by Paul Gallico
Mouche continued to weep as though she would never be able to cease.
Golo got out of the car, was absent for a moment and then returned. “Mouche,” he called gently. “Miss Mouche. You look here. Please Miss Mouche, you look . . .”
The insistence of the soft pleading reached through to Mouche. She took her hands from her face and did as she was bidden. She stared, unbelieving for a moment. Carrot Top and Mr. Reynardo were looking at her over the top of the front seat.
“Carrot Top! Rey . . . ! Oh my darlings . . .” Mouche cried, her heart near to bursting.
The two stared at her woodenly. Between them shone the face of Golo like the mask of an ancient African god carved out of ebony, but an oddly compassionate God. He said sadly, “They not talk for me, Miss Mouche. But they love you. That’s why I brought them here so you remember that. They always love you.”
Mouche reached over and took the two puppets from his hands and cradled the empty husks in her arms and they brought her comfort until her sorely tried spirit rebelled in an outcry that came from her depths, “But why does he hate me so, Golo, Golo? Why is he so cruel? Why is he so evil?”
The Senegalese reflected before he replied. “He bewitched. His spirit go out from him. Another come in. Golo see magic like this many years ago in Touba in Senegal when he was a boy.”
Mouche could understand this for she herself came from a country where the supernatural was accepted.
She said, “Then you don’t hate him, Golo?”
The Senegalese produced another Gaulois and lit it and the match illuminated the cream of his eyeballs. He replied, “Black man not allowed to hate.”
Mouche drew in her breath sharply, “Ah,” she cried, “I hate him! Dear God, how I hate him!”
Golo’s cigarette glowed momentarily and he sighed likewise. The noises of the city and the fair were stilled except for the occasional shattering protest of the mangy and hungry lion caged at the far end. He said, “It good sometimes to hate. But I think it better not to. Sometimes, when you hate, you forget if you sing . . .”
His guitar was by his side and so softly that it was barely audible he plucked out the melody of a Breton lullaby and he hummed it softly. Goodness knows where he had picked it up during the long, rough years of his perpetual exile from the land of his birth, in what camp, prison or country he had heard it sung by another lonely expatriate from the hard-rocked sea-fringed shores of Brittany. He remembered the words after a moment or two:
“My young one, my sweeting,
Rock in your cradle,
The sea rocks your father,
The sea rocks his cradle,
God grant you sweet sleep,
God grant him return.”
When he played it again, Mouche began to sing it with him, rocking the two dolls in her arms, for that night she was more than half mad from what had been done to her.
Yet Golo had been right; the music worked its magic and the hatred seemed to fade. In its place there returned an echo of that odd compassion she had so often felt for this evil man and which she had never understood.
Golo’s eyes were closed and he was singing, dreaming and swaying:
“The storm winds are blowing,
God rules the storm winds,
Love God, my sweeting,
Safe rides your father,
God rocks his cradle,
God sends you sleep.”
They sang it together in comfort, and not long after in happiness. Golo left off playing. When the vibrations of the strings died away, Mouche went to sleep, the heads of Carrot Top and Mr. Reynardo still cradled to her breasts. The cigarette glowed yet a while longer and then was extinguished. Darkness and quiet fell over the Citroën and its strangely assorted inhabitants.
Inextinguishable was the hatred that Capitaine Coq felt for the drab he had taken to his bed and soon he pushed her from the room, and lay there cursing helplessly, what or why he did not know, except it was the thought of Mouche, her simplicity, her gentleness, her inviolability and the impossibility of reducing her to the state of the woman he had just flung from his bed.
Yet the next day, life returned once more to Carrot Top and Mr. Reynardo and all the others. Mouche again appeared before the booth to look after, abet and interpret them to the children, large and small, infant and adult that came to look and listen.
The tour was continued, but with a change. Thereafter, Capitaine Coq took a second room for Mouche when they stayed overnight, and avoided contact with her as much as possible.
And there was yet another difference, but this was more gradual in developing when they worked their way down through Annecy and Grenoble, heading for the south of France as the weather began to turn crisp and chill. The nature of the performance was changing.
More and more the stereotyped plot was abandoned, and the characters and the story wandered off into flights of imagination stemming from the schemes of Mr. Reynardo, the streak of poetry and imagination in Carrot Top and Mouche’s unique ability to enter into their make-believe instantly.
If they remained in a town for a week, a trip to the moon organised by Carrot Top with Dr. Duclos as scientific director might occupy them during the entire stay, with the result that people came back again and again to see how the affair was progressing, whether Gigi and Madame Muscat had succeeded in getting themselves taken along, and how Mouche was making out with Mr. Reynardo who had a dishonest scheme for merchandising pieces of the moon as souvenirs.
Again, the troupe appealed even more intimately to small communities where it played, by means of local gossip which seemed to collect astonishingly in the vicinity of the puppet booth to the end that Carrot Top might call conspiratorially:
“Psst—Mouche—Reynardo. Come here. But don’t tell the girls. I know a secret . . .”
Mouche would move in closer, her plain face illuminated with excitement. “A secret. I love secrets. Oh, Carrots, tell me at once and I won’t pass it on to a soul . . .”
With his bogus smile, Reynardo would insinuate, “Is there anything in it? Don’t be a fool, Carrots. Tell me, maybe we can sell it . . .”
Carrots would protest, “Oh Rey, it isn’t that kind of a secret. It won’t keep forever. In fact, it won’t keep much longer. I understand that Renee Duval, the wife of Carpenter Duval back there in the audience is expecting a little addition . . .”
Reynardo would yap, “What? Why, they were only just married. Wait—let me count . . .” and lifting one paw he would pretend to tick off the months, “September, October, November . . . etc.,” until Mouche would go over and stop him with, “Reynardo—you mustn’t. That’s none of your business.”
Then for the next few minutes while the audience roared they would discuss the sex of the expected one; Dr. Duclos learnedly and stuffily discussed biology, Madame Muscat gave advice, Ali offered himself as baby sitter. Through the magic of Mouche’s personality, the villagers were swept into the middle of these odd doings and made a part of them.
Mouche was particularly adept at singling out wide-eyed children in the audience and summoning them over to meet the members of the cast, to shake hands with Ali to prove how harmless he was, stroke Mr. Reynardo and converse with Carrot Top. They were unique, and the parts of France through which they made their way were not long in discovering it. The reputation of the talking and singing puppets and the live girl who stood out front and conversed with them was beginning to precede them and when they reached Nice on the Côte d’Azur it had an effect that was to be far-reaching upon all of them.
MOVING SOUTH THEY REMAINED FOR TEN days in Lyon for the big October Fair, pressed on to Marseille and Toulon, then ventured to rim the Côte d’Azur, the strip along the Mediterranean devoted to the wealthy and in Nice joined up with a large circus playing in vacant lot not far from the seashore. They set up on the Midway as part of the sideshows. The rich came slumming from the big hotels, paused momentarily by the booth and were unable to tear themselves away.
&
nbsp; The morning of the final day of the circus which was then going on to Monte Carlo, a fat, untidy looking old gentleman with a veined nose, the calculating eyes of a pig, wearing a bowler hat and carrying a gold headed cane, bustled up to Golo at the booth and demanded to see the proprietor.
The family was having its morning breakfast get-together meeting before the day’s performances began and which counted as a kind of warm-up during which plans for the day were discussed.
The old gentleman was immediately greeted by Carrot Top’s shrill, “Did you have an appointment?” and Reynardo’s yapping laugh, “First he’s got to have an appointment to make an appointment. That’s my department. Who did you say you thought you were?”
Gigi bobbed up and sniggered unpleasantly, “Oh, I thought maybe it was somebody handsome.”
Madame Muscat took her turn and reprimanded her. “Don’t be a fool, Gigi. He’s sure to be wealthy. Look at the fat on him. You don’t get all that lard on your bones when there is a hole in your pocket.”
It was obvious that the old fellow wasn’t making a very good impression on the troupe and Mouche apologised for them politely, “They’re being very naughty today. You must forgive them. Perhaps I can help you.”
It then turned out that he was an agent named Bosquet who booked acts for the Théâtre du Vaudeville in Nice, and he wished to negotiate for the troupe to appear on the stage in the show as one of the turns.
The news threw the entire collection of puppets into a kind of frenzy of excitement, joy, worry, advice and counter advice, plans and questions with Mr. Reynardo yapping hysterically and thumping back and forth across the counter shouting, “I’m going to be an actor. At last my true worth has been recognised. Ha, ha, it was me gave you the idea, wasn’t it, Bosquet old boy? Mouche, did you hear? We’re all going on the stage. I want to play Cyrano. I’ve got just the nose for it . . .”
It was a somewhat harrowing experience for Monsieur Bosquet who was made to show his credentials by Dr. Duclos and submit to an interview on the state of the morals of the theatre conducted by Madame Muscat, and then deal with Monsieur Nicholas and Carrot Top so that in the end he became confused into paying more for the act than he had intended.
He never did get to see Capitaine Coq, for when the contract was completed, Carrot Top took it below and returned with the document signed. Monsieur Bosquet then tried to make up for this by inviting Mouche to dine with him, for her thin, somewhat ungainly form, wide mouth and luscious eyes beneath the dark hair suddenly stirred him.
He was routed in confusion when Mr. Reynardo appeared, leaning on one elbow and regarding him sardonically as he grated, “Why you dirty, dirty old man. At your age! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself going after a baby, you with all those hairs growing out of your ears? I know what YOU’RE after.”
On the other side of the stage Madame Muscat with her arms akimbo snorted, “I suspected you from the first. I said so to Dr. Duclos. What are you prepared to give her if she goes with you, diamonds, furs, a car, perhaps, hein? Not you, you old skinflint . . . Don’t listen to him, my dear. I know the kind . . .”
Monsieur Bosquet fled while Reynardo roared with laughter.
The three weeks they took to prepare their act for the variety stage were not happy ones for Mouche, for while the rehearsals were as usual conducted by Carrot Top and Dr. Duclos, the sudden rise in the fortunes of the troupe seemed to have made Capitaine Coq more bitter and violent than ever. Aware that their engagement was only due to the catalytic presence of Mouche, he felt compelled to resent more than ever the fact that he owed to her an affluence and position he had never known before.
For some reason he had decided to abandon their successful formula and return to the puppet play they had given in the early days, and even the puppets appeared listless and seemed to respond mechanically to something in which they had long ago lost interest.
And so he was always at Mouche when they were together afterwards, for her speech, her appearance, her country origins, endlessly reminding her, “I picked you up out of the gutter. When will you learn something better?” He criticised her walk, her clothes, her voice. It seemed as though he was almost determined to make their debut on the stage a failure.
But if so he was doomed to disappointment and had forgotten the strange independent will of the seven dolls and the electric relationship that existed between them and the girl.
For the first performance on any stage of Capitaine Coq and his family opened riotously on a Saturday evening to a packed house as with the first appearance of Mouche the puppets individually and collectively threw away the script, so to speak, and for twenty minutes furnished the audience with entertainment that verged from the hilarious, when Mr. Reynardo attempted to make himself up as Cyrano, to the touching, when Alifanfaron suffered an attack of stage fright.
They were presented against a set of a village square, with Golo strumming his guitar to attract a crowd, but with the first appearance of Carrot Top and his excitement and delight at discovering the audience and his shrill shouts for Mouche to come and see, all pretence of giving an orderly show was abandoned and everyone, including Mouche, did exactly as they pleased.
Coq had originally provided a vulgar costume for Mouche. She came on instead in a simple skirt and peasant blouse, as natural as she was, her short-cut black hair and huge eyes shining in the spotlights that picked out the booth.
The puppets illuminated the theatre with their excitement at being on a stage. They brought on embarrassed stage hands and electricians whom Mouche at once put at ease, they attempted horribly garbled snatches from French classics, they made Mouche describe the members of the orchestra whom they could not see, they demanded different coloured spotlights; they upset all tradition in a dozen different ways.
And as usual, Mouche forgot where she was and even who, and became the innocent and marvelling playmate of the seven, and so carried them all straight to the hearts of the audience.
But while laughter ruled, the highlight was touched perhaps when Alifanfaron at the first sight of so large an audience froze into such a ludicrous and stammering attack of stage fright that not even Mouche could coax him out of it!
Golo strolled on out of the wings, plucking at his guitar. He chuckled and said in his soft, rich, African French, “Some time when you scared, it helps if you sing your scare away.”
His fingers created the notes he had once played for Mouche on a certain night long ago in far off Besançon. The girl picked up the thread at once. She went to the big, stupid giant, trembling and cowering in the booth, and put her arm about him, and rocking him gently sang with Golo:
“My young one, my sweeting,
Rock in your cradle—
The sea rocks your father . . .”
Carrot Top came up and joined in the chorus, and at the end the giant lifted his shaggy head, gazed out to all quarters of the audience and announced ineffably, “I’m not scared any more.” Carrot Top bounced over and patted Golo’s cheek and kissed Mouche. The house was as hushed as though it had been a church. Many in the audience were crying.
The next moment, Mouche and Reynardo were romping through their own version of “Va t’en,” with Gigi the eternal soubrette and later Madame Muscat and Dr. Duclos.
In the wings, during the performance, there stood a young man in blue tights with gold spangles and an overcoat thrown over his shoulders. Never once did he take his large, moist, handsome brown eyes from the face and figure of the girl by the puppet booth.
His name was Balotte, and he was an acrobat, a member of a troupe waiting to go onto the high trapeze in the turn that followed the puppet number. Other artists were likewise gathered there to watch the new act and find themselves as captivated as the audience.
But Balotte, who was a good, simple boy of somewhat limited intelligence and overweening vanity, was for the first time in his life falling in love with someone other than himself.
Looking out onto the stage at this gentle, g
ay, sincere and motherly girl, he felt his heart touched as it had never been before. Yet at the same time he was filled with a professional’s excitement at the show she was giving, for he appreciated what a girl who could make an audience sit up and take notice like that could do for him. He had long had it in his mind to go as a single and had been looking for a girl partner to throw him the handkerchief and stand about while he performed his feats.
The act came to a close to ear-shattering applause. Wave after wave of it poured over Mouche. She brought on each of the puppets for a bow. When the curtain closed upon her for the last time, she was standing with her back to the booth. Carrot Top had his cheek pressed against one of hers, an arm about her neck, Mr. Reynardo the other. Her eyes were shining. She had never been so happy.
When she came off, Balotte went to her and said, “Hola, little one. That was not bad, and I have seen many acts. Now stay here and watch me too. Afterwards I will have something to say to you.”
And so, out of politeness, Mouche remained in the wings and looked upwards at the handsome boy as he swung, leaped, whirled and somersaulted with his partners and occasionally threw her a look as he sat resting on the trapeze high up in the flies or brushed his moustache self-consciously.
Capitaine Coq came by, clad in black corduroy trousers and black high-necked sweater emphasising his pallor, his fox-coloured hair and the cold glitter of his eyes. It was a commentary on his art that outside of the stage manager, hardly anyone knew who he was. He paused for a moment and followed Mouche’s glance upwards. “Kinkers,” he sneered, using the showman’s derogatory term for acrobats, and spat. Then without another glance at Mouche he went on. He had made a date with a girl in the orchestra who played the flute. Now that he was becoming a success, it was time, he thought, to try it on with someone with a little class.
