Evan Hunter - Lizzie

And now there was more shrieking and whistling from the women on the stage, and the band rose as if on signal, and began filing out into what Lizzie saw was an adjoining room of equal size, the trumpeter and trombonists blaring their horns, the drummer pounding the bass drum as though he were in a marching band, the pianist waving his arms and imploring the crowd to follow them. “ La quadrille!” one of the painted women shouted, “ Suivez-nous!” and there was a general rush out of the room. Lizzie felt Alison’s hand tighten on her own, heard her voice over the bedlam shouting, “Come!”

“It’s midnight!” Albert shouted to Felicity, and took her hand and hurried her along into the other room, where the women of the place — many more of them now — were taking up positions, four by four, and the crowd was jostling for seats in the low balconies surrounding the dance floor. The piano player seated himself behind an upright piano identical to the one in the garden except that it was decorated with posters depicting women Lizzie was sure she recognized as those roaming among the tables, struck a few chords, and waited while the drummer seated himself behind his duplicate set of drums. A hush fell over the room, as though the vast place had suddenly become a cathedral. The piano player struck yet another chord, and the music began.

Facing each other, the dancers executed the first few figures of a quadrille, and then advanced toward the center of their loosely formed square, kicking their legs above each other’s heads, and holding this position, their heels impossibly high in the air, bejeweled hands shaking their skirts, flashing their petticoats and underdrawers and thighs. They lowered their legs at last, and turned their backs this way and that to the audience, knees and legs pressed together now, and — bowing over from the waist — threw their skirts up over gartered stockings and beribboned underwear, exposing the fullness of their buttocks in the loose-fitting garments. They stood upright again, and turned to face the audience, and kicked again, seemingly higher this time, and then collapsed to the floor as though they were puppets whose strings had broken, their limbs spread in opposite directions. A wild cheer went up from the audience.

A man dressed as a toreador came magically from behind a red velvet curtain, and there was a woman sitting upon his shoulders, her arms about his neck, her black silken shiny knees thrust forward, skirts back, his hands clutching her ankles as together they cavorted among the other wildly kicking dancers. The woman, her hair a red as flaming as Lizzie’s, her mouth painted a deeper scarlet, suddenly — and again as if by magic — reversed her perch on the man’s shoulders so that now she faced him, her midnight knees pressed against the sides of his neck, her ankles locked on his back, and hurled herself backward and away from him, arms akimbo, tufted red hair showing in her armpits, the small of her back caught in his hands as upside down he twirled her about the floor, her head hovering above his knees someplace, the garish inverted smile, her red hair sweeping the floor.

The other dancers assumed even more immodest positions, sitting on the floor and spreading their legs wide, whistling and shrieking in an exhibition of rank indecency that provoked more shouting and cheers from the audience. Another man was on the dance floor now — Lizzie could not tell whether he was employed here or was merely a customer who’d succumbed to the frenzy of the moment — waggling his legs in their loose trousers, wriggling about like a snake. One of the women reached for the front of his trousers and he darted away in mock outrage, to be pursued by several of the other dancers who, when they had him surrounded, kicked their legs up over his head repeatedly until, seemingly overcome by the sight of their flashing gartered limbs and the open revelation of their lacy underthings, he fell to the floor in a dead swoon.

Giggling, the dancers stepped over him and, legs akimbo over his prostrate form, flounced their skirts above him until his eyes flickered open and rolled about in his head as though the perfume emanating from between their powdered thighs had revived him. He slithered along the floor on his back, his eyes popping open wide now (surely he was one of the performers) and leaped to his feet again, spanning a dancer’s waist with his huge hands, lifting her high above his head, and parading her about the room while she opened her legs as wide as seemed humanly possible.

Hardly a man was seated now. They packed round the dance floor four and five deep, applauding whenever one of the women assumed another attitude of shameless immodesty, shouting for drinks, thronging onto the floor to dance with female companions who’d been circulating in the balconies throughout the course of the riotous display. There were more raucous calls, cries in French and English and languages Lizzie could not identify, until finally the floor was cleared again for the final quadrille, during which the cavorting women seemed to abandon whatever shred of modesty had previously restrained their contortions. When at last they left the place (“It’s called the Moulin Rouge,” Alison said to her on the street outside), Lizzie felt shaken to the core. Her hand was trembling on Albert’s arm as she accepted his assistance into the carriage.

“So now,” he said in his dry English way, “you’ve seen the demi-monde of Paris.”

“What is your full name?”

“Bridget Sullivan.”

“And were you in the Borden household sometimes called Maggie?”

“Yes, sir.”

“By whom were you called Maggie? By the whole family?”

“No, sir.”

“By whom?”

“By Lizzie and Emma.”

“By Miss Emma and Miss Lizzie?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But that was not unpleasant to you?”

“No, sir, it was not.”

“Not at all offensive?”

“No, sir.”

“Did not cause any ill feeling or trouble?”

“No, sir.”

“Did Mr. and Mrs. Borden call you by some other name?”

“Yes, sir. Called me by my own, right name.”

“Won’t you be kind enough to tell us how old you are, Miss Sullivan?”

“Twenty-six years old.”

“I believe you’ve never been married.”

“No, sir.”

“How long have you been in this country?”

“Six years last May... seven years last May.”

“And where were you born?”

“In Ireland.”

“And came here seven years ago?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Came to what part of this country?”

“I came to Newport.”

“Newport, Rhode Island?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you have any folks here when you came here?”

“No, sir.”

“Father, mother, brother or sisters?”

“No, sir.”

“And have you any here now?”

“No, sir. I ain’t got no folks here, no more than relations.”

“When you went to Newport, did you stay there quite a while?”

“Twelve months.”

“And from Newport, where did you go?”

“I went out to South Bethlehem.”

“That was in Pennsylvania?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When did you come to Fall River?”

“I came there four years — I was two years out when I came to Fall River. Two years in America, when I came to Fall River.”

“Did you go to the Bordens the first place in Fall River?”

“No, sir, I went to Mrs. Reed.”

“When did you go to work for Mr. Borden?”

... I was there two years and nine months at the time of his death. There wasn’t any other domestic servant there while I was there. There was a man on the farm who used to come there and do chores, and go back again. His first name was Alfred. I don’t know his last name, I never asked him. My general duties in the household were washing, ironing and cooking, with sweeping. I had no care of any of the chambers except my own. I slept in the third story of the house, right over Mr. Borden’s room, which is right over the kitchen. I don’t know who did the chamber work in Mr. Borden’s room and Mrs. Borden’s room. Themselves did it. I don’t know which of them. I didn’t do it, and neither of the daughters did it.