anywhere. You will excuse me, my dear sir, but you have such a kind face… I knew you were English right away.» And with this she smiles at me, a strange, half-demented smile. «Perhaps you could give me a little advice, dear sir. I am all alone in the world… my God, it is terrible to have no money…»
This «dear sir» and «kind sir» and «my good man,» etc., had me on the verge of hysteria. I felt sorry for her and yet I had to laugh. I did laugh. I laughed right in her face. And then she laughed too, a weird, high-pitched laugh, off key, an altogether unexpected piece of cachinnation. I caught her by the arm and we made a bolt for it to the nearest café. She was still giggling when we entered the bistro. «My dear good sir,» she began again, «perhaps you think I am not telling you the truth. I am a good girl… I come of a good family. Only» — and here she gave me that wan, broken smile again — «only I am so misfortunate as not to have a place to sit down.» At this I began to laugh again. I couldn’t help it — the phrases she used, the strange accent, the crazy hat she had on, that demented smile…
«Listen,» I interrupted, «what nationality are you?»
«I’m English,» she replied. «That is, I was born in Poland, but my father is Irish.»
«So that makes you English?»
«Yes,» she said, and she began to giggle again, sheepishly, and with a pretense of being coy.
«I suppose you know a nice little hotel where you could take me?» I said this, not because I had any intention of going with her, but just to spare her the usual preliminaries.
«Oh, my dear sir,» she said, as though I had made the most grievous error, «I’m sure you don’t mean that! I’m not that kind of a girl. You were joking with me, I can see that. You’re so good… you have such a kind face. I would not dare to speak to a Frenchman as I did to you. They insult you right away…»
She went on in this vein for some time. I wanted to break away from her. But she didn’t want to be left alone. She was afraid — her papers were not in order. Wouldn’t I be good enough to walk her to her hotel? Perhaps I could «lend» her fifteen or twenty francs, to quiet the patron? I walked her to the hotel where she said she was stopping and I put a fifty franc bill in her hand. Either she was very clever, or very innocent — it’s hard to tell sometimes — but, at any rate, she wanted me to wait until she ran to the bistro for change. I told her not to bother. And with that she seized my hand impulsively and raised it to her lips. I was flabbergasted. I felt like giving her every damned thing I had. That touched me, that crazy little gesture. I thought to myself, it’s good to be rich once in a while, just to get a new thrill like that. Just the same, I didn’t lose my head. Fifty francs! That was quite enough to squander on a rainy night. As I walked off she waved to me with that crazy little bonnet which she didn’t know how to wear. It was as though we were old playmates. I felt foolish and giddy. «My dear kind sir… you have such a gentle face… you are so good, etc.» I felt like a saint.
When you feel all puffed up inside it isn’t so easy to go to bed right away. You feel as though you ought to atone for such unexpected bursts of goodness. Passing the «Jungle» I caught a glimpse of the dance floor; women with bare backs and ropes of pearls choking them — or so it looked — were wiggling their beautiful bottoms at me. Walked right up to the bar and ordered a coupe of champagne. When the music stopped, a beautiful blonde — she looked like a Norwegian — took a seat right beside me. The place wasn’t as crowded or as gay as it had appeared from outside. There were only a half dozen couples in the place — they must have all been dancing at once. I ordered another coupe of champagne in order not to let my courage dribble away.
When I got up to dance with the blonde there was no one on the floor but us. Any other time I would have been selfconscious, but the champagne and the way she clung to me, the dimmed lights and the solid feeling of security which the few hundred francs gave me, well… We had another dance together, a sort of private exhibition, and then we fell into conversation. She had begun to weep — that was how it started. I thought possibly she had had too much to drink, so I pretended not to be concerned. And meanwhile I was looking around to see if there was any other timber available. But the place was thoroughly deserted.
The thing to do when you’re trapped is to breeze — at once. If you don’t, you’re lost. What retained me, oddly enough, was the thought of paying for a hat check a second time. One always lets himself in for it because of a trifle.
The reason she was weeping, I discovered soon enough, was because she had just buried her child. She wasn’t Norwegian either, but French, and a midwife to boot. A chic midwife, I must say, even with the tears running down her face. I asked her if a little drink would help to console her, whereupon she very promptly ordered a whisky and tossed it off in the wink of an eye. «Would you like another?» I suggested gently. She thought she would, she felt so rotten, so terribly dejected. She thought she would like a package of Camels too. «No, wait a minute,» she said, «I think I’d rather have les Pall Mall.» Have what you like, I thought, but stop weeping, for Christ’s sake, it gives me the willies. I jerked her to her feet for another dance. On her feet she seemed to be another person. Maybe grief makes one more lecherous, I don’t know. I murmured something about breaking away. «Where to?» she said eagerly. «Oh, anywhere. Some quiet place where we can talk.»
I went to the toilet and counted the money over again. I hid the hundred franc notes in my fob pocket and kept a fifty franc note and the loose change in my trousers pocket. I went back to the bar determined to talk turkey.
She made it easier for me because she herself introduced the subject. She was in difficulties. It was not only that she had just lost her child, but her mother was home, ill, very ill, and there was the doctor to pay and medicine to be bought, and so on and so forth. I didn’t believe a word of it, of course. And since I had to find a hotel for myself, I suggested that she come along with me and stay the night. A little economy there, I thought to myself. But she wouldn’t do that. She insisted on going home, said she had an apartment to herself — and besides she had to look after her mother. On reflection I decided that it would be still cheaper sleeping at her place, so I said yes and let’s go immediately. Before going, however, I decided it was best to let her know just how I stood, so that there wouldn’t be any squawking at the last minute. I thought she was going to faint when I told her how much I had in my pocket. «The likes of it!» she said. Highly insulted she was. I thought there would be a scene… Undaunted, however, I stood my ground. «Very well, then, I’ll leave you,» I said quietly. «Perhaps I’ve made a mistake.»
«I should say you have!» she exclaimed, but clutching me by the sleeve at the same time. «Ecoute, cheri… sois raisonnable!» When I heard that all my confidence was restored. I knew that it would be merely a question of promising her a little extra and everything would be O.K. «All right,» I said wearily, «I’ll be nice to you, you’ll see.»
«You were lying to me, then?» she said.
«Yes,» I smiled, «I was just lying…»
Before I had even put my hat on she had hailed a cab. I heard her give the Boulevard de Clichy for an address. That was more than the price of room, I thought to myself. Oh well, there was time yet… we’d see. I don’t know how it started any more but soon she was raving to me about Henry Bordeaux. I have yet to meet a whore who doesn’t know of Henry Bordeaux! But this one was genuinely inspired; her language was beautiful now, so tender, so discerning, that I was debating how much to give her. It seemed to me that I had heard her say — «quand il n’y aura plus de temps.» It sounded like that, anyway. In the state I was in, a phrase like that was worth a hundred francs. I wondered if it was her own or if she had pulled it from Henry Bordeaux. Little matter. It was just the right phrase with which to roll up to the foot of Montmartre. «Good evening, mother,»