absinthe while sketching a young woman seated at the other end of the bar. She appeared through a grayish haze of tobacco smoke tinged yellow by flickering candles and gaslights. The place reeked of fumes emanating from clay pipes and cheap cigarettes re-rolled from discarded butts, interfused with the odor of damp clothing clinging to infrequently washed bodies.
The young woman sang in a husky mezzo-soprano about her life on the streets to the accompaniment of an old man fingering a wheezing, out-of-tune concertina. The working-class patrons paid little or no attention to her; a couple of men played draughts while another watched, one in a dark corner behind Lautrec laid his head on his arms and snored, another plied his woman with liquor while groping her under the table, the few remaining men and women smoked, drank, stared into space, and grumbled about the weather, work, politics, and life in general.
Lautrec recognized his subject; she was Delphine, a dancer at the Moulin Rouge. Too hard-boiled and streetwise to be called pretty, there was still something attractive about her; dark hair and eyes, dusky skin, flat nose, thick sensual lips, large, even white teeth, perhaps all evidence of her mixed blood. He rendered her honestly with a facial expression reflecting the worldly resignation of her lyrics.
Delphine finished her song, turned toward Lautrec, and stared defiantly. He responded with a casual smile and a tip of his black bowler. She sauntered to his table, placed her hands on her hips, and said, “I know you, Monsieur. You’re the artist who hangs round the Moulin. Buy me a drink?” The ultimate phrase of her greeting might have been a command rather than a request, had it not been for a questioning upturn to her inflection and a curious aspect in her large brown eyes.
Lautrec had already made a quick study of her gestures, mannerisms, shabby dress, poor but proud demeanor. He immediately replied, “But of course, Mademoiselle. Name your poison,” and beckoned the bartender.
Delphine ordered absinthe. The bartender brought her drink; she took a swig, then for a while said nothing while Lautrec finished his drawing. Then: “I’m a good friend of Virginie Ménard; did you know that?”
Lautrec put down his charcoal and looked up at Delphine. “Yes Mademoiselle, I recall her mentioning you on occasion.”
“Oh, really? And I suppose you know that she’s gone missing. No one’s seen or heard from her for almost a week.”
“Yes, Mademoiselle, I have already been informed of that fact.” Lautrec exaggerated his toffee-nosed accent and continued smiling as though he were baiting her. He enjoyed picking fights; it broke the monotony and this woman looked tough enough to make it interesting.
Delphine drank some absinthe; her hand trembled and there was a noticeable quaver in her voice. She put down her glass and glared at Lautrec. “Have you also been informed of the fact that a woman’s body was found stuffed in a shit-hole on the street in front of your studio?”
“Yes, my landlady has told me as much.” He glanced at her empty glass. “Would you care for another absinthe?”
Delphine leaned over the table; her hand gripped a bag containing a razor. Her husky voice deepened and hardened into a sotto voce snarl: “If I thought—if I believed you had done anything to harm Virginie, I’d slit your ugly throat, here and now.”
Without a flinch or the slightest change of expression, he replied, “You might try to slit my throat, Delphine, but I’m quite capable of stopping you. I fear you’d be seriously injured in the process. So for both our sakes, please don’t think of trying. Nevertheless, I assure you I’ve not harmed Virginie, nor do I know her whereabouts. As for the unfortunate young woman in the cesspool, I know nothing about her either, and I wouldn’t jump to conclusions by assuming she’s Virginie. At any rate, this is a matter for the police. Have you gone to them with
The young woman sang in a husky mezzo-soprano about her life on the streets to the accompaniment of an old man fingering a wheezing, out-of-tune concertina. The working-class patrons paid little or no attention to her; a couple of men played draughts while another watched, one in a dark corner behind Lautrec laid his head on his arms and snored, another plied his woman with liquor while groping her under the table, the few remaining men and women smoked, drank, stared into space, and grumbled about the weather, work, politics, and life in general.
Lautrec recognized his subject; she was Delphine, a dancer at the Moulin Rouge. Too hard-boiled and streetwise to be called pretty, there was still something attractive about her; dark hair and eyes, dusky skin, flat nose, thick sensual lips, large, even white teeth, perhaps all evidence of her mixed blood. He rendered her honestly with a facial expression reflecting the worldly resignation of her lyrics.
Delphine finished her song, turned toward Lautrec, and stared defiantly. He responded with a casual smile and a tip of his black bowler. She sauntered to his table, placed her hands on her hips, and said, “I know you, Monsieur. You’re the artist who hangs round the Moulin. Buy me a drink?” The ultimate phrase of her greeting might have been a command rather than a request, had it not been for a questioning upturn to her inflection and a curious aspect in her large brown eyes.
Lautrec had already made a quick study of her gestures, mannerisms, shabby dress, poor but proud demeanor. He immediately replied, “But of course, Mademoiselle. Name your poison,” and beckoned the bartender.
Delphine ordered absinthe. The bartender brought her drink; she took a swig, then for a while said nothing while Lautrec finished his drawing. Then: “I’m a good friend of Virginie Ménard; did you know that?”
Lautrec put down his charcoal and looked up at Delphine. “Yes Mademoiselle, I recall her mentioning you on occasion.”
“Oh, really? And I suppose you know that she’s gone missing. No one’s seen or heard from her for almost a week.”
“Yes, Mademoiselle, I have already been informed of that fact.” Lautrec exaggerated his toffee-nosed accent and continued smiling as though he were baiting her. He enjoyed picking fights; it broke the monotony and this woman looked tough enough to make it interesting.
Delphine drank some absinthe; her hand trembled and there was a noticeable quaver in her voice. She put down her glass and glared at Lautrec. “Have you also been informed of the fact that a woman’s body was found stuffed in a shit-hole on the street in front of your studio?”
“Yes, my landlady has told me as much.” He glanced at her empty glass. “Would you care for another absinthe?”
Delphine leaned over the table; her hand gripped a bag containing a razor. Her husky voice deepened and hardened into a sotto voce snarl: “If I thought—if I believed you had done anything to harm Virginie, I’d slit your ugly throat, here and now.”
Without a flinch or the slightest change of expression, he replied, “You might try to slit my throat, Delphine, but I’m quite capable of stopping you. I fear you’d be seriously injured in the process. So for both our sakes, please don’t think of trying. Nevertheless, I assure you I’ve not harmed Virginie, nor do I know her whereabouts. As for the unfortunate young woman in the cesspool, I know nothing about her either, and I wouldn’t jump to conclusions by assuming she’s Virginie. At any rate, this is a matter for the police. Have you gone to them with
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