Sacre Bleu Read Free

out? One time he wants to fuck, the next he wants to draw you combing your hair, the next he is making you a cup of tea, and all the time with his absinthe or cognac—a girl needs a personal secretary to keep track of his moods. This work is not supposed to be complicated, monsieur. When I woke yesterday, he was painting my toenails.”
    “Well, he is an excellent painter,” said Lucien, as if that might ease the girl’s anxiety. He glanced at her feet, but the whore wore black stockings. “I’m sure they are magnificent.”
    “Yes, they were as pretty as a Chinese box, but he used oil paint. He told me I had to keep my feet in the air for three days while it dried. He offered to help. A rascal, that one is.”
    “And where might I find him?” Lucien asked.
    “He’s upstairs with Mireille. She’s his favorite because she’s the only one littler than him. Second or third door past the top of the stairs. I’m not sure, listen at the door. The two of them laugh like monkeys when they’re together. It’s unseemly.”
    “Merci, mademoiselle,” said Lucien.
    As promised, when he reached the third door from the top of the stairs, Lucien heard laughter punctuated by a woman’s rhythmic yipping.
    Lucien knocked on the door. “Henri. It’s Lucien.”
    From inside he heard a man’s voice: “Go away, I’m riding the green fairy.”
    Then a woman’s voice, still laughing: “He is not!”
    “I’m not? I’ve been lied to! Lucien, it appears that I’m riding the completely wrong imaginary creature. Madame, upon completion of my business, I will expect a full refund.”
    “Henri, I have news.” Lucien didn’t think the death of a friend the kind of news one should shout through a whorehouse door.
    “As soon as I have completed my—”
    “Your business is completed,” giggled Mireille.
    “Ah, so it is,” said Henri. “One moment, Lucien.”
    The door flew open and Lucien jumped back against the railing, nearly tumbling over to the salon below.
    “Bonjour!” said Count Henri-Marie-Raymond de Toulouse-Lautrec-Monfa, who was quite naked.
    “You wear your pince-nez when you’re shagging?” said Lucien. Indeed, the pince-nez was perched on Henri’s nose, which abided at the level of Lucien’s sternum.
    “I am an artist, monsieur, would you have me miss a moment of inspiration due to my poor eyesight?”
    “And your hat?” Henri wore his bowler hat.
    “It’s my favorite hat.”
    “I will vouch for that,” said Mireille, naked but for her stockings, who slid from the bed and padded over to Henri, snatched the cheroot from his lips, then scampered away to the washbasin, puffing like a tiny marshmallow locomotive. “He loves that fucking hat.”
    “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” said Lucien, remembering his manners even as he peeked around Toulouse-Lautrec’s shoulder to watch the prostitute washing herself at the bureau.
    “Ah, lovely, is she not?” asked Henri, following Lucien’s gaze.
    Lucien suddenly realized that he had stepped into the doorway and was now standing very close to his naked friend.
    “Henri, would you put on some trousers, please!”
    “Don’t shout at me, Lucien. You come here at the crack of dawn—”
    “It’s noon.”
    “At the crack of noon, and drag me away from my work—”
    “My work,” said Mireille.
    “Away from my research,” said Toulouse-Lautrec. “And then—”
    “Vincent van Gogh is dead,” said Lucien.
    “Oh.” Henri dropped the finger he had raised in the air to mark his point. “I had better put on some trousers, then.”
    “Yes,” said Lucien. “That would be better. I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
    He hadn’t meant to, but seeing the look on the painter’s face, Lucien realized that he had just done to Henri what the shopgirl had done to him: opened a trapdoor in the world through which Vincent had dropped.
    L UCIEN WAS ANXIOUS WAITING AMONG THE WHORES. T HERE WERE ONLY three in the salon at this time of day (when the house probably