Joy V. Sheridan writes

Charity Amour

CHAPTER FOURTEEN part 2

Mellors narrowly missed being hit by a bucket of garbage, thrown with no cautionary shout, onto the street from an upstairs window. Narrow that street, so it did not take long for the stench to soil his nostrils. 

He lifted the scented pomade to his nose and inhaled deeply. Glancing behind him, he saw with dismay the assortment of excrement which could have formed part of his lot. As it was, a few spots had mottled his left shoulder and there was encrustation about the heels of his boots. What the heck! 

He was out to celebrate and there was to be no dampener of his high spirits, nor was he intent on being easily parted from the bag of coins which was, even then, securely attached to his waistcoat pocket. 

There was a colour and cheer about this Parisian street that could not be paralleled in any European capital city, and in his time, he had investigated a few. La Belle Paree! 

A group of whores stood discussing their business, laughing loudly and digging each other in the ribs. There was a second’s silence as Mellors sauntered past, adopting for his own part a highly suggestive walk. The girls began to giggle together and point at him with guttural exclamations. He loved provoking a little controversy now and then and he knew that in this city, in this quarter, he would not for long be solitary in his quest for japes, jokes and merriment. 

“Psst, Monsieur” if you 'ave ze time and ze money, I’ave the inclination .... but if it ez a nice little garçon you are looking for, you ’are Engleesh, oui?, then Angélique here has a most charming little brother!” 

“You could turn ze other cheek, eh Monsieur, jus’ fer a few minutes, an’ I should be only too ‘appy to be Jean Pierre. If ze price is right, naturellement.”

The bold laughter of the prostitutes blew in a hot fan behind Mellors. He stopped and turned and played with the waxing of his moustache. He retraced his footsteps so that he was on a level with them. “Ah, so you think my preference, should I be seeking some entertainment, is for the breeches and the bottoms, my little birdies?”

His French was more than passably good and the girls looked at him with a renewed appraisal: not many foreigners spoke their tongue so well. He was aware, also, of the nuances and undercurrents of their lingo. 

“Come: now let me decide which sex is the fairer. Surely one of you ladies must know of a place where a gentleman can furnish himself with a bottle or two of fine wine, a plate of meats, a little parlour, maybe even a chambre more intimate? No, no,” he held up his hands, as the whole gaggle swarmed towards him, "Here, you chérie. And you, ma petite.”

He pointed to the less raddled looking of the whores and they hoisted themselves onto his arms, but not before he had thrown a handful of small change to the remainder. They threw giggling smirks to one another, across the expensive broadcloth upon his back. One of the poules started tweaking his hair, for it was luxuriantly styled about his shoulders. 

He made a stabbing gesture towards her hand, with his lace-edged handkerchief: but she had inserted a thumb under the webbing of his wig and was tickling that piece of skin now exposed.

“Why, monsieur, do not tell me; you are as bald as a new born babe underneath those Samson locks!”

Mellors looked sour. “That is none of your business. Your business, my dear, petite enfant, should not be to provoke feelings of displeasure in a gentleman, but quite the reverse.” “Oui Angélique! The gentleman is right and anyway, ’tis common knowledge that the less hair a man ’as on his ’ead, the more vigour he ‘as in hees poker!”  

This made Mellors smile. He patted the hand of the doxy who was named Juliette and who had just spoken. 

“So you wish that certain ash-filled grates be kindled into new fire, do you my lovely? I am not so sure that what I possess is but the chipped pedestal which might have served as a plaster Samson’s plinth.”  

Mellors scratched the back of his head, taking an arm with him as he did so: for the girls were anxious not to lose him. “Maybe, after I have swallowed some liquid fire, I might be able to remove the icen tongs which hold a frigid hearth? But we shall just have to wait and see. Wait and see!”

He began to laugh at his own allusions, and the girls, anxious not to lose business, laughed overall loudly with him. With sly alacrity, they made sure to steer his footsteps to a little frequented den of iniquity; for it was with near telepathic communication that they made sure their mutual interests were in tandem. And those included loosening away from the Englishman some of the loose change which clanked in his purse. 

Ah, but there were surprises in store – for the Englishman was not totally unacquainted with this part of the city. He guessed only too accurately that their footsteps were taking them close to the notorious tavern of Black Jake de Villiers, a villain legendary for his foul deeds, not only in France but further afield. 

Indeed, Black Jake had partaken of me Lord Rispian’s hospitality on more than one occasion when he had business across the English Channel: only his lordship did not know the same. It was a joke for Mellors to let the poules think he was as green as a lettuce leaf, come looking for a piece of tomfoolery in this, one of the most nefarious sections of Paris. 

As it was, his salad days had been tossed in many of the gaming bowls known to Black Jake. He should have the last laugh on them, one way or t’other. He made to eye all about him with wonder and curiosity, letting escape loud ‘tutts’ and ‘oohhs. For they passed open-fronted brothels where even now the inmates were engaged in assorted acts of copulation and debauchery. Was that not the bosom of a large blonde, overhanging the back of a donkey? This did not perturb Mellors one fraction, but he did not disclose his own inured state. He turned from the sight with a rueful grin aslant over his chops. The whores pretended delicacy and emulated his stance, meanwhile giggling to each other lowly and behind raised, cupped hands. 

“Are we nearing this select rendezvous, my dears?” “Why oui, m’sieur, jus’ up ze steps. You are sure you are still, urrhumm, game, monsieur?” “Sans peur et sans reproche” he replied nonchalantly. The girls steered him to the left side, where a flinty, dirty flight of stairs meandered into a shadowy alley-way. It was apparently a cul-de-sac. “We can go no further in this direction ladies. Perhaps you have made a mistake....?” He enacted surprised dismay. 

With a wide grin, Juliette rapped on a stone. An eye appeared behind the fringe on a smaller slab which dropped away from its internal fixture. “It's alright, Pierre: Black Jake is expecting me any time now.” He smiled as the girls let their jaws hang open wide. 

A sound of bolts being drawn back heralded their arrival and subsequent entrance.