Beauchene family business? Oh, yes! When I wasn’t sailing on the Seine, I was busy doing my part to carry forth the tradition. The great Beauchene tradition !” He said it as if it were something dangerous.
He picked up his bottle and stood up and peered out the porthole at the gray banners of rain. The sea had flattened, the waves beaten down by falling water.
“Then,” he said, “I met a woman.” Something in his voice changed; it deepened, and went dry. “A very beautiful and gracious woman. A woman far above my league. Yet she called to me. And I answered, yes I did. This woman…what can I say?” He put the bottle to his lips but did not drink, and so lowered it again. A sigh came out of him that might have been a whirlwind made small and private. “We were married,” he went on. “And she wanted things. Needed things. Those beautiful and expensive things a beautiful woman needs. Well…I had to make more money for her, didn’t I? I had to give her those things. To keep her, you see? Because a woman like that…if you lose her…you will hate yourself every day as long as you shall live. So I began gambling. More and more. It became a need of my own. I won some, oui , but in the end…you know, the house always wins.”
Beauchene was quiet for awhile. Quiet also was Michael Gallatin.
“The house,” Beauchene said, “took my family’s business. And then…I learned about all the other men. Just by accident, the first one. Then…I began watching, and following her. There were so many others. It must have been a thrilling thing for her.
“And I thought…of course a beautiful woman such as she would never be satisfied just with one man. Certainly not just with me. Well, look at me! And I was better then, but I was on the downward slide. Without money…how could you keep a woman like that?
“And then…and then…I followed her to a hotel. I followed her upstairs. To a room. I let her go in. She walked as a woman does to meet a favored lover. As she used to walk toward me. And then I waited for awhile, and I kicked the door in.”
Again the bottle went to his lips. Again it was lowered. Strong drink was not strong enough.
“There she was,” said Beauchene, as he peered out the porthole at the rainy gray world. “In the bed. Held in those black arms. And both of them looked at me, as if I was nothing . She had no shame. I think she must have known I was following her, because she’d been expecting me. Maybe that was part of the thrill, too. She smiled, just a little bit. Have you ever realized, Monsieur Gallatin, how deadly a smile can be?”
The question cut like a terrible blade.
“Oh,” Beauchene said softly, “I loved her more than life.”
Michael couldn’t see the man’s face. He didn’t want to see it.
“And furthermore,” Beauchene said in a voice strained with old agony still raw, “what would the fates decree, but to someday make me the master of a ship that bears her name?”
He turned toward Michael. Something of the rainy gray world was in his eyes. “You’re thinking now how much hate is in me. Yes, you’re right. I hate Caucasians, Orientals, Africans, Brits, Poles, Swedes, Norwegians, Dutchmen, Spaniards, Germans, Russians and all the rest of them. I hate Frenchmen and I hate French women. I hate the tall, the short, the plain and the beautiful. I hate those who frown and those who smile. I hate the lucky in love and the unlucky in life. And most of all, Monsieur Gallatin, most of all…I hate—”
There was a knock at the door. “Captain?” It was the young African.
“Most of all, I hate men with green eyes,” Beauchene said, finishing his litany. He aimed his mouth at the door. “What do you want ?”
“Sir…a motor launch is approaching on the port beam. Its signal lamp is asking us to hold our fire.”
Beauchene tilted the bottle to his lips and killed it. “Lower the ladder. One man should come aboard, and one man only. When he gets on deck,
He picked up his bottle and stood up and peered out the porthole at the gray banners of rain. The sea had flattened, the waves beaten down by falling water.
“Then,” he said, “I met a woman.” Something in his voice changed; it deepened, and went dry. “A very beautiful and gracious woman. A woman far above my league. Yet she called to me. And I answered, yes I did. This woman…what can I say?” He put the bottle to his lips but did not drink, and so lowered it again. A sigh came out of him that might have been a whirlwind made small and private. “We were married,” he went on. “And she wanted things. Needed things. Those beautiful and expensive things a beautiful woman needs. Well…I had to make more money for her, didn’t I? I had to give her those things. To keep her, you see? Because a woman like that…if you lose her…you will hate yourself every day as long as you shall live. So I began gambling. More and more. It became a need of my own. I won some, oui , but in the end…you know, the house always wins.”
Beauchene was quiet for awhile. Quiet also was Michael Gallatin.
“The house,” Beauchene said, “took my family’s business. And then…I learned about all the other men. Just by accident, the first one. Then…I began watching, and following her. There were so many others. It must have been a thrilling thing for her.
“And I thought…of course a beautiful woman such as she would never be satisfied just with one man. Certainly not just with me. Well, look at me! And I was better then, but I was on the downward slide. Without money…how could you keep a woman like that?
“And then…and then…I followed her to a hotel. I followed her upstairs. To a room. I let her go in. She walked as a woman does to meet a favored lover. As she used to walk toward me. And then I waited for awhile, and I kicked the door in.”
Again the bottle went to his lips. Again it was lowered. Strong drink was not strong enough.
“There she was,” said Beauchene, as he peered out the porthole at the rainy gray world. “In the bed. Held in those black arms. And both of them looked at me, as if I was nothing . She had no shame. I think she must have known I was following her, because she’d been expecting me. Maybe that was part of the thrill, too. She smiled, just a little bit. Have you ever realized, Monsieur Gallatin, how deadly a smile can be?”
The question cut like a terrible blade.
“Oh,” Beauchene said softly, “I loved her more than life.”
Michael couldn’t see the man’s face. He didn’t want to see it.
“And furthermore,” Beauchene said in a voice strained with old agony still raw, “what would the fates decree, but to someday make me the master of a ship that bears her name?”
He turned toward Michael. Something of the rainy gray world was in his eyes. “You’re thinking now how much hate is in me. Yes, you’re right. I hate Caucasians, Orientals, Africans, Brits, Poles, Swedes, Norwegians, Dutchmen, Spaniards, Germans, Russians and all the rest of them. I hate Frenchmen and I hate French women. I hate the tall, the short, the plain and the beautiful. I hate those who frown and those who smile. I hate the lucky in love and the unlucky in life. And most of all, Monsieur Gallatin, most of all…I hate—”
There was a knock at the door. “Captain?” It was the young African.
“Most of all, I hate men with green eyes,” Beauchene said, finishing his litany. He aimed his mouth at the door. “What do you want ?”
“Sir…a motor launch is approaching on the port beam. Its signal lamp is asking us to hold our fire.”
Beauchene tilted the bottle to his lips and killed it. “Lower the ladder. One man should come aboard, and one man only. When he gets on deck,
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