Sacre Bleu Read Free Page A

supported thirty in the evening), but they all sat together on one of the round divans, and he thought it would be rude not to sit near them.
    “Bonjour,” he said as he sat down. The girl in the red negligee who had directed him was gone, perhaps entertaining a customer upstairs. These three were new to him, or at least he hoped they were new. Two were older than he, a bit time tattered, and each had hair dyed a different unnatural shade of red. The other was younger, but very round and blond, and looked somewhat clownish, with her hair tied up in a knot on the top of her head, lips large and red, painted into an unlikely pucker of surprise. None of the three looked capable of being surprised anymore.
    “I’m waiting for my friend,” said Lucien.
    “I know you,” said the round blond. “You’re Monsieur Lessard, the baker.”
    “The painter, ” Lucien said, correcting her. Damn it. Henri had brought him here two years ago when he was in the throes of an agonizing heartbreak, and although through the mystic haze of brandy, absinthe, opium, and despair Lucien could remember nothing, apparently he had made the acquaintance of this rotund girl-clown.
    “Yes, painter,” said the blond. “But you make your living as a baker, right?”
    “I sold two paintings just last month,” said Lucien.
    “I sucked off two bankers just last night,” said the whore. “I’m a stockbroker now, no?”
    One of the older whores elbowed the blond in the shoulder, then shook her head gravely.
    “Sorry. You don’t want to talk about business. Did you ever get over that girl you were crying about? What was her name? Josephine? Jeanne? You kept wailing it all through the night.”
    “Juliette,” said Lucien. What is Henri doing? He only had to get dressed, not paint the whole scene.
    “That’s right, Juliette. Did you ever get over that slut?”
    Another elbow, this one from the other whore, and to the ribs.
    “Ouch. Bitch. I was just showing an interest.”
    “I’m fine,” said Lucien. He was not fine. He was even less fine now that he thought he may have tried to find comfort on the body of this rough beast.
    “Ladies,” called Toulouse-Lautrec from the staircase. “I see you have met my friend Monsieur Lucien Lessard, painter of Montmartre.” He was pacing off the steps with his walking stick, stopping on each step. Sometimes his legs hurt him more than others, like when he was coming off a binge.
    “He was here before,” said round clown.
    Henri must have seen the alarm on Lucien’s face, because he said, “Relax, my friend. You were entirely too drunk and sad to avail yourself of the ladies’ charms. You remain as pure and virginal as the day you were born.”
    “I’m not—”
    “Think nothing of it,” Henri said. “I remain your protector. Apologies for the delay, it appears that my shoes escaped during the night and I had to borrow a pair.” As he reached the foot of the stairs he lifted his trouser cuffs to reveal a pair of women’s high-button shoes, rather larger than one was used to seeing in a women’s style, for although Henri was short, only his legs were of small proportion, due to a boyhood injury (and his parents being first cousins); his other parts were man size.
    “Those are my shoes,” said round blond.
    “Ah, so they are. I’ve made an arrangement with the madame. Lucien, shall we go? I believe lunch is in order. I may have not eaten in days.” He tipped his hat to the whores. “Adieu, ladies. Adieu.”
    Lucien joined his friend and they walked through the foyer and out the door into the bright sun, Henri a bit wobbly on the high heels.
    “You know, Lucien, I find it very difficult to dislike a whore, but that blond, Cheesy Marie, she is called, has managed to provoke my displeasure.”
    “Is that why you stole her shoes?”
    “I did no such thing. A poor creature, trying to make her way—”
    “I can see your own tucked in your waistband in the back, under your