Mistral's Daughter by Judith Krantz Page B

earth is
that?"Kate Browning asked Mistral, from her vantage point at one
of the raised tables that circled the dance floor.   "A Realist manifesto," he
shrugged.   He had recognized Maggy as
soon as she appeared.   No one else in
Montparnasse had ever flaunted hair of such a flamboyant shade of orange, a
color he'd never forgotten.   But he could
scarcely reconcile the awkward, embarrassed girl who didn't know the first
thing about posing with this shamelessly revealed creature, lounging naked
before a thousand eyes, and laughing.   Laughing!
    He had heard about her from
dozens of people as she became well known, he had often glimpsed her hurrying
about the streets from a distance, but they had never exchanged a word in the
eleven months that had passed since her first day as a model.   If he had been honest he might have admitted
to himself that he had avoided her, he might even have recognized that he was
ashamed of the manner in which he had chased her away — but such
thoughts were foreign to Mistral's attitude toward life.   Second thoughts about a silly girl?   No, life was too short, there was too much
work to do.
    "Julien!   Do you know how to dance?"   Kate Browning asked in the quietly imperious
manner that she was unaware she possessed, although she was only twenty-three.
    "Dance?   Of course I dance.   But not well.   I warn you."   "Well,
don't you want to dance?"
    "In this mob?"
    "Come on, I'm in the
mood," she said, not to be frustrated.   "What's that they're playing now?" he asked.
    "’Mountain
Greenery’.   It's nice and bouncy and you
can't just sit here."
    Reluctantly he got to his
feet, inches taller than anyone in the room, and followed the trim American
onto the infernal dance floor on which the bodies were so pressed together that
his lack of dancing skills wasn't important.   For a few minutes they moved inexpertly almost at the edge of the crowd
as the music changed to a pulsing ragtime beat.   Suddenly Mistral and Kate were squeezed from both sides by scores of
dancers crowding to get a better look at Maggy, whose four bearers were
approaching.
    Maggy, on her perch, was
wrapped in a mounting delirium induced by the warm bath of cheering admiration
whirling around her.   There was an immense
liberation in being naked yet covered by paint as if she were visible and
invisible at the same moment. She felt as if she were hovering over the
ballroom floating free.   From every side
hands reached out to try to touch her but she was aware of no menace as the
artists raised the silver oval higher and higher to keep her out of reach.
    Suddenly, from the crowd, a
voice shouted, "Down with the Realists!"
    "Down with the
Surrealists!" screamed a dozen other voices.   The crowd, which only a second before had
been good-natured in spite of the suffocating pressure of the dance floor,
joined battle vigorously — this is what they had been waiting for all
evening.   Kate Browning, aware of danger,
adroitly slipped out of Mistral's arms, and threaded her way to the edge of the
crowd, leaving Mistral to follow her.
    Jostling, shoving, elbowing
each other, howling slogans, the dancers closed in on Maggy's four artists,
almost knocking Alain and André off their feet.   Pierre and Henri, the Camembert and Roquefort, still struggled
manfully.   However, without the careful
balance the four artists had achieved, the big wooden platform tilted
alarmingly and, with a start, Maggy realized that she was in danger of falling
and being trampled underfoot.   She looked
around, suddenly alert, keeping her wits about her.   Everywhere there was a mass of bodies, men
punching each other, women ducking and screeching.   The place had erupted into a riot.
    Crouching, Maggy gathered
herself together, coiled herself up into a tight ball and launched herself off
the platter with a strong leap sideways, aimed right at the only point in the
room that seemed stable — Mistral's black hat.
    He caught her with