“I don’t know him,” Serena insisted, “but I believe he was there, yes.”
Suddenly, she didn’t want to tell her friends how he’d knocked her over and helped her up. But if he was to be a new regular patron of the Palais-Royal, then life had just become a little more interesting.
He was handsome, indeed.
“You’re looking over there again,” Felicity said, sounding a little peeved, possibly on her brother’s behalf.
“I’m only looking because you are both looking,” Serena protested.
“And why not?” Suzanne asked. “Look at his shoulders and his fine head of hair.”
“Hush!” Serena said, when her friend’s voice grew louder. “Why don’t we go elsewhere?”
“Nonsense,” said Felicity. “I’m not leaving because some new monsieur has taken your fancy.”
Serena sighed and poured herself another glass, hoping Felicity would not take offense at Serena’s lack of interest in her friend’s brother. They went back to chatting, and Suzanne told her everyone was buying red and blue fabric in anticipation of Bonaparte’s return. They would make rosette badges for their hats and coats.
A crash at a nearby table grabbed her attention.
The red-kerchiefed man was standing, his chair on its side, and the Englishman rose slowly to his feet, glancing around uncomfortably. Silence blanketed the café for the span of about three heartbeats, and then conversation resumed. People having too much to drink and becoming boisterous was nothing new at the Café des Aveugles, where the working class had come since before the Revolution to discuss and debate, to smoke and to drink.
Nevertheless, the red-kerchiefed man was glowering, looking as if he intended to start a fight.
“Je m’excuse,” she heard the Englishman utter, and Serena started to wonder if an apology was the only thing he could say correctly in French.
The other man let out a string of outraged oaths, gravely insulted and ready to do bodily injury the moment the Englishman stepped outside.
Unsure if he understood the kerchiefed man’s intent to fight, Serena leaned over and tapped the table to get his attention.
The Englishman’s rich brown eyes widened. Instinctively not wishing to speak in English in case he was hiding his nationality as many had done in France for the past two decades of war, which she herself was doing even then, she spoke in slow, clear French.
“He believes you have insulted him, monsieur, and wants you to go outside to be beaten.”
“But yes, he did insult me,” interrupted the other man, hands on his hips.
The Englishman looked confused and shook his head. “No,” he replied in French. “I said you had a good solid head on your shoulders,un tête de noeud, yes?”
“What!” the other man exclaimed, growing red in the face as his anger increased until he matched the color of his kerchief.
Serena couldn’t help smiling and her friends laughed outright.
“Monsieur,” she spoke again to the Englishman. “I don’t know what you’re trying to say, but you’re calling him a —” There was no choice but to slip into English. Dropping the level of her voice to a whisper while leaning closer, she said, “— a penis head.”
Switching back to French at his shocked expression, she added, “It is very rude.”
Her friends laughed again.
The handsome stranger immediately launched into a flurry of apologetic words, and, at last, the other man lowered his hands to his sides and nodded. Yet he didn’t resume his seat. Instead, he turned and walked out, back rigid, obviously annoyed.
The Englishman looked deflated. Whatever his purpose with the other man, it had not gone well. He glanced over at her.
“Merci,”he said. “Your English is very good.”
She smiled and nodded. He had no idea.
“And since I am in your debt, not to mention what occurred last night,” he continued, “may I buy you a bottle of wine?”
She felt her friends’ stares, as they wondered to what he was referring.
