I lean out the window to make sure he makes it across the street. He does, if a trifle unsteadily.
Then I get into my burglar's outfit and wait.
After about an hour, I open my window and climb out.
Chapter 25
"Tell us more of Monsieur le Fink, Jacqui," begs Véronique. We are dressing for the night's performance, and the girls again press me for stories about America. I'm a bit tired, because I had been out a good deal of last night, but being the natural show-off that I am, I draw in a breath and give it to them.
"Oh, my friends, what a piece of work was Mike Fink! Big as a house and covered with enough hair to stuff all the mattresses in Paris! And that time when I first saw him, he bellowed..."
WEEEEEE ... OOOOOP! LOOK AT ME! I'M A RING-TAILED ROARER! I'M THE ORIGINAL IRON-JAWED, BRASS-MOUNTED, COPPER-BELLIED CORPSE MAKER FROM THE WILDS OF ARKANSAS! I'M HALF HORSE AND HALF ALLIGATOR! I WAS BORN IN A CANE-BRAKE AND SUCKLED BY A MOUNTAIN LION! CAST YOUR EYES ON ME, AND LAY LOW AND HOLD YOUR BREATH FOR I'M ABOUT TO TURN MYSELF LOOSE.
WEEEEE ... OOOOP! WEEEE ... OOOOP! 'Course, it was somewhat difficult for me to translate all that into standard French. The French, unlike us British, have an Academy that keeps an eye on how French should be spoken, and so you don't have all the dialects, accents, slang, and thus everybody speaks sort of the same. Ain't no Cockneys here, par Dieu— but with many loose gestures, pantomimes, and Fink-like grimaces and scowls, I think they get the flavor, and a taste, admittedly strong, of Mike Fink, Le Roi de la Rivière.
I finish that story and hear raucous laughter all through it and am happy for it. I do like to tell a good story ... and why not take it further?
I see that Georgette is now fully dressed. "Georgette," I say, "will you go to see if Monsieur Percheron will lend me his fiddle for a bit?" Monsieur Percheron is not the lead violin in the orchestra, he's the butler and the old man who grinds out the melodies for us when we practice.
"Mais oui," she says, ducking out through the curtain. I take this time to finish dressing, the garters being the last to go on with a snap on each upper thigh. In a moment she is back, and I take the instrument from her and walk to the middle of the dressing room. It is not a fine fiddle, but it will do.
"This is a song taught to me by that same Monsieur Fink. It is called 'The Boatman's Dance.'" And to their utter astonishment I rip into it with both fiddle and feet.
"Out here, out here," the newly arrived orchestra calls upon hearing the fiddle tune, and I nod toward the opening in the curtain and the girls follow me through it and out onto the stage. They line up on either side of me.
I keep the fiddle going and say, "See, these are the steps. They are very simple. Step, step, hop, and step. Got it?" They do. "Then here we go."
Dance the Boatman's Dance,
Oh, dance the Boatman's Dance,
Dance all night till the broad daylight,
And go home with the girls in the morning!
Their feet, clad only in the soft ballet slippers, cannot make the hard rapping sound of booted boatmen feet, but still it is a pleasing thing. I sing a few more verses, then notice the doors being opened to admit the night's guests so I end it with
Hi, ho, the boatmen row, floatin' down the river on the Ohio!
Hi, ho, the boatmen row, up and down the Ohio!
Even though we have not done it before, we all end together, to a round of applause from the band, and from Madame Pelletier as well, who casts an appraising eye on me as she claps.
"Bravo! Bravo! Encore!" comes from the orchestra, but it is not to be, as our public begins to come in and we all flee behind the curtain again.
"Brava, bien sûr, Jacqui," says Béatrice, as we all collapse laughing onto the bench to await the opening of the show.
"But what about this House of the Rising Sun in New Orleans that you talk about, Jacqui?" asks Véronique. "It is a good place to work? The Madame is kind? I always wanted to see America."
Madame Babineau kind? Well, if you brought a dollar into her house coffers, she was kind enough. If not, you were out on the street.
I take a breath and say, "I recommend you stay here with Madame Pelletier. Here you get to pick and choose your men. At the House of the Rising Sun you do not. You must take what comes in the front door." I don't tell them that when I worked at the Rising Sun, I was employed as musician and card dealer, not as working girl, but I get the message across. Véronique nods, taking my meaning, as do many of the others.
There is a silence from outside the curtain as the musicians, done with their tuning, await the tap of the conductor's baton. It comes, and the music swells. We also get up and wait for the curtain to rise, and as I wait, I think back to my work last night.
Last night, after I saw Jean-Paul back to his post and when I was sure that he was deep in slumber, I donned my burglar's gear, threw my small bag over my shoulder, slipped out the window, and climbed down to the street. Once there, I whipped off my hood, becoming just another street urchin and not worthy of notice, and started running through the dark night for rue Saint-Lazare. It took me about twenty minutes to get to de Groote's house, and, after pausing to catch my breath, I put my hood back on and leaped up and over the fence. I crouched on the other side behind a low bush and waited. Nothing. I waited for another minute and then started across the lawn to the house. That's when I heard the long, low rumbling growl. I froze.
Then I reached into my bag and pulled out the hunks of meat I had bought that morning for just this possibility, hoping I could get them out in time before the jaws closed on my throat, and tossed them in the direction of the growl. "Nice doggy," I whispered. "Nice doggy."
It seemed there were two of them. I heard them sniff at the meat, and then settle down to eat. I let out my breath as the sounds of chewing and gnashing of teeth on bone was the only sound heard, and then I continued on to the house.
It was all dark now, except for one dim light in the attic window. Perfect. It would be that of a servant who could not go to her bed until all the cleanup of the day was done. I grabbed a drainpipe and began climbing and soon gained the roof, where I leaned over to look into the room. Sure enough, a young girl was preparing for bed, and the window was open. I pulled out my shiv.
I watched, and after doffing her clothes and washing, and pulling her nightshirt over her head so that she could not see, I crept into the room and came up behind her. When her head popped out of the collar of the shirt, I reached out and clasped my gloved hand over her mouth and put the blade to her throat. She stiffened, not believing this, and I don't blame her.
"Listen to me," I hissed into her ear. "You are a very lucky girl. You are about to make two hundred francs. Would you like that?"
Her eyes, wild, looked over at my hooded eyes. I felt her head try to nod.
"Good. Now, do you like your mistress?" Another nod. "What about Marshal de Groote?" No nod on that one. Good.
"Now, all I want you to do is to deliver a letter to your mistress. Today is Sunday. Make sure she sees it on Tuesday morning. No earlier. If you do it, there will be two hundred francs waiting for you in an envelope at Café des Deux Chats on rue de Londres Wednesday morning. Do you understand?"
Another nod.
"Very well. I am going to let you go now. If you scream, then I shall be out of this room in a moment and gone into the night and you will have nothing. Comprenez-vous?"
Another nod, and I let her go. She did not scream. I put my shiv back up my sleeve and pulled the letter from my bag.
"To your mistress. No one else. I will know if you do not do it, and you will not get your money. What is your name?"
"Yvette."
"All right, Yvette. Here is the letter. Good-bye." And I was back out the window and gone. I hoped that she would do it, but I was somehow sure that she would. She was a pretty little thing and de Groote is not called the Goat for nothing.
I dropped down to the ground, past the snoring forms of the dogs—of course I had marinated the meat in some of my paregoric—and went back over the fence. Once again out on the streets, I reflected that it would be a shame to waste such a lovely evening, but since I was dressed for nothing other than running across rooftops, I hurried back to my room and went to bed.
The letter? It was a simple thing and not overly wordy:
My Dear Madame de Groote,
If you wish to catch your husband with a prostitute, then go to 127, rue de Londres, Room #7, at midnight tonight.
A Friend
That was all, but I think it will be enough.
This night, at intermission I go to the foyer and mix with a number of the young men I find there. A glass of champagne is pressed into my hand, and I laugh, I flirt, I giggle, I make jokes. In short, I sparkle, for I must choose one of these men to take home with me tonight.
I did not see Jean-Paul this morning. Instead, I was summoned by Armand to see Jardineaux and he made it very plain that he wanted me to start bringing officers back to my room, starting tonight. You've been here long enough, girl. Get on with it! was what he said. Or I will report you to London. God, how I hate him.
I settle on a handsome artillery captain named Hercule Belmonte. This is to be his last night in the city, and he begs to be allowed to spend it with me.
To the great disappointment of the other young men who have been vying for my favor, I lower my eyes and give him my hand and say yes, he may meet me at the stage door after the performance. Groans of envy come from his friends, but I pretend not to notice.
He leans over my hand and kisses the back of it, and he tells me that I have made him very happy. His eyes fairly shine with triumph and anticipation.
The bell tinkles and intermission is over.
I pull my shawl around my shoulders against the chill of the evening and step out the door to find a group of young men looking to go off with a dancer. A very eager Captain Belmonte claims me and I smile at him and take his arm.
As we go up the alley to rue de Clichy and are about to turn left, I spot Jean-Paul standing by the front entrance of the theater. I give no sign of recognition and neither does he, but I can feel his gaze burning into my back as I lean in to Captain Belmonte and we walk toward 127, rue de Londres, room number seven.
Chapter 26
Next morning the yellow kerchief again dangles from my window, and then very shortly Armand pulls his carriage up out front. Dressed in my sporty riding habit, jaunty bonnet on head, I trip merrily down the hall, deposit my key and two francs in Madame Gris' outstretched hand, and then skip out the front door. It is a lovely day in the City of Light and I look forward to enjoying it.
Armand stands by the door of the coach and I give him one of my best smiles as he hands me up and in. I am pleased that it is Jean-Paul whom I find seated within and not Jardineaux. He sits stony faced, staring straight ahead, as I slip in beside him and plant a good wet kiss on his cheek.
"Bonjour, Jean-Paul," I chirp. "I hope you are well." The coach begins to move forward.
He nods. "Good morning, Mademoiselle," he says, not looking at me or, for that matter, at all well. Something is preying on his mind and I know exactly what it is.
"Good. I, myself, had a most successful evening last night." Folding my hands in my lap, I put on a look of absolute schoolgirl innocence.