The Montmartre Investigation by Claude Izner Page B

cassis, would you like that?’
    â€˜All right then. Who’s the painter?’
    â€˜A nobleman no bigger than a dwarf, but with a name to make up for it. Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, that boozer watering himself at a table over there.’
    Victor took a mouthful of his red drink and put his glass down with a grimace.
    â€˜What on earth’s in there?’
    â€˜Dry white wine, cassis and a drop of vodka. It was a Rusky, Prince Troubetzkoï, who gave me the recipe.’
    â€˜That man with the beaked nose, who’s that?’ he asked, pointing to one of the paintings.
    â€˜The man with the big hooter? Where have you been, lovey? Don’t you know Valentin le Désossé? I can point him out in the flesh. Let’s see, where’s he hiding, that demon of the quadrille? Got him – just to the left of La Môme Fromage and La Goulue; the beanpole there, see? I’m assuming you at least recognise the girls?’
    He nodded, not wanting to appear like an idiot. So this is what it was like, the famous Moulin-Rouge! There had been strings of articles about it. Unlike Iris, he had never felt the slightest interest in the subject. He disliked large crowds and the lifting of petticoats left him cold. Tasha’s gentle curves aroused him more than the black-clad calves of the girls practising in front of the mirrors.
    â€˜I’m looking for a young man called Gaston…’
    Sarah guffawed.
    â€˜There are about twenty Gastons round here! Gaston who?’
    â€˜I don’t know. And Fifi Bas-Rhin, where is she?’
    â€˜Well, I must say you’ve an awful lot of questions about our little world. I haven’t seen Fifi yet. If I were you, I would wander over to the galleries. She likes to sup from the tankard before she goes on.’
    â€˜Sup from…?’
    â€˜She likes a tipple! Strange creature, that one!’
    The orchestra had just launched into a waltz. Buffeted between couples, Victor breathed in the scent of ylang-ylang, or Cuir de Russie , mixed with sweat and tobacco. In spite of the enthusiastic brass band and the stamping of feet, he caught snippets of conversation.
    â€˜Look at them all at the mirror this evening!’
    â€˜She’s a looker, that little one.’
    â€˜If she comes over here, I’ll tell her what I think!’
    He passed Valentin le Désossé who, impassive and rigid, was dancing with the voluptuous La Goulue. Part-laundress, part-bourgeoise, her red hair with its square-cut fringe was piled on top of her head and she wore a ribbon of watered silk around her neck. Aware that Victor was looking at her curvaceous figure and plunging neckline, she stopped, stared at him, hands on hips, and bellowed:
    â€˜These fops, don’t they have birds at home?’
    Mortified not so much by the vulgarity of her words as by the harshness of her tone, Victor hurried towards the gallery, desperate to find Eudoxie Allard amidst the forest of penguins in stovepipe hats and courtesans sprouting plumes, among whom the waiters scurried.
    â€˜A bowl of mulled wine!’ called a man in a crooked boater flanked by two adoring young girls; Victor recognised him as Alfred Stevens the society painter.
    Then he spotted her, tightly laced into a red and white striped dress and weighed down by a hat made all the taller by its giant bows. He made to retreat, suddenly reluctant to suffer her advances. Too late!
    â€˜Look, it’s Monsieur Legris! Over here! Come and join us!
    She was seated at a table with three drinkers, a swarthy lothario, his sombrero tilted over one ear, an elegant bon-viveur with a long face and a morose expression, and a blond young man sporting a monocle and chewing on a cigar. She made the introductions.
    â€˜Monsieur Legris, an old friend. He’s a bookseller. We became friendly at Le Passe-partout. 14 Louis Dolbreuse, poet and songwriter, based at the moment at Le Chat-Noir.’ She indicated the