in company with the sly-looking, amorous fox and the pompous, stuffy, over-dignified penguin she acted out the verses of the song, playing first to one and then the other as though she had really changed lovers.
    They ended with a shout and a thump of Golo’s guitar and his hearty chuckle was heard above the applause and bravos of the audience. Mouche did not even notice Golo reach behind the booth for a battered tin poilu’s helmet with which he passed swiftly through the crowd, or the response to his collection in bills and coins, for she was too absorbed with Mr. Reynardo and Dr. Duclos who were taking elaborate bows.
    “You were in excellent voice tonight, my dear Reynardo.”
    “Permit me to compliment you likewise, friend Duclos.”
    To Mouche, Reynardo remarked, “You know, I could make something out of you, Baby . . .” and Dr. Duclos added importantly, “Your sol-fege is not at all bad, my child. I say of course that everything is diaphragm control . . .”
    From somewhere in the depths of the booth a bell rang. Mr. Reynardo let out a yelp. “Oops! Supper! Sorry. Nice to have met you, kid. Come on, Doc.”
    The fox and the penguin disappeared beneath the stage. Golo regarded Mouche for a moment with the sad creamy eyes of an old negro who had seen much. He said, “Who are you, Miss?”
    Mouche replied, “Nobody.”
    “You brought us good luck.”
    “Did I?