Memoirs of a Courtesan in Nineteenth-Century Paris (26 page)

You have been in Paris for fifteen years now, and this life of billiards and taverns has ruined your conduct and withered your face.

Leave! There is still time. Later, all you might get to see is the tomb of your mother, that saintly woman, who has no one but you.

Oh! If she had been able to see deep in my heart, she would have loved me because of the love that I have for you. If you had been willing to keep me near you, by dint of devotion I would have come out pure from the abyss where I have fallen. How I have loved you, how I love you still! You have been my first and my last love!

If I had enough money to buy coal, I would be able to tell you whether death is as painful as your abandonment. But I have nothing, only my window or the river.

My friend, I forgive you!

In just a moment, on the edge of this window, I am going to kneel, join my hands together, and I shall say, ‘ God, forgive me! Let me die! . . .’

Marie

That last prayer was answered.

The next day I did not go out, waiting for the person I had visited the day before. When by four o’clock I had no news, I thought maybe she had gone to Rue Coquenard. I went there, but there had been no one!

Marie’s body was removed at two o’clock. The welfare office had sent its carriage for indigents. No one accompanied her.

     

My mother and I had begun our important commercial endeavor.

The shop was open. We had plenty of customers. All the women I had known came to us to buy clothes.

However, we were not on the road to making a fortune, simply because these women bought on credit. I could not refuse.

My mother made me understand that we could not make any money this way, and she took charge of refusing new accounts.

My apartment was between two courtyards. At the entrance, there was an anteroom; on the left, a living room and a bedroom, and across from that, a cabinet where the servant slept. In a corner on the right was the door of a right-angled hallway leading to the kitchen whose window faced the window of the cabinet.

One morning someone rang the doorbell. I was not up yet and told

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Acts of Desperation

Marie who was going to see who was there, ‘‘I do not want to see anyone.

Have whoever it is go down to the shop.’

From my bed I heard someone ask, ‘‘Mlle Céleste!’’

‘ She is not in. If you wish to see her mother, she is at the shop—’’

‘‘No, she is the one I want to see. She has been making me track her for too long. I know she is here and that she is hiding. I have orders to pick her up.’

‘‘I do not know what you mean. If Madame were here, I would have told you so.’

‘‘Well! Tell her that if she does not go to the prefecture before noon tomorrow, I shall have her picked up by the guards!’’

I hid my face in my hands. I was embarrassed in front of this girl.

‘ Oh! Madame, what can they want with you?’’

‘ I do not know,’ I replied. ‘ He must be mistaken. Do not tell anyone about this.’

What was going to become of me? I could not run away. The little I owned had gone into this shop. I could no longer go downstairs without risk of being arrested, maybe even sentenced to a month for having missed the summonses that had been sent.

What about the neighborhood? Everyone will know this story and I shall not dare show my face again. There is nothing I can do until tomorrow.

I thought about Marie. Tomorrow was Sunday. I could not be arrested tomorrow; the offices would be closed. My maid would be out all day, and my mother would not open the shop.

I spent the evening writing letters. At eleven o’clock, my mother came to tell me good night.

‘ Oh, you are writing to suppliers.’

‘‘Yes.’’

I did not even think to kiss her.

I knew she was seeing Vincent again. She was hiding the fact from me, but the first salesgirl had described him to me and I recognized him. She told me that, often, when I came downstairs, Vincent would go out the back door to Rue de la Boule-Rouge.

From deep in my heart, all my anger toward him and my indifference toward her had surged.

Once I was alone, I straightened up everything and sealed a few letters to my friends.

I rose early. Around ten, it began to rain a mist so fine it resembled fog. I called Marie.

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Acts of Desperation

‘ Come on,’ I told her. ‘ Get dressed and go for a walk. It is your day off.’

‘ Oh,’ she said, ‘ the weather is too nasty.’

I did not care, it was imperative that Marie leave. I placed a piece of blank paper in an envelope with some name on it.

‘‘I need for you to take this to Avenue de Saint-Cloud,’ I told Marie.

She had a friend from back home on the Champs-Elysées; she would take advantage of the opportunity to go visit her, and she would stay there long enough for me to execute my plan.

I sent her on the errand, and I called her back in the stairs to tell her that I was going out and that she could stay at her friend’s until eleven o’clock.

I closed the door and went into Marie’s room. I moved all her things into my room. I put white sheets on her little iron bed. I went to the kitchen and looked under the stove. There were only a few pieces of coal.

In those days we wore large pelisses. I had a black silk one, which I put on and went downstairs.

The sidewalk was slippery and the sky dark. Most of the shops were closed. For a moment I was a little concerned, but I breathed easy when I saw that the earthenware shop was open. I bought two clay stoves, which I brought home hiding them as if I were carrying a treasure. I went back to get some coals. I lit both stoves in Marie’s room and I locked myself in it.

I had even plugged up the key hole.

I sat on the bed and asked God and all those I had hurt to forgive me, and I waited.

The flames were behind my head. I did not look at it but I could see rising above me a diaphanous beam that was coming down.

‘ Oh,’ I told myself, ‘‘if I do not die, tomorrow I will be arrested.’

Perhaps I had not put in enough coal.

I got up and felt my body sway in spite of me. I knelt down to put in more coal. The bluish flame drew me and I remained transfixed with my mouth open.

Then a metal ring encircled my forehead and the fire seemed to be in my chest. . . . Laboriously I got up, leaning on a table to help me. I looked at myself in a little mirror.

How horrible! My head was puffy, the veins in my forehead were swollen, my lips were blue, and my hair was standing on end! . . .

That is when a terrible struggle began. Death was scaring me. I

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Acts of Desperation

wanted to call for help, but my voice failed me. I wanted to run, but my strength faltered.

I was dragging myself on the floor. I could not see anymore. . . .

       

   

When I came to, I was on my bed and my room was full of people. Two men were rubbing my arms, two others, my legs, so hard that I thought I was burned.

‘ She is saved,’ said the hairdresser whose shop was next to our house, and who was one of the first to come to my rescue.

My mother was near my bed.

It all came back to me, even the threats from the police. . . . I began to cry, to struggle. I wanted to do it again.

The two doctors proclaimed that I was delirious and that I should not be left alone for one moment.

My mother sensed that her presence was irritating me, so she left.

Probably Vincent was waiting for her. It was Marie who watched over me.

‘ How was I rescued?’ I asked her.

‘ Oh, madame, if it had not been for me, you would have been lost.

The weather was so bad that I took the omnibus going and coming. I did not find the person you had sent me to, so I came back to tell you.

I did not see you in your room and thought that you had gone out. I went in the kitchen and I saw so much smoke in my room that I was afraid it was on fire. I tried to enter, but something was holding the door closed; it was you, who had fallen behind it. The doctor said you fell with your head facing the space under the closed door providing you with a thread of fresh air, and that without it, it would all be over.’

‘ My poor Marie, you do not know. . . . This man who came the other day. . . .’

‘‘Do not worry, madame. If he returns, I shall tell him to arrest me, if he must take someone. And besides, no one will be allowed to come upstairs!’’

I begged all those around me to keep this misadventure quiet. When such things are attempted, it is better not to fail or ridicule ensues.

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16

o

Lise’s Return

The Beautiful Baker and the ‘ Table d’hôte’’—Hemoptysis—

Waiting for Ernest—When the Courtesan Has Nothing Left to Sell—Two People, Including the Coachman

   was going from bad to worse! The women to whom we had refused credit were not coming anymore.

The rent was due. There was not one red cent saved. The goods had been sold and we had to pay for them.

I was going to be sued, my property seized. I was going mad. Every day I cried for having failed in killing myself.

Lise was in Italy. The only friendship that gave a little comfort to my despair was Deligny.

When I left for Holland, our relations were still very bittersweet.

I have already stated that he was quarrelsome and made fun of every woman. He and his friend Médème, a tall, pale, blond, thin man, vied with each other to see who could drink the most, have the most quarrels, change mistresses most often. . . .

Because of his personality, he could not have remembered me very clearly. Therefore I was very surprised when I received his visit.

I was in such a state of mind that only something extraordinary could have reconciled me with a desire to live.

Deligny could not accomplish this miracle. But he was witty, amusing, and my life was so sad, so isolated, that I welcomed him with pleasure, finding in his visits some distraction from my worries. . . .

Our first meeting was short. He had conceded on every point. That could be considered a victory over such a willful nature.

We spent a few evenings together. I kept him from getting intoxicated and from swearing. He reluctantly obeyed, but he obeyed.

His father had an income of fifteen or twenty thousand pounds, but

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Lise’s Return

he had four children and could give his son only a modest pension, which his cabaret life ate up and then some.

He did everything he could to help me. I could have abused his generosity. He would have signed bills of exchange, notes for whomever I wished. I used my influence only to make him leave this life and this society of people who, wealthier than he, were ruining him.

     ‘  ’’

One day I saw a woman stop in front of my shop window. That sort of thing happened all day, and yet I let out a cry.

I opened my door to see her better. She walked by without looking at me, crossed the street, and went in at number , right across the way. A little while later the mezzanine window opened and I saw her looking out, standing next to a fat woman named Fond.

This Fond was one of those former beauties who, after wasting their lives, sell youth and beauty to others.

This woman hid her odious business under the name of ‘ table d’hôte.’

I was about to go back inside, still wondering, ‘‘Where have I seen this face?’’ when a maid came over to say, ‘‘Would you be kind enough to take two or three bonnets up there, on the second floor?’’

I was led into a small red living room. The small woman came toward me as she was removing her hat. Once her hat was off, I recognized her immediately. She was the pretty girl from Bordeaux Denise had pointed out to me at the reformatory, the one a man had married so he could sell her.

I wanted to ask her all sorts of questions. We were not alone. I showed her what she had asked for, telling her if there was anything else she needed, to please come see me.

She promised she would and was true to her word. The next day she came to order a hat. She told me everything.

In Paris she was called the Beautiful Baker. I had heard of her. A man had kidnapped her, and her husband, who was not getting anything out of the affair, had him arrested. She had turned her husband in to the police and was separated from him to come live with Mme Fond.

Now she never passed by the shop without coming in. She was living across the street. Two or three times she had invited me over. To please her, one evening I accepted, and I did not regret it.

There is quite a study to be made of these so-called table d’hôtes.

After dinner a game is played. The regulars arrive. They are inscru-

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Lise’s Return

table people whose names are seldom known. The mistress of the house baptizes them. One is named the Major, another the Commandant.

They all try to get a few hundred sous from each other. The women borrow the smallest amounts, up to fifty centimes.

The old mistress of the house calls everyone ‘ darling.’ She charges a fee on the cards. Whatever the outcome, she always does well. Yet these women have practically nothing. Those who should have been very rich were destitute. Why? They bought the love they could no longer inspire.

If a newcomer joins this world, the mistress of the house is very friendly to him. First, she entices him to play a little game. The stranger is amazed at so much politeness and reserve. For three francs he has been served a dinner that is worth ten francs a head. He admires this miracle of order or generosity. But champagne is brought out and heads begin to turn!

The poor stranger loses everything he has on him, sometimes more, and he realizes too late that he has been duped.

Around the main female character flutter other women, sometimes young and pretty, who serve the mistress either by bringing people to her or by baiting the players.

Pitiful flunkies who make small profits. They are gamblers, and when they do not have any more money, in exchange, they give the key to their room.