Love of Seven Dolls by Paul Gallico Read Free Book Online

could make a move, intruding himself into her room, her consciousness, her bed, and then her person.
    The brutality of his passion brought her close to a climax of her own, one of seemingly unbearable grief, anguish and pain, and once she murmured his name, “Michel,” piteously. She thought that surely she would die.
    Then he was gone at last, leaving her shamed to death because he had abused her so callously without loving her, weeping miserably with humiliation and hurt because of his cynical contempt for her, the disgusting arrogance and carelessness of his possession of her person. He had not given her a single kindly glance, or caress, or kiss; no word, no gentleness. He had left not a solitary ray of hope to illuminate the despair that engulfed her, that within his strong, imprisoning, goatish body there beat a human heart.
    And she was the more shamed because of the instinct that told her that despite the horror and brutality, she had yielded and the act and the moment might make her for ever his.
    These were the black memories, her thoughts and fears that morning as she washed and clad the body that was no longer a citadel, and prepared to face what the day would bring.
    And yet the miracle occurred again, for that day was yet like any other, except if anything the troupe was still kinder and more friendly to her.
    Carrot Top greeted her with a shrill cry of delight when he arrived at the booth. “Hey, Mouche! Where you been? Do you know what? There’s sausage for breakfast. Golo! Give Mouche her sausage.”
    As the Senegalese appeared from behind the booth with garlic country sausage and fresh bread on a paper plate, Mr. Reynardo popped up from below with a large piece in his jaws and thrust it at her, saying, “Here. I saved a piece of mine for you. And you know how I love sausage . . .”
    Mouche said, “Oh Rey. Did you really. That was sweet of you . . .”
    From below a protesting rumble was heard and as Carrot Top vanished Alifanfaron appeared. “Say, who stole that piece of sausage I was saving for Mouche?”
    Shocked at such affrontery Mouche cried, “Rey, you didn’t . . .” But the attitude of guilt of the fox condemned him. She said severely, memory of all her own troubles fading, “Rey, give it back to Ali at once. There. Now, Ali, you may give it to me.”
    The giant presented it. “It’s only because I’m so stupid. Rey said he just wanted to borrow it to see if it was as big as his.”
    Mouche took it from him, leaned over and kissed the side of his cheek. “Poor, dear, Ali,” she said. “Never you mind. It’s better to be trusting than to have no principles at all like some people around here . . .”
    Reynardo had the grace to look abashed and flattened himself like a dog at the end of the counter. He said, “I tried to save you a piece of mine, honestly, I did, Mouche, but it got eaten.”
    The girl regarded him ruefully. “Oh, Rey . . .” she cried, but there was tenderness in her voice as well as reproof. How had it happened so quickly that the iron bands that had clamped about her heart were easing, the sadness that had weighed her down was lifting? The play was on again.
    Like a flash, at the first indication that she might be relenting, Reynardo whipped across the stage and with a hang-dog look snuggled his head against her neck and shoulder. Madame Muscat made a brief appearance at the far side of the booth with a small feather duster and dusted the proscenium arch vigorously.
    “I warned you, didn’t I? You can’t trust him for a minute.” But she did not say who was not to be trusted. “When you’ve buried as many husbands as I have . . .” she began, and then vanished without concluding. Carrot Top reappeared, clutching a pale blue thousand franc note.
    “For you, Mouche,” he said. “Salary for last week.”
    Mouche said, “Oh Carrot Top, really . . . ? But ought you? I mean I never . . .”
    “It’s all right,” the leprechaun replied. “We held a