Mustapha returned.
‘You’d better come,’ he said to Seymour. ‘It’s Chantale. And the French.’
Seymour rose at once.
‘It might be better if it’s you,’ said Mustapha, ‘and not us.’
At the centre of the crowd was a policeman holding a man and beside them was a Frenchwoman, gesticulating fiercely. Beside them, gesticulating just as fiercely, was a fired-up Chantale.
‘And take her in, too,’ cried the Frenchwoman angrily.
‘Yes, take me in, too!’ shouted Chantale, equally angry. She held out her wrists as if for handcuffs. ‘Take me in! And see what happens!’
‘This is injustice!’ cried the man the policeman was holding. He was an Arab and seemed to Seymour slightly familiar. Then he worked it out. It was one of the young men, Sadiq’s friends, who had been sitting in the cafe when he had come out of the committee’s room with Mr Bahnini.
‘He molested me!’ cried the Frenchwoman.
‘No, he didn’t!’ shouted Chantale. ‘He just sat next to you.’
‘I don’t want to sit next to a dirty Arab!’
‘He doesn’t want to sit next to a dirty Frenchwoman!’ shouted Chantale wrathfully.
‘Hey, hey, hey! You can’t say things like that!’ said the policeman. Still holding the young man, he made a grab for Chantale.
‘Take them both in!’ shouted the Frenchwoman furiously. ‘Arrest them! He has molested me. And she has insulted me!’
Another policeman appeared. The first policeman handed the man over to him and tightened his grip on Chantale.
‘You leave her alone!’ shouted someone in the crowd. ‘It’s Chantale!’
‘Hands off, you bastards!’ shouted someone else.
‘Don’t you know how to treat a lady?’ cried a third man.
‘She’s not a lady!’ cried the Frenchwoman. ‘She’s a black!’
The next moment she reeled back from a slap by Chantale.
‘Hey, hey, hey!’ cried the constable.
‘She has insulted us!’ cried the young Arab, beside himself. ‘Me, Chantale, the whole Moroccan people!’
‘Why do we have to put up with this?’ called someone from the back of the crowd.
‘Yes, why?’
The crowd began to press forward angrily.
The Frenchwoman turned pale.
It was, strictly speaking, no concern of Seymour’s. He had no authority here. But old policeman’s habits died hard.
He pushed through the crowd.
‘Calm yourselves, calm yourselves, Messieurs, Mesdames!’
‘I am going to hit her again!’ shouted Chantale.
‘No, you’re not.’
He caught the hand just in time.
Chantale tried to wrench it free, then fell against Seymour. He grabbed her and held on to her.
‘Take her to the police station!’ cried the Frenchwoman. ‘She has assaulted me!’
‘Enough!’ said Seymour. ‘Enough!’
‘Enough!’ said another voice authoritatively.
A tall man had pushed through the crowd.
‘Let go of her!’ he said to the policeman holding Chantale. ‘And get them away. Quickly!’
‘Yes, sir!’ said the policeman, releasing Chantale and snapping to attention. ‘At once, sir!’
But then he hesitated.
‘Which of them, sir?’
‘Well…’
‘She assaulted me!’ cried the Frenchwoman.
‘She insulted me!’ cried Chantale.
‘Enough, enough! Madame Poiret, contain yourself! Chantale — really!’
‘And he molested me!’ said the Frenchwoman, pointing at the young Arab.
‘No, I didn’t!’
‘No, he didn’t!’ said Chantale.
‘No, he didn’t,’ said the crowd.
‘He sat next to her,’ said Seymour quietly. ‘That appears to be all.’
The man nodded. Seymour recognized him now. It was the French captain, de Grassac. He recognized Seymour at the same moment.
‘Monsieur Seymour!’
‘We’d better get them away,’ said Seymour.
De Grassac nodded again.
‘Follow me,’ he ordered the policemen.
He began to push a way through the crowd.
The others followed him, the policemen with their prisoners, Seymour, and Mustapha and Idris.
After they had gone a little way, de Grassac halted.
‘Is there really any need to go to the police station?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Seymour firmly.
‘She assaulted me,’ said Madame Poiret.
‘Perhaps not undeservedly, Madame,’ said Seymour.
‘She called Chantale a black,’ said the young Arab hotly. ‘If she had called her a Moroccan, that would have been all right. Chantale would be proud to be called a Moroccan. But to call her a black was an attempt to denigrate.’
‘He speaks like a lawyer,’ said Madame Poiret.
‘I am a lawyer,’ said the young Arab. ‘Or will be one soon.’
‘Did you do anything apart from sit next to her?’ de Grassac asked.
‘No. And I sat next to her because that was the only table free.’
‘Is this true, Madame?’
‘They should have directed him to another place.’
‘Why?’ demanded Chantale excitedly. ‘Why?’
‘Calm down, Chantale. You are not behaving in a seemly way. And nor are you, Madame.’
‘I don’t believe in letting people get above themselves.’
‘Who is this you’re talking about?’ demanded the young Arab fiercely.
‘You,’ said Madame Poiret. ‘And her,’ she said, pointing to Chantale.
‘Madame,’ said de Grassac, ‘Mademoiselle de Lissac is the daughter of a very gallant gentleman with whom I served and I will not allow any aspersion to be made against her honour. Tell your husband that, and tell him that it is Captain de Grassac who says so. If he would like to take it up with me, he knows where to find me.’
‘Come, come,’ said Seymour. ‘There is no need for things to get so far. Captain de Grassac is absolutely right. This is all best forgotten.’
‘I am not sure I can let it be forgotten,’ said the young Arab stiffly. ‘I have been insulted!’
Seymour took him to one side.
‘Certainly you have been insulted,’ he said. ‘And deserve an apology. But I am not sure how much one from this lady would be worth. And there is a complication, which you as a lawyer will certainly appreciate: about the only hard breach of the law that has occurred is that Chantale has struck the lady. Now, do you want her to have to answer for that in a court of law? Or wouldn’t you prefer to forget the whole thing?’
The young man hesitated.
‘Given the sort of justice we get here,’ he said reluctantly, ‘it might be best to forget the whole thing. Although when such things happen all the time, it is hard to forget them.’
‘Thank you.’
He looked at de Grassac and nodded. De Grassac turned to the two policemen.
‘Okay!’ he said.
They evidently agreed, for he nodded back.
‘Right,’ said Seymour, ‘off you go!’
The young Arab walked away, with dignity
‘You’re not going to let him go?’ said Madame Poiret.
‘Why not?’ said de Grassac. ‘He appears to have committed no offence.’
‘I shall complain to the Resident-General.’
‘Do. And perhaps I will have a word with him myself. I think, Madame, that it would be best if you went home and sat quietly for a while.’
Madame Poiret paused rebelliously, then shrugged her shoulders and marched off.
The two constables watched her go and then departed, with relief.
‘As for you, Chantale-’ said de Grassac.
‘I am sorry,’ said Chantale humbly. ‘I should have kept my mouth shut. But when I heard what she was saying to Awad, and saw that the police were going to take him away — it was so unjust!’
‘Yes, well, these things happen,’ said de Grassac. ‘It might be wiser if you didn’t get involved so readily.’
‘I’m just an unbalanced, emotional Moroccan,’ said Chantale, not altogether acquiescently.
‘You, Chantale,’ said de Grassac, ‘are sometimes just a pain in the ass.’