Memoirs of a Courtesan in Nineteenth-Century Paris by Celeste Mogador

was tanned, her hair braided
    

    Thérèse
    in the back. Two velvet ribbons circled her head. On her ears were brass rings.
    She was wearing a short black velvet jacket and a checked skirt. Her little boots, too big for her feet, were tied with strings.
    ‘ Oh,’ she said, ‘‘I was dreaming that I had just sung at the Champs-Elysées, I was passing the hat, and got forty sous.’
        
    The door-hatch opened, and a needlessly harsh voice sounded. ‘Are your beds up so I can sweep? . . .’
    ‘ Yes,’ my neighbor answered.
    The door opened. A man entered, took the tub and left.
    The guard stopped at the door and asked, ‘‘Who whimpered all night?’’
    ‘ So, can we not cry in jail anymore, these days?’’ replied the beggar.
    Besides, you are so friendly. . . .’
    ‘ That does not prevent you from coming back, vagrant!’’
    ‘‘It is not my fault if I keep coming back.’
    Once the room was swept, they left. The beggar yelled out to them,
    ‘ Send us the soup.’
    This carefree attitude seemed unnatural to me. So, it was possible to leave this prison since she had come back. But how, once outside, could one get in a situation to come back?
    I asked my neighbor, ‘‘Why are you here?’’
    ‘ Because I was begging.’
    ‘ Why did you beg?’
    ‘‘Well, to eat, of course!’’
    ‘‘Do you not have a father or a mother?’’
    ‘ Oh! I have Maman. . . . My father was a roofer but he was killed at work five years ago. There are five of us children, and I am the oldest.
    My brother and I, one day that there was no bread in the house, we left without a word and we went our separate ways and begged! . . . That evening I had fifteen sous, my brother, nine, and I am certain that he did what I did, that he ate some cookies. Maman was feeding my youngest sister. I went to buy bread, milk, and sugar. I did it again the next day. I thought it was fun. I always had more than my brother. One day I asked for money from a man who brought me here. I stayed a week.
    Maman came to get me. It was obvious that she was destitute, so they promised her some help and I was allowed to go. We were given one loaf of bread a week. That is not much for six. I went begging again. I
    

    Thérèse
    ran into the man who had brought me here and he pretended not to see me. Another one saw me and arrested me two days ago. They said I would be sent to the reformatory. Good! I shall learn to read and work.’
    The singer said, ‘‘I tweak a guitar in front of cafés. Several of us had gotten together: a hurdy-gurdy player, a woman who played the harp, and a violinist. The latter kept all the money, and I worked for nothing so I left them. Three days ago on the Champs-Elysées two men brought me up to their rooms to sing and had me arrested for that.’
    This girl was nine years old, and she had been lost for two years. She left the house of detention to go to a hospital.
    They were bringing the bread, a dark round loaf covered with bran.
    Its core was like putty.
    Someone opened the hatch and yelled, ‘ Vendor! Who wants to buy something?’’
    Rose asked for white bread and some sausage. The singer also took some bread and some writing paper. The beggar started prancing around the supplies, and the singer gave her half her bread.
    ‘ Come on,’ Rose said to her, ‘ cut a piece of my sausage, you nasty shrew, and I dare you to say that I have the mange!’’
    The beggar took half and said, ‘ Give me a little bit of your bread.’
    She returned to my bench and handed me half of what she had, and said, ‘‘It is for the two of us.’
    My first inclination was to push her hand away, but she seemed so sad, I took half of her bread. I was trying to think of something to give her. . . . I had an idea! I got up and took off my colored petticoat; since my dress was lined, I could do without it. I gave it to her. She was elated.
    ‘ She