cohorts. The documents were a find, and April didn’t care to answer questions about how she got them, when she got them, or why she was suddenly the estate attorney’s primary contact. It all felt too precarious, delicate, as if one misstep might break the whole thing.
Chapitre XVII
Paris, 13 May 1891
I brought Georges Hugo and his packages back to my bed-sit, oh, yes I did! He only just left. Not to worry, the only packages I touched were the ones wrapped in paper. Mon dieu!
Many times I’ve heard my sweet hôtel neighbor Aimée complain about the effects of drink on men. Though I cannot speak from experience, it is, according to her, quite the softening agent. Evidently some men become so inebriated the only way to consummate the act would be to tie his member to a shoehorn and slide it in like a foot into a shoe! Aimée likened it to a damp stocking. It all sounds positively dreadful. Dressing will never be the same.
What young Aimée did not tell me, but what I already know, is that drink also makes people forget. Though I’ve not had to tussle with any drunken, flaccid men, my convent was famous for its wine production, and Sœur Marie did not hesitate to partake. We had multihour conversations she later forgot in their entirety.
“What were you up to last night, Marthe?” she would ask. “I didn’t see you the whole evening!”
Never mind she’d spent three hours regaling me with stories of her younger days (she was not always a woman of the Lord!) and that I often helped her change and get into bed. Once or twice I even assisted her on the toilet!
So when Georges Hugo came back to my bed-sit expecting a host of pleasures, I understood I only needed to tell him what happened. It didn’t actually have to happen. By the time we returned to the hôtel he was stupid with drink and quite near passing out. To hasten his slumber, I paid Aimée my last three francs to hit him in the back of the skull with an iron. Not to worry, she took care not to permanently injure the man! She has done this before.
Georges woke in the morning groggy and with the start of a headache. Aimée sat in for me and explained, in great detail, the acts “we” performed. I figured it was best for her to impersonate me. The things she told him I’ve never heard of! Apparently men like accessing women at multiple points of entry. And Aimée can fit a penis all the way down her throat!
Aimée spun a good (and sufficiently raunchy) tale, Georges none the wiser. Even if he could not remember doing those things with that woman, a man of his stature would never admit it! Pleased with the reports of his sexual prowess, he nodded along and ultimately smacked Aimée on the backside before reaching for his billfold. He remitted a tidy sum and shuffled out of the hôtel , whistling as he went.
I split the fee with Aimée, who was pleased to earn something for her artifice. She was quite grateful for a full 50 percent considering she didn’t have to perform on the implied sexual contract. For my part, I didn’t mind sharing because the money was not why I brought Georges back to my room in the first place.
It was about the presents, of course! The wedding gifts of Madame Daudet née Hugo. In the end the poor fellow’s load was much heavier when he entered the building versus when he left. Sadly, there will be at least a few cadeaux de Jeanne that won’t make it into the newspaper registries. There will, however, be quite a number of exquisite wedding gifts featured in any one of the Montmartre pawnbrokerages! There will also be, among other things, a new barmaid’s gown for me.
Merci, ma chérie! Merci!
Things might work out after all.
Chapitre XVIII
Paris, 18 June 1891
The Folies Bergère is a sight! Even after a month of employment I cannot get over the spectacle. It’s an assault on the senses. Everywhere there are lights and mirrors and luxurious fabrics, to speak nothing of the luxurious women! “Overflowing” is
Chapitre XVII
Paris, 13 May 1891
I brought Georges Hugo and his packages back to my bed-sit, oh, yes I did! He only just left. Not to worry, the only packages I touched were the ones wrapped in paper. Mon dieu!
Many times I’ve heard my sweet hôtel neighbor Aimée complain about the effects of drink on men. Though I cannot speak from experience, it is, according to her, quite the softening agent. Evidently some men become so inebriated the only way to consummate the act would be to tie his member to a shoehorn and slide it in like a foot into a shoe! Aimée likened it to a damp stocking. It all sounds positively dreadful. Dressing will never be the same.
What young Aimée did not tell me, but what I already know, is that drink also makes people forget. Though I’ve not had to tussle with any drunken, flaccid men, my convent was famous for its wine production, and Sœur Marie did not hesitate to partake. We had multihour conversations she later forgot in their entirety.
“What were you up to last night, Marthe?” she would ask. “I didn’t see you the whole evening!”
Never mind she’d spent three hours regaling me with stories of her younger days (she was not always a woman of the Lord!) and that I often helped her change and get into bed. Once or twice I even assisted her on the toilet!
So when Georges Hugo came back to my bed-sit expecting a host of pleasures, I understood I only needed to tell him what happened. It didn’t actually have to happen. By the time we returned to the hôtel he was stupid with drink and quite near passing out. To hasten his slumber, I paid Aimée my last three francs to hit him in the back of the skull with an iron. Not to worry, she took care not to permanently injure the man! She has done this before.
Georges woke in the morning groggy and with the start of a headache. Aimée sat in for me and explained, in great detail, the acts “we” performed. I figured it was best for her to impersonate me. The things she told him I’ve never heard of! Apparently men like accessing women at multiple points of entry. And Aimée can fit a penis all the way down her throat!
Aimée spun a good (and sufficiently raunchy) tale, Georges none the wiser. Even if he could not remember doing those things with that woman, a man of his stature would never admit it! Pleased with the reports of his sexual prowess, he nodded along and ultimately smacked Aimée on the backside before reaching for his billfold. He remitted a tidy sum and shuffled out of the hôtel , whistling as he went.
I split the fee with Aimée, who was pleased to earn something for her artifice. She was quite grateful for a full 50 percent considering she didn’t have to perform on the implied sexual contract. For my part, I didn’t mind sharing because the money was not why I brought Georges back to my room in the first place.
It was about the presents, of course! The wedding gifts of Madame Daudet née Hugo. In the end the poor fellow’s load was much heavier when he entered the building versus when he left. Sadly, there will be at least a few cadeaux de Jeanne that won’t make it into the newspaper registries. There will, however, be quite a number of exquisite wedding gifts featured in any one of the Montmartre pawnbrokerages! There will also be, among other things, a new barmaid’s gown for me.
Merci, ma chérie! Merci!
Things might work out after all.
Chapitre XVIII
Paris, 18 June 1891
The Folies Bergère is a sight! Even after a month of employment I cannot get over the spectacle. It’s an assault on the senses. Everywhere there are lights and mirrors and luxurious fabrics, to speak nothing of the luxurious women! “Overflowing” is
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