Minuet by Joan Smith Page B

asked.
    “We all will,” her father answered, with a quelling glance to the gentlemen. “We were only discussing your mother, my dear, and finalizing plans for her rescue. It will be very short now. Any day you may expect to see her.”
    She looked at him, questioning, hopeful, then her eyes flew to Mérigot. The glance did not escape Degan, but if Mérigot gave her any signal in reply, he was not fast enough to read it. The two seemed to have some understanding, some agreement not to discuss it further, he thought, from the manner in which Mérigot immediately began to discuss the play, too glibly, too enthusiastically, and Sally too entered into this new discussion.
    He hoped the play would cheer the girl up. It was School for Scandal, a comedy by Sheridan, some years old by now, but still often played and well accepted. It had some elements of French farce, and Degan expected to see Sally smiling, but as he sat behind her with Harlock at the back of the box, he was unable to confirm it. At the intermission seats were exchanged, Mérigot civilly offering the front seat to Degan. Sally said, however, that she would prefer the back of the box, which inclined Degan to remain where he was. He was enjoying the thing himself. There were some speeches by the old man, Sir Peter Teazle, who had married a young frivolous wife, that almost reminded him of some interchanges between themselves. He glanced at her often, hoping to catch her eye, but she sat unmoved, dispirited. At the high point of the farce, when Sir Peter’s wife was hiding behind a screen and Sir Peter in a cupboard, believing the lady behind the screen to be a French milliner, Degan and the rest of the audience were in loud gaffaws. He looked again at Sally, and saw a tear beginning to trickle down her cheek, while she bit her bottom lip between her teeth.
    “I want to go home, Degan,” she said, pulling on his sleeve.
    “I’ll take you,” he answered without an instant’s hesitation. He whispèred in Harlock’s ear, telling him to take a hired carriage, and they left at once. Mérigot cast one long, meaningful look on Sally before they went. It unsettled Degan, but he felt he had carried the day as he got her to himself for the trip home.
    “You didn’t like the play?” he asked, taking his customary place beside her on the banquette, and waiting for her to take his arm.
    “It was very good,” she said. “I am surprised at such a comic flair from an Englishman.”
    “I noticed you were not smiling,” he pointed out.
    “Ah, it was too French, mon ami. There is the trouble. The very same thing happened to Mama when we lived with Grandpère Augé. Very like, but it was Monsieur Béron who had to hide behind the screen when his wife came to tell Mama how he was being unfaithful to her. How it makes me homesick for Mama and Édouard! Ten days now. When do you think they will come?”
    “I don’t like the way Fox is dragging his heels. I begin to think if we want to see them alive we must make other plans. The ship that was to take the men sits at anchor waiting for approval to leave.”
    “You mean to say the ship has not left yet?” she asked, incredulous. “Papa said any day I might see them. I thought the ship left a week ago. They have only a little money left, and there is no saying Belhomme has not raised the price of asylum. He is a cochon, that one. Oh, Degan, what am I to do?” she asked, her voice rising in panic.
    He had the experience of not one hand on his arm, but two, clutching at him as if he were a raft in the middle of an ocean. She was soon sniffling as well, and accepting a handkerchief, while he sat woodenly, wondering what comfort he might offer without being guilty of taking advantage of the situation. He wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her, to say he would personally dash to France and bring the mother back, but prudence held him in check. He did not speak French at all well, had no idea how to get to France at