Rose, Ma Petite  

Chapter 1

 "Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices in the truth. [Love] always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always preserves." 1 Corinthians 13: 4-7

 Rose Rénaud's anxious eyes swept le Gare de Montparnasse boarding platform and viewed strangers idling about the platform. She glanced at her watch. "Where is he?" she fussed. "He promised to meet me here at three o'clock." Her watch showed 3:21 p.m. Her irritation heightened.

Rose boarded the train at Brenton, France, near the English Channel, where she was born and nurtured for eighteen years. But she had lived a childhood of near poverty without an awareness. God touched her mother’s womb and endowed Rose with a generous and warm heart. He instilled genius and imagination in her mind and imparted great energy to her spirit. He blessed her five-feet-four-inch petite frame with perfection. She was vivacious and beautiful...God's perfect gift to man.

She was witty, intelligent and knowledgeable, having read extensively. Eloquent French gushed from her sumptuous lips. She spoke English with a French accent. She had celebrated her eighteenth birthday five days earlier on July 10, 1863. She had come to Paris, this Sunday, to find work and search for a suitable...handsome, erudite and rich...man to marry. Her potential for success was immense. She was such a desirable creature.

Brenton, farming and fishing village, was located on a serene peninsula. In the mid-nineteenth century, farming implements and fishing methods were primitive. Harvesting a living from the earth and sea was laborious, unpredictable and the sea could be treacherous. Her father, Antoine, did both, but he fished to earn a living. He gardened and raised animals for meat, milk, eggs and butter. The seven acres, surrounding their small farmhouse, was taxed relentlessly to yield sufficient nourishment for him, wife Marie and four growing children. Fish caught were sold or bartered for other necessities and staples.

Josephine and André were younger and still in school. The time would come when they would go to Paris to find fame, fortune or more poverty. More promise waited in Paris than in a small village where farmers took pigs and cattle to the fountains of Saint Nicodemus to protect against diseases. And a French Poodle named Missy and workhorse named Jobe needed to be fed and cared for.  

The locomotive hissed to a stand still. The inertia pushed Rose forward detaching her flower-patterned bonnet covering glistening dark, black hair, which lay in ringlets well below her shoulders.

Passengers were busy retrieving luggage and personal items purchased during their sojourn on the Normandy coast. She was preoccupied with thoughts of her brother’s failure to meet her and did not notice. She was counting on Maurice helping her get settled. He had promised to arrange suitable lodging with a respectable Catholic family.

Now, Rose was worried and frightened. Evil and danger spread the length and breadth of Paris. She knew no other living soul in Paris. Fortunately, her parents had not neglected her worldly education. They’d informed her of the pimps and dandies parading the boulevards, train stations and cafés. She knew about the Sicilian kids roaming the city looking for loose purses to snatch or pockets to pick. She had brought sixty-one francs, her life savings, wrapped safely around her waist three layers deep. And she knew of the madams who scouted train stations looking for young, vulnerable farm girls to recruit for their brothels.

Mindful that exiting passengers scurried down the aisle, she stood and waited for an approaching middle-aged man to allow her to enter the aisle. He carried no bag and she knew he would come to her aid. Men fell over backward being courteous to Rose and she took full advantage of their chivalrousness. She felt a sense of power. Even as a schoolgirl she enjoyed leading boys along and disappointing them. Rose was a colossal tease; however, she had no inclination toward arrogance. She was a wholesome, pretty country girl and thankful her being was attractively arranged. She was a devout Catholic, believing in every sacrament of the church.

"Mademoiselle, have you no one to help?" he inquired in fluent French laced with twangs of cockney. His unctuous, dark-blue eyes mirrored a pair of alert dark-brown eyes. He looked beyond her lovely face.

"It is true, Monsieur." Her voice was high in tone, but soft and sweet.

"Have you a traveling case, Mademoiselle?"

"Oui, Monsieur. It is the large one above."

She stepped aside. He reached above and groaned audibly as he delivered the case to the floor. For his size and age, he had strained excessively. Undoubtedly, she thought, he’s frequented too many London public houses and his physical fitness is wanting.

"Mademoiselle, you are carrying gold? The 'bloody' thing weighs a ton."

"Non, Monsieur. I wish. Merci."

The passenger car emptied while they engaged in meaningless introductions. His name was Sir Walter Johnson, and he claimed to be a Member of Parliament. He said he had come to the Continent for a fortnight holiday. Rose did not believe him and refused his dinner invitation. She told him her brother was meeting her soon. The news came as a bitter disappointment to Sir Walter, but he assisted her off the train and into the waiting area. Then he vanished. Quite conceivably he had a daughter her age.

The waiting room stifled. The clippedy-clop sound of hoofs of steel and the clack of carriage wheels, echoing from the street, was an additional annoyance. The gnats and flies were even peskier.

Rose occupied a seat in the middle of a long wooden bench. Her visage was forlorn and perplexed, while wondering what to do. She found a train schedule and folded it to fan with.

She had been still for minutes when she viewed a mademoiselle approaching. She’d just entered the waiting room from the street. Rose hoped she brought word from her brother. She felt sudden elation. Then, she looked closer.

She observed some woman in her late twenties, with doleful eyes, who would pass for forty. She viewed purple hair, the redness of her face, black mascara on her eyebrows and matching eye shadow around her eyes. She espied with unadulterated disgust the décolleté cut of her bodice and the shortness of her skirt, which flaunted sheer-black hose.

"Ma Chèri, you look sad and abandoned." Her voice was mellifluously phony.

Rose elected to ignore her. She thought she might be a madam.

The woman sat. Rose smelt strong perfume mixed with the stench of body odors. She espied the cheap imitation jewelry cluttering her wrists and fingers. Rose slid to the end of the bench.

This dreadful creature is too crude to be a madam. She’s a lowly streetwalker.

Rose's move and the long period of silence, which the floozy interpreted as indifference, brought a frown of perplexity to the floozies' face.

The quirk in Rose's nature, the one possessing her to tease boys controlled her and she decided to play along. Rose's nature was filled with wonder and curiosity. "It is true. My brother has forsaken me."

"Do not fret, Ma Chèri. I'll be your friend. You may come to my home." She smiled cunningly.

"Why would you want to befriend a total stranger?"

"You are pretty. I like pretty girls."

"But you are a prostitute."

"Oui, Mademoiselle. But I make love to men only for their money. I don't achieve pleasure...not as much as I feel making love to a beautiful woman such as you." Her voice was filled with sensual hunger.

Rose's education was less than thorough. Mama had forgotten to tell her about lesbians. She was both surprised and amused. She couldn't understand why a woman would want to make love with another woman. She'd never had such feelings or thoughts and she couldn't conceive of how they might go about it. Her curiosity sought enlightenment. "Mademoiselle, how does a woman make love to another woman?"

"Come with me to my flat, Chèri and I will show you." The prostitute's eyes flashed desire. She reached across and took Rose's hand. It vexed and Rose thought she'd been too bold. As though a guardian angel looked over Rose, she heard a familiar voice from behind.

"Sister Rose, I am sorry to be late."

She turned. Seeing Maurice's sanguine, placid face, relief washed over her, then warmth. The prostitute, realizing her mark was lost, stood and sauntered away, back to the streets, absinthe, syphilis and total despair.

Rose stood to greet Maurice. They embraced briefly. He kissed her on both cheeks. "You are late, brother and I am furious," she said, with a blistering tongue, while staring into his dark-blue, almost black eyes. Maurice had grown a pencil moustache and she thought it added more charm to an already charming and wildly expressive face.

"Forgive me, Rose, I was short of money and could not afford a cab. The walk from the center of Paris was much farther than I thought." He sounded apologetic, as he sat in the spot the harlot had just vacated.

Maurice was twenty-one. He was a handsome man by any standard. He stood a fraction of an inch under six feet and he was sinewy. His athletic body had been developed playing sports. Working as a carpenter eleven hours a day building Emperor Napoleon's dream city had also been beneficial.

Being the oldest male sibling, Maurice helped Papa with the gardening, animals and the nets. The sea air around Brenton and wholesome country living had added sanguine to his high cheeks. Fortunately, the black smoke of industry and the stench of open sewers, prevalent in his Paris, had not paled his healthy facial hue.

"We go now?" asked Maurice. "I have arranged lodging for you with a respectable Catholic family. The master of the house works with the Ministry. He has a clerk job for you, if you are agreeable?"

"Oui! We will see. Maurice, I have cab money."

He sighed and took the heavy case in hand. They walked toward the street entrance.

July afternoons in Paris were delightful and today was exceptionally so. The afternoon air was fresh and sweetened with fragrances of summer flowers. The prevailing breeze blew the stench of raw sewerage another direction and controlled insects. Puffy clouds frolicked through the azure sky, hiding the bright summer sun for short periods. It was the perfect day for an open carriage ride.

A line of carriages waited. Passing five tired, overworked and underfed mares and geldings, Rose grimaced at the sight. Roofs of all the carriage were retracted. Rain was impossible. They reached the first carriage in line. The driver alighted and relieved Maurice of the case. He put it in the rear of the carriage and returned to open the gate for them. After taking the driver’s position, he looked back sharply. "Where to, Monsieur?"

"Thirteen Rue Victor."

"Oui!" A pop of his whip and the thin, red horse strained to break the static friction of the carriage wheels and top the irregularity of the cobblestones and they clacked away down the Boulevard Montparnasse.

Carriage traffic was light. Sidewalks were busy. Sunday was a day off for most Parisians and their time uncompressed. People in this mode preferred walking to riding even if they possessed the fare, but few did. An occasional family passed. The children played roughhouse under scrutiny of their mother.

Tourist engaged commercial carriages. They had come to indulge the sordid pleasures abundant on a gay Paris evening. But a few had come to enjoy the cultural endowments of Paris: the Louvre, gourmet cuisine, cruises on the Seine, art, magnificent orchestras in concert and great literature.

Occasionally a sewer rat darted across the road, proving that no day is perfect. Rose, observing the flight of the rat was amused, remembering an article in Le Moniteur about the indestructibility of Paris' rats. It had said, "Empress Eugénie, wife of Louis Napoleon III, ordered cheese-flavored ground glass poured into rat holes to kill them and they found it delicious."

Rose sat, mouth agape, quietly admiring the lush greenery blanketing trees and shrubs. Paris was inundated with new growth that follows the advent of spring. The tall buildings along the boulevard seemed to touch the clouds. Birds, flying overhead, sang for the joy of life and those in the trees sang to their helpless young. The offspring had been prolific and the bitter cold of winter long forgotten. Life was easy and necessities of life were plentiful. Predator birds weren’t stalking nests because of the abundance. Maurice was tired and the tranquility lulled him to light repose.

Now, Rose spotted the prostitute who’d attempted to engage her. She sat at a sidewalk café with a portly, bearded man. The carriage neared. Loud laughter overwhelmed street noises and she wondered with wild imagination what everyone found so humorous. The boisterous gaiety was intoxicating. She had yearnings to dismiss the immediate course and join the happy throng. Rose had never observed such carefree conviviality. She was addicted now.

Maurice stirred. He yawned, stretched and observed Rose's sparkling eyes dancing from table to table. "Rose, Paris is fanatically gay in summer. Love is everywhere. Sidewalk café, such as that, are numerous along the great boulevards. People flock to their tables to enjoy cool drinks and gossip. Voyeurism is incessant."

"Maurice, take me to one?" Rose asked, with an eagerness that was infectious.

"Oui, but you must get settled first."

The carriage turned left onto Rue Victor and stopped at the curb. Adjacent to the carriage Rose viewed a large, two-story house that needed a fresh coat of paint, but the red roof looked fit.

"Monsieur, this is Thirteen Rue Victor."

"How much is owed?" asked Maurice.

"Thirty centimes, three-tenths of a franc, Monsieur."

Rose opened her purse and found the fare. She passed it to Maurice, who paid the driver the exact amount. Times were desperate for many and gratuities were not part of poor people's culture. Parisians could hardly feed, clothe and house their families on the four francs the average earned for an eleven-hour day. The driver alighted and brought the case to Maurice. They walked toward the house.

Reaching the door, Maurice knocked. An elderly woman appeared wearing a warm and inviting smile. You could tell she had been beautiful, but corpulence came with age and birth of four children, who’d left the nest years earlier. Her gray-green eyes were engaging; her voice low pitched and understated. “Ah! 'Tis you Maurice and the pretty one must be Rose. Entrez," she said sweetly and invited with a sweeping wave of her arm and hand.

"Oui. Rose, let me introduce Madame Mollot."

"My pleasure, Madame Mollot." Rose bowed slightly.

Madame Mollot gave her a motherly hug. "Please call me Loraine, Ma Chèri. I wish to feel young."

"Oui. It pleases me, Loraine."

"Come, I will take you to your room. It waits on the second floor and fronts on the street. My two girls occupied it ‘til they found husbands…more years ago than I dare or care to remember."

Maurice grabbed the huge case and grunted loudly. They followed Madame Mollot up the stairs. The room was left and in the rear near the bathroom. Maurice placed the case near the foot of the large, four-post bed and proceeded removing the straps securing it. Rose strolled to the bed and lay upon it, sighed and rose to her feet.

"Is it to your liking, Rose?" Loraine asked sweetly.

Rose nodded her approval.

"The mattress, pillows and linen are new. We wanted everything to be nice for you. If you would care to freshen up, pitchers in the bathroom are filled with fresh water. Maurice, join me for a cup of café, s'il vous plaît. It is freshly brewed. Rose, please join us at your earliest convenience." Maurice nodded his approval and accompanied Loraine to the parlor downstairs.

The moment the door closed. Rose started unbuttoning clothes frenziedly. She sighed joyfully each time a layer was removed and placed on the bed. She hesitated a moment before removing the halter. Dressed only in panties, her firm breast jiggled as she moved to the gilded mirror on the opposite wall.

The mirror dripped antiquity. Had it a tongue it might tell how much it relished reflecting Rose's lovely figure. She admired herself briefly. She combed long black hair with delicate strokes then returned to find fresh clothes within the case. Her search was for light apparel less modest than the clothes she had removed.

After dressing in the peignoir, she went to the bathroom to wash. The water was cold and she shivered. Her nipples hardened with the touch of the cold, rough bath cloth. She returned to the bedroom and perfumed her body. Before dressing in fresh apparel, she transferred ten francs from her waist purse to her hand purse. She buried the waist purse in the case and left to join Loraine and Maurice in the drawing room below.

She found them sitting at a round table circled by four chairs set in the middle of the room. The sun dwelled at a forty-five degree angle and sunlight streamed through two long, wide windows dressed with colorful draw curtains. The room was small and cozy, although a large mirror on the left wall imparted a feeling of largeness and added animation. The real charms were the variety of unique knickknacks tastefully positioned. Two bookcases, one on each side of the fireplace, were filled with books. Two oil lamps bedecked the mantel of the fireplace.

Above the fireplace, a large family portrait drew Rose's attention at once. Papa and Mama stood in the middle of two daughters on their right and two sons on their left. The portrait had been painted when the children were tots. Rose's appraisal of Madame Mollot had been correct, beautiful. Monsieur Mollot stood tall and handsome with powerful shoulders and an interesting face highlighted by piercing dark-black eyes. The painting depicted a family endowed with great beauty and charm. The children had inherited their parent’s handsome appearances.

Loraine turned to her and smiled. "Rose, how do you take your café?"

“Black, s'il vous plaît."

Loraine poured the steaming coffee into the cup before Rose and offered to replenish Maurice's cup. "Non, merci. I have had far too much cafés today. I will be up tonight several times as it is."

Loraine passed the bowl containing lumps of brown sugar and Rose reluctantly took one. Lately, she had been drinking coffee without any enrichment, but she made the exception, hoping the gain of quick energy. She watched her waistline constantly, with marvelous results. A man with big hands could clasp his hands around Rose's waist and many had wished for an invitation. She had a serious countenance when she broke the silence. "Loraine, how much will you be asking for my lodging?"

Loraine appeared taken aback by the question. "Ma Chèri, Phillip and I discussed that matter. I remember we decided four francs a fair weekly sum. We'll offer you breakfast in the morning. Your other dining will be at your own discretion. I wish he were here. His work kept him late. They are quite busy at the Préfect's Office with all the construction that’s in progress. Emperor Napoleon enthusiasm will not be quenched until he shames all the great European cities or bankrupts France."

Rose took four francs from her purse and passed it to Loraine. "Please let me know if this amount isn’t correct?"

"Merci, Rose. Phillip would like to discuss employment with you later tonight. A clerk position is open at the Préfect's Office. The compensation is generous and the hours are reasonable."

"Oui. I am sincerely interested Loraine. I will plan to be home around nine. Maurice has promised to take me to a sidewalk café so we might partake of the gaiety that abounds in such places."

"How delightful. You are dressed appropriately for the occasion. With your beauty, you are lucky to have a strong brother to protect you from the wits, dandies and boulevardiers who stalk these places." She smiled shyly.

A quick grin twitched the corners of Maurice's mouth. "If anyone needs protecting, Loraine, it is I. Have you forgotten about the ladies of questionable virtue who also haunt these establishments?"

"Oui, Maurice, but you have your Catholic goodness to protect you."

What a joke, Maurice thought restraining a smile. "I'm also young and virile."

Chapter 2

The cooler afternoon air motivated the stroll they embarked upon. Boulevards were crowded with Parisians, flaunting the latest fashion craze. Fashion was a preoccupation of all of Paris.

"Maurice, the billowing crinolines the ladies wear are excessive, hideous and impossible. You can't walk, sit, dance, or pass a portal and hugging a friend or lover is next to impossible. Its awkwardness would contribute immeasurably to chastity."

Maurice snickered. "Qui, Rose, I quite agree. Appalling in a word."

"And how does mademoiselle engage the toilette?"

“How would I know?”

 “Your naiveté does not fool me, brother.”

Although she wasn’t dressed like the women she espied, she felt no apprehension. Rose wore what Rose felt feminine in. She wore a pink, snug-fitting, taffeta frock with no crinoline and a modest bodice. The hem of the dress fell inches below her knees. Nothing in sight could compare.

“Maurice, when was the last time you viewed femme’s hips and legs? They are feminine assets equally as interesting as the cleft of the breast.” She knew, all too well, the combination of all three could be devilishly seductive.

“Sister, your mind festers with opinions. Breathe in the fresh air and be thankful Emperor Napoleon’s grandiose plans have improved sanitary conditions. Do you have an opinion of monsieur’s dress?"

“I’ve taken little notice." She glanced around. “The top hats, dark frock coats and light trousers appear more sensible than mademoiselle’s attire, but I abhor the full beards I find. The men of Paris are indolent. Our father shaves and washes daily. He doesn’t have one lazy bone in his body.”

“Oui. Am I to assume you dislike my mustache?”

“Non. It’s becoming because of its modesty and you keep it trimmed. Frenchmen need to learn that culture isn’t just great literature, music and theater, but a lack of hostility toward a bathtub. My sense of smell hinted of this the time we got stuck in that crowd.”

“If you knew of the cholera epidemics that comes and kills thousands, you might have a forgiving heart.”

“Oui. The city is different. I like what children are wearing. The kilts, glengarries and Scottish tartans are adorable. And their crinolines are less full and much shorter. Mothers would be smart to adopt the styles of their daughters.”

“Oui, anything British is chic.”

They encountered numerous singers, musicians, jugglers, magicians and flame eaters. Hordes of beggars were conspicuous and Rose found them deplorable. The rags they wore were tattered and filthy. Their bodies stank worse than the open sewers and slum areas they’d found along the way. Some construction was evident. As they walked, Maurice touched upon Napoleon's grandiose plans for an enviable Paris.

At one point they came upon an organ grinder, with a pet monkey tied to a long leash. Rose found this scenario charming. She loved animals. The monkey wore a sailor cap and suit and carried a tin cup. He solicited people for tips for the organist and peanuts for his own belly, when he wasn’t scratching fleas and lice. She found a coin of low value in her purse and tossed it into the tin cup.

The other street entertainers begged with their hats on the sidewalk or with open instrument cases. She did not find their begging offensive. They offered pleasure, but she wasn't roused to contribute. They were too numerous. Rose gave at church and she always had money for each offering. And she never slighted the poor box.

Now, their walk took them along the Left Bank of the Seine. Several large tourist boats sailed its placid surface. Tourists sitting on sundecks enjoyed sites and sipped cool beverages. When the sun vanished below Paris’ skyline, they would seek gastronomic delights found in magnificent cafés along the great boulevards: Voisin, Brébant, La Rue, Café de Paris and the more expensive cafés, Maison Dorée and Cafe Anglais, where an evening meal cost from six to ten francs. Some cafés kept private rooms and stayed open all night.

After dinner, many sought pleasures peculiar to their own taste. The Folies Bergère where the cancan was performed with daring immodesty.   At the bar, you could engage a friendly smile for the price of a drink. Or a dingy dimly lit cabaret offering much more risqué entertainment that appealed to prurient interests. Where a bar hustler joined you and teased for a glass of expensive champagne that was nothing more than sparkle water. Or to the most popular dance hall, Bal Mabille off the Champs Elysées. The admission was about a day's pay, three francs, but the girls were young, beautiful, with versatile talents. Their prices varied, depending upon one’s taste, naiveté and ability to pay.

For those with cultural interests, Paris offered l’Opera, legitimate theater and music halls, where you could hear the saxophone, a new invention, being played. Some fashionable watering holes offered music and dancing late into the night. Paris was alive, gaudy and appallingly and appealingly sinful, a glorious party without end. The world's humanity came to partake for brief spells and then stole away into the night, relishing the easily procured pleasures, but bemoaning its exorbitant costs. Some left with deadly syphilis, which was rampant. Those who drank the water might have imbibed the cholera virus. Sanitation was primitive.

On their right Ile de la Cité, home of Palais de Justice, City Hall and the magnificent Cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris filled their eyes. The cathedral was within walking distance of Rose’s rented room. This pleased her. Later, Rose chose to register at the cathedral for her religious nourishment. Nearer, she observed small boats sailing effortlessly down the calm Seine. Boats headed upstream were powered by endless rowing, causing Rose to feel her exhaustion. Her day had begun at sunrise.

Several blocks farther, Rose watched an artist painstakingly applying colors to his canvas. The cathedral's geometric details were infinite, but its colors were sameness, except for the marvelously stained glass windows. Scattered around were finished canvases for sale and Rose scrutinized them. Prices ranged to one hundred francs, which was much more than Rose could afford. However, had she known this artist would become famous and his canvasses worth millions in her lifetime, she would borrow money and purchase all he offered for sale.

A short walk hence, they crossed over to the Right Bank and walked along the Rue de Rivoli. The Louvre appeared and Maurice pointed it out. He explained that it was an art museum exhibiting famous painting of the world. They passed two more madams dressed in crinolines and she turned to her brother. "Maurice, these garments the ladies wear are atrocious. For heaven's sake, what inspiration is their existence owed to?"

"I've heard Empress Eugénie engaged couturier Charles Frederick Worth to design for her an outfit which was fashionable, while hiding her pregnancy. This gave birth to the crinoline as it's called."

"It proves functional in that regard, but beyond that it is a miserable failure. Ah! But this is Paris, where fashion has always been carried one level higher than anywhere else has. The crinoline proves that perception true. They'll never catch me in such a monstrous outfit dead or alive.”

They walked by café after café crammed with patrons. Turning on le Boulevard des Capucine Rose said, “We have walked for half an hour and I am perished.”

“I feel certain a café with an available table is imminent, Rose. Ah! Just there! Two patrons are abandoning a table. Hurry sister.” He caught her hand and pulled her along.

They just beat a young couple who rushed towards the same empty table. The couple accepted their misfortune and stepped aside to wait for the next available table. Perhaps the Rénaud’s precise timing and alacrity held the promise of providence. This table at Café Royale would turn out to be an unimaginable fortune.

“Maurice, I brought some of my savings along. I can afford several drinks for the two of us. I know you are destitute. You’ve said as much.” She gave him a humbling look and then smiled. Maurice pulled a wimpy expression.

As Rose caught her breath, le garçon arrived. “Your pleasure, s'il vous plaît?”

“I’ll have lemonade.”

“And you Monsieur?”

“A liter of beer."

The gay atmosphere overwhelmed Rose. She sat speechless for a time trying to believe the merriment around her. Maurice was eyeing beautiful mademoiselles with unfeigned pleasure. Conversation was unnecessary.

Rose possessed an uncanny ability to carry on a conversation and listen to several others at the same time. She listened to an interesting discussion about the Emperor's latest sordid affair prattled by one of three elegantly attired, graying dowagers sipping vintage Bordeaux. All three appeared uncomfortable to the point of pain, and Rose figured the tight corsets underneath their crinolines were the reason. Their Epicurean life style had brought obesity. Their lumpy bodies desperately needed the deception tight stays provided.

Their inclination for vainness was further exhibited by the décolleté design of their crinoline's bodice. They continually rearranged Cashmere shawls to draw attention to their ample, flabby breasts. All three wore tiny hats poised above the hairline. The style of hair and hat tended to decrease the size of the head to accentuate the fullness of the bust.

Their wealth was flaunted with diamonds on their fingers, wrist and neck. Anyone of them would give half their wealth to be thirty years younger. The things that mattered mostly to women of Paris were youth, beauty, diamonds and apparel. Bearing children was all many had to offer for the luxuries of life. And for this ungrateful role, they had to tolerate their husband’s mistress or mistresses if monsieur was wealthy.

"Darlings! Yesterday, I overheard a handsome dandy in the Garden of the Tuileries say the Emperor had given his latest demimondaine, Contessa di Caslion, an emerald necklace worth over one hundred thousand francs. She's that Italian beauty sent by the Italian Government to curry favors from the Emperor for Italy." Her eyes rolled in their orbits.

"Emily, 'tis a measly sum considering he's an Emperor. I heard the Italian tart commanded one million francs for surrendering herself to a wealthy English Lord. I can imagine the remorse he felt after his indulgence."

The three snickered into the palm of their left hand. Their right hand held a glass le vin.

Emily said, "The Emperor does not mix business with pleasure. I hear the Contessa's mission has resulted in little for Italy, but the Emperor's libido has received much stimulation and satisfaction."

The third lady knew no gossip pertinent to the Emperor's hedonistic life style, but she felt compelled to contribute in some way. "It is well that I married rich. Had it not been so, for one hundred thousand Francs, I would not think twice about lying flat on my back and spreading my legs. For a million, there is no pleasure I would deny the benefactor; however, I can think of a hundred men other than the Emperor I would favor. The Emperor's a little short, probably in more ways than one. And a handle bar mustache can be terribly ticklish."

Their giggles bordered on guffaws.

Rose's grin puzzled Maurice. His last statement had not been witty.

"Rose, why are you smiling?"

"I was eavesdropping on a conversation across the way."

"What about it did you find amusing?"

"Three women were gossiping about the Emperor's latest mistress."

He smiled. He had heard the talk. Everyone in Paris knew about it. The Emperor was the trendsetter, and Parisians were pleased to follow.

"Maurice, our glasses are dry. Garçon!"

A handsome man dressed in a black tuxedo and cravat hastened to her call. As he approached, Rose noticed he wasn’t the previous one. She estimated he was twenty-five, while observing his lack of masculinity. Although delicate, he carried his six-foot, rawboned frame with dignity and dispatch. His pale face suggested he possessed no love of sports and the outdoors. His best endowment was a head of wavy hair, dark and shiny, and Rose had a yen to pull it. His dark eyes were cold.

"Mademoiselle, your pleasure?" His voice was sibilant. His posture was ethereal elegance as he calmly awaited Rose's response. In the mean time, his interest focused on Maurice.

Rose was perplexed and angered. "We'll have the same, s'il vous plaît."

The moment the waiter wheeled away Rose said, "Le garçon found you fascinating. I felt persona non grata and I was galled."

Maurice smiled sheepishly. "Le garçon is homosexual."

"Pray tell what's that?"

"His sexual preference is for men."

"Mama has neglected my education. Earlier, at the train station, a prostitute accosted me. She told me she preferred women to men. The world is much stranger than I imagined."

Maurice seemed knowledgeable. She had an inclination to ask him for further details about female lovers, but refrained. The question might cause Maurice embarrassment. She would find a confidant later to consult.

The prissy garçon came their way with drinks carried on a tray above his head. Arriving, he presented their drinks. Rose handed him forty-five centimes that paid for the drinks plus a small gratuity. He retrieved empty glasses, placed them on the tray and departed frowning. He had expected a more generous gratuity.

"The waiter seemed displeased with my generosity." Rose was furious. "We have sat here less than an hour, and I have spent half a day's pay. Is there no gratitude to be found in Paris?"

"Oui. Money is quintessence. There is a saying: enrichissez-vous. It means make money spend it, make more money and spend it."

Rose listened halfheartedly. She eavesdropped again. Four boulevard raconteurs sat at a table off to their left funneling beer and exchanging sordid stories. The last ribald story proffered was so portrayed she‘d blushed. From their Bohemian garments, Rose pegged them for writers, painters and musicians. They needed shaves, haircuts and baths. And they needed their filthy mouths cleaned.

A hush fell upon them. Maurice continued watching the steady procession of beautiful mademoiselles strolling the boulevard clad in brightly colored crinolines and matching bonnets.

One petite mademoiselle, dressed similar to Rose, ventured into Maurice's area of scrutiny. She appeared his age and was dressed in a moderately long silk dress devoid of a crinoline: the bodice modestly cut. The dress fit her snugly, and he hungrily admired her hourglass figure. He found the sway of feminine hips pleasurable to watch if not hypnotic. But her stunning, natural blond hair flowing halfway down her back he found majestic.

She walked a miniature French Poodle that pulled hard on the leash. Suddenly, the dog pulled free and dashed away down the sidewalk. "Peppé! Stop! Peppé! Stop!" The woman's screams stopped hearts. Peppé! Peppé!

Maurice instinctively leaped from his chair and took chase. He caught the Poodle a block away and returned him to his mistress standing paralyzed in her tracks tears streaming down her cheeks. She knelt and petted the animal lovingly while Maurice held the leash. "Peppé, you are a bad boy. You frightened mummy almost to death." Honey dripped from her lips, and you’d think Peppé was a small child. She had good reason to scold him, but she showed no irritation, just love and tenderness. Maurice felt a special admiration toward her. That moment, he would gladly change place with the Poodle.

Standing, she looked up at Maurice with large, hazel colored pools of warmth. "Merci beaucoup, Monsieur. I want to reward you." Her voice trembled. "I adore Peppé. I would have simply passed to heaven if something had happened to him."

"Non. I am pleased to have been helpful."

"Don't be absurd. I'll have it no other way. Where do you sit?" She relaxed a trifle.

"Just there." He pointed to where Rose sat eyes bright from excitement.

"Where the lovely brunette sits, Monsieur?" Her voice was laced with envy.

"Oui."

"May I join you for a brief visit?"

"Oui." Maurice was stuck in a rut. Oui was all that he could force out of his mouth. Mademoiselle’s charm and elegance bewitched.

Maurice passed her the leash. She applied a strangle hold and followed him to the table. Peppé followed obediently. When they arrived Rose stood and smiled her customary warm, country smile that would melt a snowman. Peppé smelled her. Rose wasn't vexed. Maybe he smells, Missy, she thought warmly, remembering her French Poodle.

"May I present my sister, Mademoiselle Rose Rénaud? I am Maurice."

"Bonjour.