Evan Hunter - Lizzie

“He will behave like a swine at times,” Alison said, smiling thinly.

“He’s being perfectly charming,” Lizzie said politely.

“Is he then? An odd notion of charm, you Americans must have.”

“We’re enjoying ourselves so much,” Lizzie said. “Truly. And I must thank you again for putting Geoffrey at our disposal in London — which reminds me. He was absolutely firm about paying for everything — but everything — whenever we were with him, which was virtually all of the time. I objected, of course, but he’d hear none of it, and I didn’t think it my place to argue violently with a man. But, Alison, we’re both women...”

“We are indeed,” Alison said.

“... and I feel I can be more forthright with you than I was with him. I absolutely insist, if we are to spend any time at all together in Paris, that we be allowed to pay our own...”

“Nonsense,” Allison said. “Albert has more money than he knows what to do with, millions to squander on smaller pleasures than these, believe me. Besides, he rather enjoys patting and pinching Felicity’s bottom, have you noticed?”

Lizzie hadn’t noticed. She cleared her throat and looked about at the other diners, hoping Alison had not been overheard. In an attempt to change the subject and never once suspecting what lay in wait, she asked, “Now what’s this about a cat that sank? Geoffrey seemed certain I’d be shocked. Is it some sport similar to ratting? Are cats drowned in some horrible manner? I did, by the way, see men selling cat meat on the streets of London. Do the English really eat cat meat?”

“Pussy on a stick,” Alison said, nodding. “To suit the more discerning palate.”

“And a cat that sank? What’s that?”

“A quatre à cinq, Lizzie,” Alison said. “It’s French. Quatre à cinq. It means a ‘four-to-five’.”

“And what’s a four-to-five?”

“The hour when many petites femmes — perhaps that’s too strong — the hour when many Parisian ladies manage to slip away from their coachmen to sidle up the back stairs. L’heure de femme, as it’s called.”

“I don’t understand,” Lizzie said.

“An hour to be with their lovers,” Alison said.

“Oh,” Lizzie said.

“Between four and five,” Alison said.

“Yes, I...”

“Between the sheets,” Alison said.

She looked steadily at Lizzie.

“I’ve shocked you again,” she said.

“No, you haven’t,” Lizzie said.

“Good. Then perhaps we’re making progress.”

She was not, in fact, shocked again until later that night, when they took her and Felicity to a Parisian “theater and dance hall” (as Albert described it) which had opened only the year before and which was (again according to Albert) “ le rendezvous du high life.”

As their carriage came up the hill on the boulevard de Clichy, the horse plodding upward along the long dark avenue, Lizzie was first aware of a lurid glare in the distance and realized that it was coming from the furthermost end of a modest square. As they came closer, she saw that the facade of the building dominating the square was ablaze with white and golden electrified globes and high above these she saw a great windmill slowly turning, its wings decorated with thousands of red electric lamps. There was the sound of music and laughter from within, and as she climbed down from the carriage, accepting Albert’s proffered hand, she saw — to her relief — that several respectable-looking American ladies were being led by their gentlemen escorts through the open entrance doors.

The interior was spacious and illuminated by the same dazzling electrical display as had adorned the facade. She found herself in a huge garden at one end of which was a stage, beside which stood a hollow elephant some forty feet high and forty feet long. “During the winter, they use the elephant as a café,” Alison shouted into her ear, as well she might have since the din in the place was unimaginable. A five-piece band — piano, drums, trumpet and two trombones — were positioned around the small stage, mercilessly blaring what sounded like Offenbach. Several women were dancing on the stage. Lizzie was certain she saw their underdrawers, and looked quickly away. There were a great many tables all about the grounds, and as they settled themselves around a small one close to the stage, a rather garishly dressed woman approached Albert and brazenly said, “ Avez-vous une cigarette, monsieur?”

“No, no, move along,” Albert said, but he was smiling.

“Ah, oui,” she said, her painted mouth widening into a grin. Lapsing into heavily accented English, she said with seeming delight, “All-rai-tee, you are Eeen-glesh! You buy me une bière Anglaise, yes?”

“No, no,” Albert said, and patted Felicity’s hand.

The woman tapped him on the cheek, poutingly said, “ Vous êtes très méchant, monsieur,” and sidled off to the next table.

The band had begun another song now, no less spirited or loud than the one preceding it. There were monkeys scurrying about the room, frightening Lizzie until she realized they were all on long chains. Backing away from a particularly frisky one who came dangerously close to their table, she turned unwittingly toward the stage again, where four rather fleshy young women were grouped in a loose semicircle, immodestly shaking their ample bosoms in time to the pounding of the big bass drum and the clashing of the cymbals. Their breasts, billowing in the tops of gowns slashed in wide Vs from shoulders to waist, seemed powdered with flour, and their mouths were exaggerated by the smears of wet glossy paint that decorated their lips. As she watched, unable to believe her eyes, the girls lifted their skirts and kicked out their black-stockinged legs — a flash of lacy underclothes, a glimpse of pale white thighs, she turned away. The women (she could not see them now) began shrieking and making odd little whistling sounds. Lizzie was certain she was blushing bright. She felt Alison’s reassuring hand on her arm.

At the table next to them, she saw three young French officers, their long swords trailing onto the floor. Behind them, there were school-feast flags hung all about the mirrored garden, draped from the balconies and galleries that surrounded a small dance floor. A great many men sat alone at the tables, but they were not long without company, she noticed, since women circulated incessantly about the vast room, shamelessly displaying themselves, imploring the men — as they had Albert earlier — to buy them a beer or a glass of wine, to share with them a cigarette or a dance. A woman dressed entirely in black boldly approached a table of young men and raucously bellowed, “ Et alors, vous n’avez jamais vu une vraie femme?” and then, taking in their blank and somewhat stupefied stares, translated, “Ave you nevaire see a real womans, eh?” and suddenly kicked one leg straight up toward the chandelier, her skirts billowing in a swirl of frothy lace. Her underclothes were trimmed with delicate pink ribbons, her black silk stockings fastened above the knee by diamond-studded garters. Her powdered thighs quivered as her slippered foot made a small circle on the air. A laugh exploded from her mouth.

“They’re Russian,” Alison explained. “The boys. But that, they understood, I’m sure.”

Felicity stared wide-eyed as another woman approached from the opposite end of the room, passing the stage where the dancers still cavorted, swinging past the hollow elephant, her leghorn hat decorated with a spray of yellow plumes, her otherwise blond hair streaked with a startling swath of midnight black, her white dress brocaded with flowers, a violent display of diamonds glistening about her throat and falling into the wide V of her bodice to nestle in her full (and almost fully exposed) breasts. As the other woman had just done, she kicked one leg up toward the ceiling, knocking the hat clear off the head of a bald man who sat not four tables away.