the word. Everything is overflowing. Even the fountains in the garden! You cannot walk past without drenching the lower half of your skirt.
Each evening brings a steady wave of people, both men and women. The guests sweep through the front doors and take a seat wherever they please. Some promenade the galleries while animals and humans perform on stage. Already I’ve written about the elephant. Gérard still cannot get him to bend to his wishes and, even worse, the beast has helped himself to a seat upon many a habitué .
We have other animals, though. Animals that are a touch more compliant! There are monkeys and horses and even a tiger. It is not as dangerous as it sounds. Though Gérard claims otherwise, I am certain he drugs the cat. Instead of roaring ferociously the poor creature stumbles around the stage and nine times out of ten falls into the orchestra.
In addition to the animal shows, on any given night patrons can witness ballet, operetta, or acrobatics with special effects. More than one person has caught fire. And last night—last night! The scene almost defies description.
Imagine this: A glass chandelier dangles over the audience. It is massive, three tiers tall and bigger than most carriages. Now picture yourself sitting below this magnificent chandelier, the light dancing on your gloves and skirt. It’s a hallmark of the Folies, everyone has heard of the famous chandelier. Customers come to expect this display: the glittering lights, the dancing reflections, the polished crystal. It is so magical, so transcendent; depending on the dancer it can be the best part of the show.
Suppose you were one of our patrons last night. You sit down and notice there is something different about your skirt. It looks, somehow, less luminous. Its threads do not dance. Then you realize: the chandelier! Mon dieu! They forgot to light it! You glance up. You gasp! Because instead of rows of glass and lights you see rows of women—nude women. A chandelier of nipples and flesh!
The performers stayed like that for three hours, smiles plastered on their faces, dark, prominent nipples unfailingly erect, pointed outward. Some of our most famous cancan dancers were up there. It made me quite glad to be a barmaid. I enjoyed the sight but do not have the fortitude. Or the lack of modesty!
Aside from naked ladies hoisted in the sky, I’ve met many interesting people at my post—more interesting than if I’d been hanging nude from a lighting fixture, that’s for certain. There are, of course, the various Hugo relations. Thankfully Georges shows no sign of recognition when he and I interact. I also meet painters and poets and writers, even pseudowriters such as that gossipmonger Marcel Proust. He thinks himself a master of words when he does nothing more than write a society column. What a bore he is!
A fellow named Robert de Montesquiou pays me quite a lot of attention. He is supposedly a poet of some sort, though I’ve never heard of him. He certainly dresses poetically enough, his favorite a pistachio-colored suit with a white velvet waistcoat. Often he wears flowers in place of a necktie and he always sports a ring the size of an egg, inside which he claims to keep human tears. He is quite fond of the boys but once tried to woo Émilie with a bedpan. It belonged to Napoleon in his Waterloo days but nonetheless was still a bedpan. He is dangerously handsome but I don’t know what to make of him.
Despite the frequent amusements, my job can prove quite boring at times. It’s rather plebeian, and by the end of the day my hands are sore and my feet swollen. Don’t misunderstand! I mean not to complain. For the most part I enjoy it. I love looking at the dresses coming in, the dresses going out, the dresses coming off. Indeed, they come off!
Though I was being mouthy at the time, my assessment on that first day was not far off the mark. While the girls at the Folies Bergère are hardly the sickly creatures creeping out of
Each evening brings a steady wave of people, both men and women. The guests sweep through the front doors and take a seat wherever they please. Some promenade the galleries while animals and humans perform on stage. Already I’ve written about the elephant. Gérard still cannot get him to bend to his wishes and, even worse, the beast has helped himself to a seat upon many a habitué .
We have other animals, though. Animals that are a touch more compliant! There are monkeys and horses and even a tiger. It is not as dangerous as it sounds. Though Gérard claims otherwise, I am certain he drugs the cat. Instead of roaring ferociously the poor creature stumbles around the stage and nine times out of ten falls into the orchestra.
In addition to the animal shows, on any given night patrons can witness ballet, operetta, or acrobatics with special effects. More than one person has caught fire. And last night—last night! The scene almost defies description.
Imagine this: A glass chandelier dangles over the audience. It is massive, three tiers tall and bigger than most carriages. Now picture yourself sitting below this magnificent chandelier, the light dancing on your gloves and skirt. It’s a hallmark of the Folies, everyone has heard of the famous chandelier. Customers come to expect this display: the glittering lights, the dancing reflections, the polished crystal. It is so magical, so transcendent; depending on the dancer it can be the best part of the show.
Suppose you were one of our patrons last night. You sit down and notice there is something different about your skirt. It looks, somehow, less luminous. Its threads do not dance. Then you realize: the chandelier! Mon dieu! They forgot to light it! You glance up. You gasp! Because instead of rows of glass and lights you see rows of women—nude women. A chandelier of nipples and flesh!
The performers stayed like that for three hours, smiles plastered on their faces, dark, prominent nipples unfailingly erect, pointed outward. Some of our most famous cancan dancers were up there. It made me quite glad to be a barmaid. I enjoyed the sight but do not have the fortitude. Or the lack of modesty!
Aside from naked ladies hoisted in the sky, I’ve met many interesting people at my post—more interesting than if I’d been hanging nude from a lighting fixture, that’s for certain. There are, of course, the various Hugo relations. Thankfully Georges shows no sign of recognition when he and I interact. I also meet painters and poets and writers, even pseudowriters such as that gossipmonger Marcel Proust. He thinks himself a master of words when he does nothing more than write a society column. What a bore he is!
A fellow named Robert de Montesquiou pays me quite a lot of attention. He is supposedly a poet of some sort, though I’ve never heard of him. He certainly dresses poetically enough, his favorite a pistachio-colored suit with a white velvet waistcoat. Often he wears flowers in place of a necktie and he always sports a ring the size of an egg, inside which he claims to keep human tears. He is quite fond of the boys but once tried to woo Émilie with a bedpan. It belonged to Napoleon in his Waterloo days but nonetheless was still a bedpan. He is dangerously handsome but I don’t know what to make of him.
Despite the frequent amusements, my job can prove quite boring at times. It’s rather plebeian, and by the end of the day my hands are sore and my feet swollen. Don’t misunderstand! I mean not to complain. For the most part I enjoy it. I love looking at the dresses coming in, the dresses going out, the dresses coming off. Indeed, they come off!
Though I was being mouthy at the time, my assessment on that first day was not far off the mark. While the girls at the Folies Bergère are hardly the sickly creatures creeping out of
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