The couple had walked, the girl swaying as close as the modern temperament would allow, for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, through the crowded promenade before crossing over to the marketplace, abandoned this time of day. Marcel gave them as much space as he dared, sure they would notice him eventually. If they did, however, they made no indication, eventually ducking into one of the alleys, the Englishman's cane clacking on the cobblestones.
Marcel grinned.
In the darkened alley, Marcel picked up his pace, enough to close the distance without drawing too much attention. He nearly tripped over another English dandy lying in the shadows, his tailcoat spotless but his matted hair stuck to the side of his face. "And still so early in the evening," Marcel muttered. "These aristocrats can't seem to drink like a gentleman."
The sound of his scuffling feet must have alerted the couple, who glanced back. Fortunately, they didn't seem alarmed. "If he knew who it is who follows him, he would not be so smug, so casual." Soon enough, he would know.
Before he could close the distance, the man rapped twice on the back door of a shop with his cane, opening the door for the girl before disappearing himself. "No matter, I can wait."
By now, it had become dark. Marcel tried to remain inconspicuous, but squinted into the dark, waiting for the door to re-open. He tried to remember what manner of shops were in this quarter, but came up blank. He never came down this way. Whatever they were doing, it had taken almost an hour. "Or perhaps they left through the front door?" But why would they bother with alleyways and back entrances if they were to leave through the front?
When they did finally emerge into the alleyway, the girl was unrecognizable, still dressed in the French mode, but in the latest of styles, the one the English women tried so hard to emulate. She now held to the man's arm, as unashamed as any pair of aristocrats he had ever seen. Still, Marcel knew it was the same girl. After all, had he not seen the same sort of finery in his own house, not much more than a year ago? The dress still hung in Hélène's armoire, though he doubted it would fit her now.
"You will not do this to another girl," he muttered through clenched teeth, starting towards them.
Marcel had planned to overtake the couple and overpower the man in the alley, but he thought better of it. It would not do to endanger the girl, stranger though she was. He continued to follow, hoping for an opportunity to catch the man alone.
Soon, he followed them out of the alleyway and back toward the promenade. They strolled arm in arm to the hotel Fleur D'Oranger, a popular place, well known for its grand ballroom. The girl's constant giggling annoyed him. He would have followed them in if he could have, but he'd never have been admitted, dressed as he was in a working man's clothing. Even if time would have allowed him, he had nothing to change into at home that would allow him to enter the place.
He resigned himself to sitting on the promenade benches, waiting for them to re-emerge. But then, he thought, maybe there was a way. He brushed himself off and headed back for the alleyway.
An hour later, he stood in the grand doorway, smelling slightly of brandy, with pant legs a touch too short for him, but dressed in coattails nonetheless. He had always wondered what it looked like inside. The thought of the vacationing Englishman waking up in the alley with a hangover wearing his baker's clothes made him chuckle to himself as he nodded to the doorman and strode in like he owned the place.
Inside, his senses immediately came alive. The statuary, the indoor fountains, the floral arrangements, all of them laced with fragrant orange blossoms, the lilting air of an orchestra striking the crescendo of an unfamiliar song. Doing his best to shake it off, he scanned the room for the couple. What, exactly, he would do when he found them, he wasn't sure, but he wasn't given much time to think about it.
A hand grabbed his from behind as a musical voice tickled his ears. No matter that he had no idea what was said, he knew immediately who had spoken. Every fiber of his being felt suddenly light and yet, at the same time, enflamed. Before he could bring himself to look, she brought herself, tiny hand still in his, to face him.
There he was, again so close to those eyes, frozen until the girl started toward the ballroom floor as the orchestra struck up the opening notes to the latest quadrille and other couples lined up. The girl continued to chatter as she led him by the hand, releasing him only to join the row of pastel-gowned ladies. Not knowing what else to do, he took a place uncomfortably in the row of men standing opposite and wondered if things could possibly get worse. He had no idea how to dance the quadrille. Or any dance, for that matter.
Suddenly afraid that he was sweating through his borrowed jacket, Marcel did his best to mimic the movements of the other dancers as they moved past, by, through one another, now holding hands with their partner, now separating to move in time around the other dancers. At first, he felt like he had two left feet, but when the girl smiled at him, a smile that went all the way to those eyes of hers, he felt that he could do it. After all, if the English could do it…
He felt confidence build with every new movement of the music and dance, able to keep one eye locked on the girl while watching the man on his left out of the corner of his other eye, surprising himself with how quickly he could mimic the movements. Of course, the girl was a splendid dancer and made the whole thing easier. If he were telling the truth, Marcel would have admitted that had she not been leading more than following, he doubted he could have pulled it off.
All was well, the girl smiling at him, when the other dancer—the one Marcel watched—turned the wrong way during one of the dance's intricate movements. Stupid Englishman! Marcel turned, gazing down to see those eyes as he reached for her small hand, but found himself instead looking at the polished buttons of an Englishman's jacket as he bumped into him and his partner—the silly little French girl. Looking up, he found himself eye to eye—though, thankfully, not cheek to cheek—staring into piercing green eyes. Not the lovely eyes of his little English girl, though they were a similar shade.
Stupid! He chided himself, having quite forgotten why he had come here in the first place. The man, startled, spoke, his tone and mannerisms conciliatory, even if his words were unintelligible. The silly French girl and Marcel's English girl laughed as if in harmony, grasping for the hands of their respective partners. But Marcel's eyes locked onto John's. John, who had bought pastries from him every day last year. John, whose eyes he looked into every day when his nephew needed consoling and no one else would do. John, who still desperately needed to be taught a lesson. John showed no sign whatsoever of recognition.
His English girl's laughter was neither mocking nor condescending, and Marcel found himself quickly drawn back into the dance. John would have to wait for another time. He could not maintain his fury in the presence of this girl.
"And now, Papa," he said, looking her gently in the eyes and knowing she could not understand a word, so it didn't much matter what he said, "Who is so unlucky now?"