Memoirs of a Courtesan in Nineteenth-Century Paris (10 page)

Here are some clean clothes; you can return them to me later.’

I had spent six nights without taking my clothes off. I cannot describe what sheer joy it was to put on a white gown and to lie down.

In the morning, around ten, she went to our house and came back to tell me that my mother was not back.

Thérèse promised she would keep me another day or two if it was necessary.

She would go out in the evening and come back late.

 

On the third day, realizing that she could no longer keep me, she offered to take me to the house of my mother’s stepmother, who probably stayed in Paris to take care of the furnished house. We were not far from it when two men stopped us.

‘‘What is your name?’’ one of them said.

She told him her name, but she had turned so pale I thought she was going to faint.

‘And that one,’ he said, pointing to me, ‘ is she registered?’

‘‘No, she is an unfortunate girl who does not know where her mother is and I have been hiding her for three days.’

‘‘How old is she?’’

‘‘Fifteen.’

‘‘Well, she will follow us. She will be just as well taken care of at the house of detention.’

She told them I was a good girl and they started to laugh.

‘‘I am done for,’ she whispered to me. ‘ They are going to sentence me to six months.’

I was devastated when I saw that I was being taken to the police prefecture. I ran toward the bridge and I wanted to jump in the Seine. These men took pity on me and told me that I would be out the next day.

We walked along the quays. We arrived in front of an archway and we were led into a large courtyard.

Our guide walked toward a little door with iron bars and frosted glass behind them. The man went up two steps, grabbed the metal hammer, and knocked. We were let into a square room.

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Thérèse

On the right, at the entrance, was a counter with bars. That was where you were asked your name. On the left was a trestle bed where the turn-key slept, and farther back, numbered hallways.

‘ This way,’ we were told by a man wearing some sort of uniform.

He led us to the end of the hallway, on the right. All this was lighted by an oil lamp.

I saw a door with bolts behind a counter. The man opened it.

‘‘You will have company,’ he told us as he closed the door on us.

I was in an enormous room with cots along the walls.

The bolts creaked. The door opened and my name was called.

‘‘I made a mistake. There is one here for the small room.’

I came out and was led up three flights of stairs.

I was made to enter what is called the room for little girls. It was dark.

The floor was covered with mattresses.

I heard a small voice say to me, ‘‘Hey, there is room for you, lie down here.’

I spent the most horrible night imaginable. I vainly tried to peer through the darkness. I had such strong hallucinations that I lost self-awareness. I cried and uttered incoherent words.

Someone took my head in her arms and said, ‘‘Do not cry like this.

Tomorrow someone will come claim you.’

    

Finally I saw dark rays form against a dark blue background. It was a window with iron bars.

The room was large, four meters square. The walls, oil-painted in a light color, were covered with inscriptions made with the point of a knife. Extending all across the room was a metal pipe for the heating.

A wooden bench was all the furniture there was. In a corner there was a water pitcher, and in another, a tub. . . .

The mattresses were made of sackcloth, the blankets, of brown wool.

I had three prison-mates. I could not see the two who were at the other end of the room. Their blankets covered them entirely. Stitched in white letters on my blanket were the words ‘‘House of Detention Prison.’

I looked next to me. As soon as I did, I had to lean against a wall, horrified.

At the lower end were two bare feet, black as ink, with long nails.

What passed for a petticoat must have been made of dark wool, but it was muddy and so full of holes that its edge was lacy. A camisole of light

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Thérèse

flowered cotton, faded and torn at the back, revealed a dirty rag that must have been a shirt. All that was spotted with lice.

I have always been headstrong, but I believe I have a good heart. I remembered that this poor creature had had good words for me.

I came nearer to look at her face. Her head was bent against her shoulder. Her brownish hair was thick and tumbled untidily around her neck and over her cheek, preventing me from seeing her face.

I decided to wait, and I sat on the bench.

My three roommates woke up at the same time.

‘ Oh, it is daylight,’ one of them said. ‘‘It is so stupid to be awakened like this. I was sound asleep!’’

‘‘It is the new one,’ said the other girl. ‘ She never stopped bawling all night and I did not sleep a wink.’

‘ Sure,’ said the one who had comforted me, ‘‘you snored like a bumblebee.’

I looked at the one who had just spoken, and I was quite astonished.

I had thought she was a repulsive, ugly monster, but instead I saw a pretty child’s face, pale, but the kind of pallor that poverty and squalor inscribe on the purest of faces.

‘ Oh!’’ she said. ‘‘I thought you were lying down next to me!’’

I was reluctant to tell her why I had gotten up. She shook her head.

‘ I disgusted you, I am so wretched! That is all right, better sleep next to me than Rose, she has the mange.’

I looked at Rose, dressed like a market vendor, with a scarf on her head. She was short and could possibly be fourteen.

She walked toward the little ragamuffin and told her menacingly,

‘‘You lied; I do not have the mange. It is blood pimples and if you ever say that again, I shall smack you.’

‘‘If you hit me, I shall try to hit back, but I am not going to like it because I would have to touch you.’

‘ That is true,’ said Rose. ‘ I do not want to get dirty hitting a beggar.’

And she turned her back on her, picked up a mattress, placed it in a corner, and sat on it.

The beggar picked hers up and went to put it on top of the other.

Rose got up without a word. Peace was restored.

On the way back, the beggar said to the one lying down in the middle,

‘ Why do you not get up, the guard is going to be here. If the beds are not put away, you will be punished.’

The one being addressed uncovered herself and stretched her arms.

She was probably eight or nine. Her skin was tanned, her hair braided

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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

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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 is always the one,’ said the singer.

Rose untied a little package and threw her a checked cotton scarf.

. ,    

I had arrived at night. Someone came to get me for questioning.

‘‘Farewell,’ said the beggar. ‘‘You might not come back if your mother is there.’

I was led down some stairs, and at the bottom I recognized the door through which I came in and the lobby where I had waited.

There were two municipal guards and three women. I was placed next to them.

‘ You are going to be in charge of six,’ said the guard.

I approached a guard and asked him, ‘‘Where are you taking me?’’

He laughed and did not answer.

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Thérèse

I asked one of the three women.

‘ To see the doctor,’ she bluntly answered.

I looked at this woman and her two companions. One had tousled gray hair sticking out from under a kerchief; she was taking tobacco and smelled of brandy. The other, who was saying she would rather be at the school gate than here, wore a red and green dress and a bonnet covered with flowers. The one who answered me must have been about thirty years old. Her attire was decent and elegant.

Just then the guard entered and two other women were following him. I recognized Thérèse. I was about to go toward her when I saw her look the other way. I understood that I should not speak to her. I waited.

We lined up, one guard in front, another behind, and we were led outside.

The entrance was full of people, men and women. They were probably waiting for those they knew to come out.

The thought of walking through this courtyard with municipal guards, like criminals, of hearing these women insulted, hearing myself insulted, made me want to die of shame, so I hid my face in my hands, a gesture that drew gibes.

‘ Oh, that one is ugly. She is hiding her face.’

We had walked across the courtyard and were at Rue Jérusalem. A group of women accompanied by municipal guards were coming out of an alley and we waited for them to come out before we entered. We were led up two flights of stairs and were brought into a room where there were again more women. It had four walls with benches all around and a window that looked out on a dark courtyard. Thérèse came over and sat next to me. She advised me, ‘ Tell M. Régnier what I told you and he will send you to your mother’s.’

I watched this blend of pain and joy, tears and cheer. Some came in laughing.

‘ I am acquitted.’

‘‘I am leaving tonight.’

They took messages from the others who came back crying.

‘‘I shall be transferred tomorrow. I got two months.’

I saw another one, pale, beaten down, who was telling one of her friends, ‘‘I am sick. I am going to the hospital.’

Some poor wretches would gaze at all of this without emotion, remorse, or pity.

Bursts of laughter would respond to complaints, curses, and such

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Thérèse

cynical words that the guard threatened those who uttered them with solitary confinement if they continued.

Two of these women were drunk and did not seem to want to stop.

Thérèse was called. Then the door opened again without my noticing it. My name was called. Thérèse was brought back in and someone said,

‘ The little one first.’

I ran toward the door.

‘‘Whoa! My pretty, not so fast,’ said one of the guards.

We were in an office that served as an anteroom.

Someone rang from the next door, and I was led into a room where there were a lot of cardboard boxes and a large desk. A man was seated behind it. Without looking up, he told me, ‘‘Well, come nearer!’’