The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  I did not leave the island of Fraise that night as I had expected. The governor insisted that I stay over for another day.

  “All week you have been here,” the governor argued, “and not once have you seen the rarest of the island’s beauties. Tomorrow you must see her —the one and only Mademoiselle Butterfly.”

  So I stayed.

  Gaston, my companion and fellow actor—the flashy little comedian of this summer’s troupe—stayed with me.

  At noon the following day Gaston and I were picked up by the governor’s private limousine. We circled through the town and followed a short steep trail toward the upper extremity of the island.

  “Splendid site,” Gaston commented. “You’d think the governor would have placed his palace on that bit of hill.”

  “That bit of hill,” the chauffeur volunteered, “was owned by an international society of scientists before his honor was made governor.”

  “Scientists?” Gaston blinked. “Do scientists live there?”

  “One,” said the chauffeur. “Mademoiselle Butterfly’s father—a naturalist of some note, I have been told. He has developed the rare specimens of insect life which his beautiful daughter will doubtless show you.”

  “Insect life!—that reminds me,” Gaston said. “Did you ever hear the English joke about the caterpillar and the hot biscuits?”

  The chauffeur made no answer. I told Gaston I would save his caterpillar joke for Mademoiselle Butterfly.

  “If she’s as beautiful as they say,” said Gaston, “the stage’s greatest lover might want to stay over a whole week. You’ve never met her, have you?”

  “I—I think not,” I said.

  “He thinks not!” Gaston clasped his head and groaned. “He meets so many beautiful girls all over the continent, he can’t remember who’s on his list.”

  I chuckled for Gaston’s benefit.

  But the circumstances were more complicated than I cared to reveal.

  The fact was, I—Louis Ribot—had been employed as a double for the famous Raymond Quinton. Every summer he had me take over his minor engagements. But I was under oath not to confide this secret.

  Consequently Gaston was ignorant of my identity. He thought I was Quinton. He followed me around to bask in my fame. He became my good man Friday. At once we were fast friends.

  Our limousine circled into the high graveled driveway. We alighted, ascended the wide white steps. It was a clean, commodious looking mansion from this approach, its white brick walls and wide ornamental French windows giving it the aspect of a hilltop palace. Gusts of sea air sifted through the fragrant shrubbery.

  We waited a full minute before anyone answered the bell. Then a stately butler with athletic shoulders and a guileless face bowed through the open door and tendered his regrets.

  “You have come to see Mademoiselle Butterfly,” he said hollowly. “Governor Revel, however, has just telephoned to cancel your visit.”

  “Not so fast, my friend,” I said. “You’ll have to dish up a better excuse than that. The governor sent us—”

  “I understand, sir, but—”

  “His own limousine brought us up—”

  “And it will take you back down,” said the butler. “Governor Revel advises that you catch a boat for the continent at once to return ahead of the storm.”

  I turned to Gaston. “What do you make of this?”

  “A cheap trick. There’s no sign of a storm, not even a pain in my left ankle.”

  “Messieurs, a severe storm is on its way,” said the butler bleakly. “The butterflies are very sensitive. They never fail to give warning.”

  “Butterflies, bah!” said Gaston. “My left ankle is the most sensitive—Ouch!—Oof!” Gaston sprung his weight on his left foot and scowled comically. “Messieurs,” he mimicked the butler’s stern demeanor, “a severe storm is on its way.”

  “Good day, messieurs,” the butler snapped, but I refused to let him close the door till I knew what this was all about.

  “For two cents,” I said, “I’d punch somebody.”

  I must have said the wrong thing. Suddenly three more butlers appeared, and the four of them were a perfect set of quadruplets, even to their expressions. Their uniforms were alike except for the lettering on the shoulders. From left to right the shoulder insignias read, W, X Y and Z.

  Gaston snapped at them like a cross puppy. “Where’s the rest of the family? Bring out the old man. We’ll battle all five of you.”

  “Never mind, Gaston,” I said. “If this is Mademoiselle Butterfly’s courtesy—”

  “Mademoiselle is about to receive a guest,” said the butler with the W. “A special guest from the governor.”

  “Let’s go,” Gaston whispered. “I never did trust that governor.”

  As we turned down the steps, a taxi rolled up the driveway. A tall gentleman with a steel-blue suit and a cocky blue hat with a silver feather got out and marched up the walk. A sword swung at his side.

  Nearing us, he stopped. His black eyebrows lifted, the trim mustache widened with surprise.

  “Monsieur Quinton!”

  I bowed as if I knew him.

  Playing the role of a double is treacherous business, as anyone can imagine. I was forever bumping into someone that I was supposed to know. This fellow glowered at me menacingly.

  “So it’s you, the puffed-up actor,” he said. “No wonder the governor wanted to spare you the pleasure of crossing my path.”

  “I beg your pardon?” I was sure this could no other than Maurice De Brosse, noted fencing instructor at the University of Paris, considered the master swordsman of Europe. I had often seen his pictures.

  “Those insults you flung at me from the stage of the Moliere,” said the swordsman, “have not been paid for. But revenge is sweet, my dear fellow.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, for Raymond Quinton had failed to inform me of this enemy.

  “No?” He smirked sarcastically. “I suppose you took my written challenge for a cashier’s check and passed it at the bank. Or a pawn ticket to redeem your wig.”

  The fellow’s insolent smile bore down on me. He drew his sword and patted it gently across the palm of his hand, “He’s crazy,” Gaston hissed.

  I glanced toward the entrance of the white brick mansion. Two of the lettered butlers had disappeared, the other two were eyeing me coldly. There was a stinging insult in their glare. Obviously the great Raymond Quinton, the stage’s greatest lover, was less welcome here than this ill-tempered swordsman. At heart I was neutral, knowing nothing of the original quarrel. But this was no time to let the great Quinton down.

  “Fortunately,” I said, “there is no law on this island to prohibit duelling. I may as well settle your grudge before I catch a boat for the continent.”

  Maurice De Brosse nodded. “Before you catch a cloud for the pearly gates, you mean,” he said. “This unexpected good luck will assure me of the other victory I have scheduled for today.” He turned to a butler. “Will you bring us a sword?”

  “Z had gone for one, Monsieur De Brosse.”

  “You seem to be at home here,” Gaston observed. “What’s your other victory?”

  “Today,” said De Brosse, “I’ve come to ask Mademoiselle Butterfly to marry me. After she sees how swiftly I dispose of men who fling insults, she will come into my arms.”

  A butler came down the steps with a rusty relic of a sword. My bluff had gone farther than I intended. The other butlers huddled in the doorway to watch. Back of them a tall stony-faced man appeared, and with him—a beautiful girl.

  The frightened look in the girl’s eyes was all I saw for the next minute. I was vaguely aware that I weighed the sword in my hand, that Gaston warned me I was a fool to try my skill against this master; that the arrogant De Brosse was making boastful and mocking remarks for the amusement of the butlers—pointing out certain blossoms among the lawn flowers that he thought would go well with my chalk-white face.
<
br />   What did Mademoiselle Butterfly make of all this, I wondered. I fancied I saw her fingers trembling, She whispered something to her father, who frowned in my direction and shook his head, as much as to say that he didn’t know who I was. Or perhaps that he was sorry for my chances.

  The girl was looking at me too, and I thought she started forward as if she wanted to say something. Three or four butterflies, that I had first taken to be ornaments, fluttered up from her wealth of honey-colored hair.

  “Don’t go into this!” Gaston whispered in my ear. “You haven’t a chance.”

  I came back to myself with a jerk. De Brosse, smiling treacherously, was advancing, his sword ready.

  Suddenly the air was aglitter with flying blades. I maneuvered backward. He drove me down the walk. He crowded me against the taxi, whose driver shouted at us not to scar his fenders. On back I went, hoping to catch a momentary advantage when I came to the governor’s limousine—only it wasn’t there.

  We circled around the drive. Gaston followed us as close as he dared, gasping advice.

  “Let me take over, Quinton! I’m your man. I’ll—”

  “Shut up,” I said. “This is my fight.”

  “You’re inviting murder,” Gaston yelled, “by a professional—”

  “What’s that?” De Brosse changed his stance to embrace both of us. “So you want to get in on this?”

  “I’m in on it,” said Gaston, and he jerked a pistol out of his pocket. My arms went icy. That was nothing more than a stage pistol, probably empty. But it was a pistol.

  De Brosse drew back and stared giddily. “Hold on, here, this is a fair duel—”

  “It’s going to be, from now on,” said Gaston. “You and me. When I get through with you, Quinton can have what’s left.” He barked an order to the nearest butler. “We’re duelling with pistols. See that this man is supplied.”

  Sturdy fellow, Gaston—a hundred and twenty-five pounds of courage and loyalty! De Brosse couldn’t talk him out of it. He brandished the gun and said it would either be a pistol duel or a pistol murder.

  And so, a minute later, Gaston and De Brosse carried on, and I was out of it.

  Back to back, they marched apart twenty paces. At the signal, they whirled to fire.

  In that critical moment a butterfly lighted on De Brosse’s nose. The swordsman’s shot went wild.

  “Now I’ve got you,” said Gaston, taking deliberate aim.

  “Hold your fire, damn it. I was fouled—”

  “I’ll plug you right through the heart!”

  “I was fouled, I tell you. That damned butterfly—” The swordsman wailed, batting at his face.

  “I’ll knock it off,” said Gaston. He steadied his pistol with the utmost care.

  Again the butterfly settled on De Brosse’s nose, crept up to his forehead. He struck at it, knocked it down. Then the girl’s voice cried out.

  “Don’t kill it. Don’t!”

  Out of the door she came running to throw herself at De Brosse. Her voice was nothing less than hysterical.

  “How could you do such a thing, Maurice? You struck it down you—you brute!”

  “And which is more important,” the swordsman asked coldly, “my life or the life of a measly butterfly?”

  “Oh, Maurice!” The girl broke into angry tears. “After all I’ve told you!” The father hurried down to her as she bent to pick up the brilliant little winged creature. “It’s dead? I’m sorry,” he said consolingly. Then turning to De Brosse, he said coldly, “I’m surprised, Maurice. You’ve been here many times. You know how Madeline and I feel. Every living thing has its place. We’re all a part of nature—you—these strangers—this butterfly—these flowers—”

  De Brosse was in no mood to be tender toward butterflies and flowers. He noted, however, that his adversary had chivalrously put the gun away.

  The swordsman struggled out of his fright and began some strong apology-talk in the direction of the girl and her father.

  “Sorry, Madeline. I didn’t intend this mess until these scoundrels accosted me—”

  He should have saved his lie until I was gone. I couldn’t take it. I marched into him with my fists and landed a solid one on his jaw that made his sword clank in its scabbard. But Gaston yelped, “Desist!” and the four butlers pounced on me and dragged me down the walk to the limousine. It had just come back, and the governor himself was in it.

  “Sorry, Gentlemen,” the governor said. “A slight error in arrangements. Under the conditions your visit will have to be postponed.”

  “Permanently,” I said, as we drove away. “If she prefers the company of that savage knife flinger, I don’t care to meet her.”

  “She won’t be seeing much more of De Brosse, I’ve a hunch.” Governor Revel’s smug jaw-heavy face wore the very expression that an amateur stage villain employs to inspire distrust. “I hope you’ll change your mind and meet her. And . . . I think you will.”

  On the sly Gaston whispered to me, “I know you will. The great lover of the stage can’t be scared off.”

  My own over-zealous curiosity—or perhaps it was my romantic weakness—conspired to make Gaston’s prediction come true.

  Then, too, the weather had a hand in it.

  The predicted storm struck the island, so we learned, a few hours after we returned to the continent. It played havoc with the village. It shattered many of the beautiful windows in the white-brick mansion. The papers carried the pictures.

  I read the news reports to the last detail. A rash plan burst upon me. I snatched at it. A few days of preparations, with Gaston’s help, and then . . .

  There were no brass bands blaring a welcome to stage stars when Gaston and I returned to the island of Fraise two weeks later. We were incognito.

  We stepped from the boat landing into a taxi, expecting to be taken directly to the home of Mademoiselle Butterfly. My plan was off to a perfect start.

  There were three of us: an architect, Jean Pash, famous for his restorations of cathedral windows following the World War; his two assistants—Gaston and myself.

  Monsieur Pash was due for a rude shock when he should discover how little we knew about glass mosaics. We had hired out to him as apprentices only after framing an accident and saving him from it, thereby establishing ourselves in his favor.

  Monsieur Pash’s order to the taxi driver caught us napping.

  “Take us first to the governor,” the architect said.

  The governor was the last person we wanted to see. Not that we didn’t consider ourselves well disguised. As actors we had taken on the make-up, clothes, dialects and manners suitable to architects’ apprentices. But if the governor should see through us—

  I literally held my breath as we taxied into the palace grounds. What was up the architect’s sleeve?

  Governor Revel strolled up to the runningboard, bestowed passing glances upon Gaston and me and gave his full attention to our boss. I breathed again.

  “Whatever the cost of fixing the blown-out windows,” said the governor, after he had checked over the architect’s credentials, “the island government will stand good for it. I want the scientist to be pleased.”

  “Thank you,” said the architect. “Monsieur Dujardin shall have new windows as fine as any Gothic cathedral. But tell me, is it safe for my assistants and me to stay at Monsieur Dujardin’s house?”

  “Safe?” Of course,” the governor snorted. “The hotel has been closed for repairs, as I wrote you, but the white brick mansion has ample accommodations. There are four butlers—”

  “I have heard,” said the architect, eyeing the governor stonily, “that one swordsman by the name of De Brosse recently disappeared.”

  This was true. The papers had headlined this “MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE!”

  “Oh, that!” the governor appeared to be greatly amused. “You have nothing to worry about.”

  “I have me to worry about,” said the architect. “I have my two assistants. If it is tru
e that Monsieur De Brosse disappeared, and that you did not even send officers to investigate—”

  The governor tossed his head back, scowling defiantly. “I have no jurisdiction over that end of the island,” he snapped. “The scientist has that kingdom to himself. But I will tell you what happened.”

  I nudged Gaston, who sat expressionless beside be. I knew he was taking every word down in his lightning swift mind.

  “The swordsman, like a few other men who have—er—removed themselves from circulation,” said the governor, jutting his wide jaw contemptuously, “were suitors of Monsieur Dujardin’s daughter. Each in turn, the scientist has confided to me, asked to marry her.”

  “Don’t tell us they resorted to suicide!” said the architect.

  “Wait till I finish,” said the governor.

  “You see, Mademoiselle Butterfly is so imbued with her father’s notions about man’s place in Nature that she subjects each lover to a test of worthiness. The Test of Dust, they call it. It must be a severe test. De Brosse, like his predecessors, failed. Naturally he was stung. Have you ever been badly stung, Monsieur Pash?”

  “I—er—ahem—The architect narrowed his eyes defensively.

  “The natural thing,” said the governor, “is to slip away into hiding. That’s what Maurice De Brosse has done. Instead of ferrying back to the continent, he slipped back by a steel cable. You’ll see it from the rear of the scientist’s house—the first cable of a bridge that was to have been built across the narrows.”

  “Curious,” said the architect.

  “Mademoiselle Butterfly’s defeated lovers find it the quickest way out,” said the governor, mopping perspiration from his forehead. “The other side of those narrows is Portugal. It’s a short distance to rail, ship, and air ports. You see how easy it was for De Brosse to give his world the slip? Now—have I done away with your chills, Monsieur?”

  The architect nodded, satisfied.

  Governor Revel waved us away. But glancing back I saw the chauffeur, the one who had driven Gaston and me on our previous visit, standing near the driveway staring after us. We turned out of sight, but I didn’t feel too comfortable over the deal.