Episode 25: Wilbur Goes Out for the Evening and Tries His Luck Once More

Part IV.  A La Coquette

Chapter 48

Wilbur wanted one more chance. It was still possible, with a short run of luck, to win back part of what he had lost. Not enough to save Brookside or his own Montefiore at this point, but enough to stand Eleanor and him in good stead for a few years if they lived modestly. Staying in Paris was too risky. Some Somerset acquaintance might be there, taking in the sights, and he might just stumble across them at a carriage stop or bistro. Marseilles, on the other hand—hot, raucous, smelly Marseilles—should be quite safe from tourists of their class. It stood at a manageable distance from his preferred casinos, and would be cheaper as well. Eleanor could stay in her room and pout; it did not bother him any more what she thought. They no longer spoke, anyway, except when necessary. And this would be a good place to get rid of Morel, Wilbur’s solicitor, who had been tagging along across the Atlantic, looking over his shoulder the entire way. The man could no doubt take up some sort of trade in this port city, fleecing sailors and fishwives in some new and rewarding way.

            The Wilbur Browns checked in to a small but snobbish hotel that managed to fall short of expectations in every way. For once, Wilbur did not fuss, knowing that their stay would be brief. After they had rested for a few days, they would swing through the south of France and on to Italy, where one could live a long time on next to nothing. For now the couple made themselves as comfortable as possible in their second-floor chamber à deux with two sagging beds, a large cracked window, and a thick layer of dust protecting every surface.

            Eleanor closed the thin drapes, wetted a washcloth, and stretched herself out on one of the beds. Placing the cloth over her eyes, she said flatly, “Bring me the headache powder from my gray bag and a glass of something, if you can manage it.”

            Her husband chose to ignore the condescension and placed the requested items on the gritty table beside her. “A big one?” he asked.

            “They are the only kind I get any more.”

            Wilbur’s question, far from being one of solicitude, sprang from practicality. If Eleanor was having one of her small headaches, she would be up and around (and possibly in the way) in about an hour. If, on the other hand, she was suffering a major attack involving a full complement of artillery, she might lie low for an entire day and night, sometimes two. In this way, he would be able to pursue his pleasures unimpeded and unquestioned.

            Wilbur looked down at his motionless wife, his thumbs tucked into his vest pockets. After so many long days of confinement with her on the ship and then the train, he could now stretch his legs and escape her beady eye. “I’ll have them send supper up in a bit,” he told her. “I am going out exploring. Don’t wait up for me.”

            “Why on earth would I do that?” she returned in a monotone.

            “That’s my Eleanor.” He splashed some water on his face, combed his hair, and went downstairs, telling the concierge to send up dinner for one at suppertime with no frills. Wilbur had passed through Marseilles once before, as a young man. The brutality of the place attracted him, but the heat and the color confounded his senses. After taking a short tour of the docks he wandered up and down a few streets where people were beginning to reemerge as the sun retreated. He stopped at a small shop to buy a map of the city—he liked maps very much—and a pocketknife. (He had lost his knife, a beautiful little weapon that Eleanor had bought him years ago, in a game of after-dinner blackjack just the other day on the train.) The stocky merchant polished the folding blade on his shirttail before handing the knife to Wilbur.

            “Monsieur would like the tobacco maybe? Some whisky?”

            “No, thank you.”

            The man counted Wilbur’s change slowly into his hand. “Monsieur likes the ladies?”

            Wilbur looked at the shopkeeper for the first time. The merchant’s pale eyes were veiled in cataracts and surrounded by sun-toughened skin. His smile revealed three teeth, all of them brown.

            “Why do you ask?” Wilbur asked. He was stalling. To answer the man’s simple question—do you like ladies?—would have required the explanations of several men learned in the mental sciences and familiar with Mr. Brown’s numerous peccadilloes.

            “We have many nice women here in Marseilles.” The man continued to smile.

            The basic truth was that Wilbur did not like ladies much at all. He found them “too frothy” and quite suffocating. They were always wanting some demonstration of affection, pulling on your hand, asking where you were going, or making some silly comment that betrayed their low intelligence. Eleanor had been a rare find—serious, a woman who kept to herself for the most part and demanded no romance or petting. Still, Wilbur liked to look at women. He even enjoyed, for reasons he could not explain, indulging himself in brief contact now and then.

            He pocketed his change. “Whom do you recommend?”

            The merchant waved his stiff hand in a circular motion. “Ah, il y en a beaucoup. There are many to recommend. Maybe you start at La Coquette for a dinner and the show.  His ladies dance very nice, and the best of them all is his new girl, La Violette.”

            “Indeed,” replied Wilbur. “And where would I find this establishment?”

            The merchant gave Wilbur directions. “You tell Monsieur Vaudin that Emile sent you, yes?”

            “Of course,” returned Wilbur, pausing at the door. “You receive a commission, no doubt. I would not expect you to make do on what you get overcharging travelers for maps and tobacco.” Wilbur smiled at the confusion on the merchant’s face before he turned sharply and exited.

            Wilbur did not need to consult his pocket watch to know that it was nearly time for dinner. The long shadows in the square told him that the day was drawing down. After a quick look at the map, he directed his steps toward the dance hall. This will probably be a disappointment, he thought, both visually and gastronomically, but it will at least be something new. On the way, he amused himself by picturing the famous La Violette, building her into a lithe, towering creature whose beauty might be irresistible were it not for some critical flaw that the locals were willing to overlook. Turning a corner, he spied the telltale sign hanging just a few yards ahead, the white wooden half-leg painted with the words La Coquette in deep red. His heart quickened, and with his habitual glance right and left, he entered.

            The place was already filling up. Sailors stood in knots drinking at the polished bar that ran along one side of the room. The bottled-up smell of seamen nearly drove Wilbur back outside, but he wiped a scented handkerchief across his nose and stood his ground. To the right was a scatter of tables where some were eating in silence and others played cards. Wilbur noticed the large pile of coins in the middle of one table and made a note to come back the next night with some cash. A dark urchin approached him and offered to take his hat. Wilbur looked down on him, confident that the child did not speak English.

            “You’d like to take this, wouldn’t you, and give me back some pauper’s broken derby. No, merci.”

            The child’s large brown eyes searched Wilbur’s face, unsure what to do. He looked to the barkeep for help, who snapped something in Arabic, causing the boy to dive into the background. Wilbur walked to the rear of the room where a heavy red curtain hung, and parted it with a finger. Tables and chairs cluttered the floor in front of a low stage. He felt a tap on his back.

            “Monsieur would like to see the show?” A capable-looking man, clear-eyed and soberly dressed, was asking in English.

            “Possibly. What does it consist of?”

            “Monsieur will enjoy the most beautiful girls in Marseilles, dancing in a most pleasing way. And, of course, you may take your dinner and drinks while you watch. Our food is excellent.”

            “I doubt that.” Wilbur looked back at the dim stage. “How long until the show starts?”

            “In one hour. If I may ask, did someone recommend us to Monsieur?”

            Wilbur smiled. “No, I was just passing by.”

            “Very good. Monsieur might like some rouge and a game of chance while he waits?” The man, who was none other than Monsieur Vaudin himself, pointed with a glance toward the card players.

            Suddenly remembering the new knife in his pocket, Wilbur realized that a game might not be out of the question. He joined a table of decently dressed men eating sardines with one hand while holding their cards in the other. A serving girl was just delivering another bottle of wine. She put a glass in front of him and poured, smiling in that empty way that saloon girls do. Wilbur anted in with small coins and was dealt an outstanding hand. He bet low, matching the others, exchanged one card that magically gave him a full house, and threw in the pocket knife when his turn came around. Its value declared and proven by the bill of sale he displayed, two players chose to see his bet. Wilbur spread his hand on the dark wooden tabletop. The gamblers leaned in to examine it, three kings and two tens, then turned their cards face down and pushed them to the middle. Thus began a lucky evening of cards for Mr. Brown during which he not only kept his new knife but won enough to buy dinner, two bottles of wine, admission to the show, and a return to La Coquette the next day for another go.

            Before he knew it, an hour had elapsed. Monsieur Vaudin announced that the show was about to begin and collected the small fee required from each customer as they passed through the red curtain. Wilbur ordered lamb and potatoes and, for the sake of adventure, a glass of rum along with a bottle of decent wine, and took a seat at the foot of the stage. As he waited he remembered Eleanor alone in their hotel room and hoped her headache was continuing in full force.

Chapter 49

The tobacco seller and the proprietor of La Coquette proved equally correct: Wilbur was not disappointed. The ladies were all acceptably pretty with their makeup, and they revealed enough of their persons to keep his interest. But the six girls kicking up their legs through the warm-up paled beside the main attraction, La Violette. Although much smaller than he had expected, she was as beautiful as she was exotic, mysterious but at the same time intimate. Wilbur felt himself darkly drawn to her as she performed her restrained yet suggestive dance, and when the show concluded, he signaled  Monsieur Vaudin with a finger. The owner informed him that yes, he could invite Mademoiselle Violette to his table for a drink and conversation, but they had another show in thirty minutes. Wilbur pressed a bill into his hand, which the owner did not refuse.

            Presently the girl emerged from backstage and walked self-consciously among scattered cheers to Mr. Brown’s table. He drew back a chair for her and she sat with her hands in her lap, looking down. Wilbur studied her face, framed in a sheer orange scarf, and thought how much more beautiful she would be without the paint.  He liked especially her full mouth and luxurious black lashes.

            “Mademoiselle, your dance was marvelous. Some wine?” Wilbur asked her in French.

            La Violette raised her eyes slightly and smiled, and he poured her a half-glass from the open bottle. She made no move toward it.

            “Where are you from?” he pursued.

            “From India.” Her voice was a thin singsong.

            “From the south, I assume,” Wilbur ventured, judging by her dark skin.

            “Hyderabad.” On this one point, she always told the truth. Hyderabad was a large region, and she felt no risk in naming the place of her birth, a hot, colorful world she sometimes missed with a longing that pierced her heart.

            Wilbur turned the word over in his mind. It was familiar. Suddenly he remembered.

            “Hyderabad. Quite a famine you had there a while back, eh? Drove you out, I suppose.”

            She took a sip of the wine, barely wetting her lips. “Monsieur knows much about my country.”

            “Not really.” Wilbur leaned forward. “I happen to know a fellow who came back from your area not long ago. Failed missionary. Told about the famine and the heartless Brits and all that sort of thing. Don’t suppose you know him.” Wilbur laughed as the wine and rum began to loosen him, enjoying the absurd idea of her knowing the one man he knew who had traipsed briefly through India.

            She glanced at him for the first time. “It is unlikely.”

            “It’s preposterous,” Wilbur returned gaily. “Lord Phillip, vagrant extraordinaire.”

            La Violette looked up at him, her brilliantly painted lips falling open. Wilbur, however, was too caught up in his own amusing reflections to notice.

            “He is a friend of yours?” she managed to ask.

            “Good Lord, no. Met him at a party. Lives near my cousin with his doting father. Poor devil—things seem to be turning out rather badly for him. I heard just before departing for this charming shore that he made a false move while trying to convert the heathens, got a bit too close to one. The girl’s father tracked him down and showed up in a most embarrassing way with a child for him. Great scandal. Who cares?”

            Wilbur emptied the bottle into his glass. “I should like to spend more time with you, La Violette.” He enunciated her name precisely. “Shall I talk with your employer?”

            When she did not answer, he noticed finally that she was gripping the edge of the table.

            “What’s wrong?” he asked shortly. There was no reason he should understand why, for Violette, the room was tilting crazily while a hundred sensations rushed upon her.

            The girl drew a breath and looked at him. “The wine is not good for me, I think. May I ask, what happened to the missionary man and the baby?”

            “You women always want to know how the story ends, don’t you? I’ve no idea. He’s probably looking for some softhearted woman, like my dear cousin, who will take it off his hands. Or he’s dropping it at the nearest orphanage, if he has any sense.”

            La Violette got to her feet and excused herself, saying it was almost time for the next show, and nearly ran from the room. Wilbur waved over Monsieur Vaudin once more and asked how he might arrange for some time with the young woman in private.

            The proprietor stiffened and informed Wilbur that he misunderstood. His girls were professional performers. This was not a maison close. They were not available to the customers for any other services—at any price, he added, as Wilbur pulled the roll of winnings from his pocket.

            “Ridiculous!” Wilbur muttered as he rose. Pushing his hat onto his head, he walked unsteadily out the door. Backstage, Rupa would not tell the girls why she was crying. Gasping for breath between strangled sobs, she could not have spoken if she wanted to. They patted her shoulder and did not press her. Each of them had reasons to cry and none that they would want to explain.

To be continued . . .