"Avelaine"

[Maid of Marvels]

Born in the red-light district of Pigalle to a prostitute, she was raised and educated by the cloistered Ursulines. Unsuited for marriage because of the circumstances of her birth, she is meant to assume the religious habit upon reaching canonical age. That day is today... but Marie has other plans.

******​

"Maman!" she called, bursting through the door of the small apartment. "I've come home!"

Agathe looked up from the table where she sat, her hands wrapped around a bowl of café au lait, into which she had broken some stale bread. "C'est impossible! What do you mean you've come home?"

Dropping her small bag, Marie Gagnon ran over to her mother, wrapping her arms tightly around her. "Just that, maman. I have come home." She held her mother at arm's length and looked into her tired eyes. "C'est mon anniversaire! Have you forgotten??"

"Non, ma fille. Je n'ai pas oublié. How could I?"

"Then what, maman? Why aren't you happy to see me?"

Agathe Gagnon sighed. "You know why, Marie. Today you are old enough now to... "

Marie's blue eyes flared angrily. "Take the vow and the veil. Oui, maman. I know this. But I cannot. I will not!"

******

Please join chris2c4u and myself as we continue a tale that will not let us rest.

Begun in The Tabard Chronicles as "The Green Fairy"
this is the story of Marie Gagnon
and how she became...
"Avelaine"

As always, comments and critiques are welcome by PM.
Enjoy!
~Chris and Maid~
​

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Albeit reluctantly, Agathe permitted her daughter to stay, but only until she figured out someplace to send her that was safer and more suitable for the golden haired beauty.

Word of the arrival of Agathe's daughter from the convent spread quickly throughout the houses, sidestreets and back alleys of Pigalle. So, too, did word that she was off-limits. Though most were content with their own situations in life, there were few who would wish the same for any of their own offspring. Keeping Marie Gagnon out of harm's way became the sacrosanct devoir of all her mother's friends.

Old habits died hard, and it wasn't unusual to hear the crystal strains of Marie's voice as she sang the only songs she knew, hymns and paeans learned in the convent. Aside from lessons, it was the only time any words were spoken in the cloisters and she had come to love the freedom of using her voice during mass and devotionals. All that changed when she found the Moulin Rouge on the Boulevard de Clichy.

Marie was fascinated by the fancy men and women who entered its doors, and had discovered a place in the side alley where she could watch their comings and goings. Best of all, though, she could hear the music and sing along. It was the beginning of the Ragtime era and the music was both elaborate and boisterous, a far cry from Stabat mater dolorosa and Adóro te devóte, látens Déitas, the young girl was hooked.

Agathe was relieved to hear Marie singing songs like "Cake Walk in the Sky", "A Hot Time in the Old Town" and "Hot Tamale Alley" but eventually that began to worry her all the more... especially when she began hearing comments about her daughter at Les Deux Boules where she plied her trade. It would be so easy for Marie to slip into the "life", but Agathe would have none of it.

"Marie," she said wearily as they sat drinking coffee one morning. "People are noticing you. What did I say... "

Marie's response was not encouraging. "Maman," she replied. "I cannot spend the rest of my life sitting here in the apartment. It would be no better than my having taken the Vow. As for the men... " She rolled her eyes. "In these clothes, who would even notice me?"

More than you think, mon petit chou, Agathe thought as she looked at Marie. More than you know. Even in her simple dress, her daughter was breathtakingly beautiful and her blue eyes sparkled with curiosity. How could they not notice her? Agathe knew she would have to do something soon. Before...

 

[chris2c4u]

The morning was grey and the market stalls at Les Halles were still being set out when the thin man bought coffee and a pastry. He stood in the warm light of the shop drinking the coffee black and flirting with the shop workers, men and women both. He managed to make them all smile or laugh along with the blue jokes he told. The coffee done he left the cup on the nearest table and headed back out onto the street filling with slow moving workers from the night clubs going home and the market traders just beginning their day.

The Baron they called him; some thought it could be true that he was born in a German Schloss perched on a Mosel hillside. Henri Schwartz was one of those many fixtures of Montemartre, one of those who greased the wheels of the brothels and the Apaches. You want a new girl? Ask Henri. You want a special girl for one night or a very special client? Ask Henri. No one called him a pimp, not to his face, his friends saw to it that those who did managed it only once without a warning severe enough to put them off.

This morning the delivery boy who he had asked to keep a look out by the Moulin Rouge for prospective girls had told him a story. The boy's eyes lit up at the coins he was given.

Henri haunted the streets of the district, in summer often wearing outrageous fashions and colours, in winter a trademark long brown coat flapping by his ankles. The girls from the clubs might smile frostily at him in the early morning as they walked home but they then gave him a wide berth as if simply being seen with him was enough to drag them into the brothels. He didn't care, he wasn't in business to be their friend and should he want their bodies that could be arranged.

Occasionally though one or two like wounded sparrows would come the way of his feline awareness. They needed money - an abortion, drugs, needy parents - it was all the same to him. When they came his way he pounced and they became part of the brothels to be bought and sold like cattle. Some he saw later who had made progress and were sought out by princes and potentates and on the way to becoming madams. Others he saw, pockmarked, walking cadavers in the streets begging for bread before the nuns might take them in for their last few weeks on Earth. He met their eyes with equanimity. Ce la vie.

He lit a cigarette and bought a paper as the streets filled with children heading for school, as the market opened and stallholders cried for custom. The low sun flooded the streets with gold; an urchin grabbed an apple and ran into the crowd as the crone on the stall squawked after him.

Slowly, Henri made his way towards the Moulin Rouge, made his way to the back where dumpy women in headscarves carried buckets of steaming water and mops. He walked in the open tradesman's entrance unopposed and saw the rheumy eyed Jean sitting in his booth hunched over a sheaf of papers. He knocked on the glass and the old man inside the booth jumped and looked up with a scowl; when he saw Henri he quickly shuffled to the door and opened it.

"Monsieur," the old man said, "what can I do for you?"

Henri leaned against the wall his pale face cracking into a smile. "Jean, I hear there is a girl - she is outside often - has she been looking for a job?"

Jean rubbed his bushy grey mustache and his heart fell; he dare not lie to Schwartz but the girl's fate could be sealed if he told him the truth. He tried to edge his bets.

"No one has been to see me about an audition," he said honestly.

Henri nodded and looked at his pocket watch. He knew Jean's attempts to be the protector of the girls here from old. He pulled out five francs.

"Is there a girl," he said again.

Jean drew a ragged breath; he knew how much wine and tobacco the money would buy. He nodded. "She comes in the morning - helps with the cleaning, says she doesn't mind until there is a proper job. But I don't think she..." Henri put the notes in Jean's waistcoat pocket.

"I'll wait inside," he said with a smile.

The props on the stage were being dismantled as Henri sat at the bar reading his paper in the faint gaslight. A few people talked to him; most knew why he would be there. Some girl in trouble most likely. He got used to being treated with the respect of a funeral director at such times.

It took a couple of hours this time before there was the sound of laughter that made him prick up his ears. The peal of girlishness ended and he waited. The room was quiet now and onto the stage she walked, cleaning out the limelight burners. He gritted his teeth and held onto the bar, trying not to call out. Her blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders as she kneeled on the stage. The clothes were a little threadbare but occasionally gave a hint of her curves and he knew she was perfect. He smiled lasciviously to himself as he swallowed saliva. He was literally drooling.

She was young and ripe and he had already decided that he would be her first introduction to men - he could see the virginity in the flush on her milky skin and wanted it before moving her on. But then...

She began to sing to herself. It was one of the new tunes. Her voice drifted like smoke into the rafters and then suddenly filled with gaiety and liveliness. He drew in a deep breath; this changed everything. She was no longer to be sold so cheaply - perhaps, just perhaps he had stumbled upon the goose that laid the golden eggs.

As she finished the song he stepped from the shadows applauding. She sat up on her haunches and blushed, caught unawares. She pushed back strands of hair over her shoulder and smiled at the approaching man who held out a kid-gloved hand to her; as she took it he kissed the back of her own grime smeared hand.

"You sing so well," he purred, "surely you must be an entertainer here not just a cleaner?"

Marie blushed again and confessed she was not even a cleaner but she had hopes of obtaining a job soon.

"My dear," Henri said moving closer to the stage and looking up at her, "I have friends here and in many - clubs - across Paris. If they knew you could sing like that - well, I'm sure they would consider you for a position or two."

She gasped and wound her hands together in anticipation unable to speak.

"Perhaps you would do me the honour of joing me for lunch and we could talk about what I might do for you?"

She nodded eagerly and stood up saying she just needed her cloak, running off the stage quickly. Henri smiled.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

"If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride. We all would ride."

How many times had her mother said that to her, Marie pondered as she quickly scrubbed as much of the greasy soot from her fingers as was possible. Even so, wouldn't it be wonderful if... Praying under her breath that the gentleman would still be there when she returned, Marie threw her cloak over her shoulders and hurried back toward the Moulin's main room.

"I'm... "

"Ready?" He stepped out of the shadows once again and offered his arm.

"Oui," she replied shyly, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow as she had seen the grand ladies do with their beaux. Indeed, as they walked along the Boulevard de Clichy toward a café on one of the side streets, Marie felt very much like une grande duchesse, forgetting for a moment that her clothes were not the finest silks and furs but only simple cottons and wools.

"Let me help you with your cloak," he said as they made their way to a table. It was the first time he had spoken since they'd left the cabaret and part of what yanked Marie Gagnon back to earth.

"M-m-merci," she stammered, blushing; her heart threatening to pound its way through the threadbare woolen dress she wore as she eased her way onto the chair he held for her. Quite suitable for for the convent and cleaning the lamps at the Moulin, it hadn't bothered her before now that her dress was patched and that she'd let the hem down twice.

Before now.

Marie scrutinized his face as he ordered, memorizing the deeply resonant tone of his voice, his exact words lost in the dreamy clouds that swirled around her head. He was tall and thin (some might even say gaunt) but she thought it suited him. His eyes so blue that they reminded her of the sky on a summer's day and his hair the color of the wheat in fields that she had seen in the countryside. His cheek bore a scar that made her infuriated at the person who had flawed his otherwise perfect features. She wanted to reach out and trace it with her fingers. She wanted...

"Marie?"

"Yes, monsieur?"

"I was asking where you learned to sing. You seem to have drifted off somewhere."

"Oh. I was... I guess I always knew how." She felt a blush spread across her face, feeling incredibly stupid for having said that and quickly adding "In the convent."

For an instant she thought he smirked, but when she looked again all she could see on his face was kindness as he admonished her for calling him monsieur. "Please, Marie," he said. "Call me Henri." She didn't have the heart to say that he hadn't revealed his name until that very moment.

As they ate, Marie became more at ease, talking about growing up with the Ursulines, leaving to come home to her mother in the Pigalle and how all of Agathe's friends watched her like hawks. She told him about listening from the alley outside the Moulin at night and the way she memorized the songs to sing later and how it was her fondest wish to become a chanteuse.

Henri listened to her every word, nodding and smiling as if everything Marie said was significant. It made her feel smart and pretty and interesting. To be sure, the entire morning had become a grand adventure to the young girl who had never shared the company of any man and it wasn't until she had taken the last bite of her food that she realized that she had monopolized the entire conversation.

"Oh. I am sorry," she gushed, hoping that her blathering hadn't caused Henri to forget why he had invited her to the café in the first place. "It's just that... " She couldn't tell him that he was the first person (besides the priest who heard confession) who had ever just let her talk. "Well... "

Henri reached out and placed his hand over hers as if he understood her completely and there was no cause for apologies. "No worries, eh? I've enjoyed every morsel of the food as well as the conversation and... " He gave her hand a squeeze. "The company has been delightful as well."

Marie beamed.

 

[chris2c4u]

He took his time in capturing her - she was special, not simply taken. Giving her his card as an empressario - also it told him she was able to read - he let her go home knowing he had her on his hook. He also offered her further bait and grinned inwardly as she took it, as her eyes seemed to bulge as he took out his wallet and told her to buy a dress to show her figure off for him that night when he would take her out, take her to meet those who could give her - opportunities.

He had visited the clubs that day while she told her mother of the chance she had been given as she thanked God for her decision to leave the convent. She happily then found her way to the dress shops as he toured the cafés that bloomed on every corner of the district. He was going to squeeze every last sou out of her pussy, her figure, her voice. The picture he painted of her for the lascivious owners of the cafés was provocative enough; each and everyone smiled with crude needs which he said she would fill.

Though that night they would start at the top - the Moulin Rouge. When she appeared he was literally stunned; the sequined gown exposed her skin, her shoulders. She could do with more meat on her bones like any working class girl but he could see the promise of her curves. He smiled and kissed her hand again.

"You're beautiful," he whispered as he led her inside.

She had never been inside during the evening, at the height of the night. He took her into the dance hall galleries, the orchestra playing, couples moving below them. Her eyes sparkled and she looked trustingly to him. She couldn't dance - yet - "we must put that right," Henri purred and she smiled again with a shiver of delight.

Eventually they toured the garden with its giant imitation elephant; she giggled as he explained the men entering through the leg would be met inside by belly dancers, music, opium, girls. Aromas - women, perfume, face powder,tobacco, wine - conjoined in unholy alliance, permeating the air and the bodies of the audience. The heady atmospehere encouraged la nostalgie de la boue; the low life meeting high society was a frisson for all.

He kept her glass charged and she giggled and let him kiss her. It was his reward, she thought for his kindness. His hand slid to her thigh and felt the firm flesh through the new dress. She did not object.

Out in the night, where their breath froze on the air he again pressed close in the dark though noisy streets and she kissed him back hard as he pressed against her, his hands squeezing her breasts his groin pressed to hers. The wine overpowered her and she did not object. No, I'm not falling like my mother said, she thought groggily, he is my friend.

More clubs, where she met the owners; nearly always men who stood too close and smelt of stale beer and smoke and sweat. She hid her drunkenness as best she could and let them slip their hands over her ass; Henri was there, he would protect her if it got too bad, she thought.

Here, away from the frenetic excitement of the Moulin Rouge, people still cavorted and laughed, punched and screamed. Here she first felt Henri's hand on her knickers as they sat in a booth supposedly listening to a chanteuse sing but like most of the audience busy with their own secret pleasures.

She gave a little sigh but again did not object as his fingers penetrated her; the first time anyone had done so - other than herself. She was surprised at his skill as her breathing deepened and she wondered who might see her as she climaxed, as she knew she would.

Henri grinned as his fingers pleasured her, watching her suppress her excitement as she came; the applause for the chanteuse could as well have been for her.

Another drink and she found herself drifting upstairs, Henri murmuring words she could no longer separate, arriving at last in the oil lamp lit room.

The man - she recognised the owner of the club.

"She has enjoyed herself," said Henri, "your club suits her."

There was a noise through the thin wall of a couple in the throes of passion and the two men laughed. Marie grinned and swayed unsteadily, "helped" to stay upright by the owner of the club his hands on her hips, his fingers digging into the flesh of her ass through her dress.

"You would like your chance in my establishment?" he asked his stubby fingers tracing her jaw and taking it, nodding her head for her until she woozily said, "yes. I am a singer," she slurred.

"It is time for your audition," said the owner with a leer. "You will be one of the girls - from there you might get your chance. For now, your pussy must earn its keep."

Marie had a vision of her mother's face but pushed it aside and smiled, trying to look sophisticated but was unable to speak.

The club owner led her to the narrow single bed, rickety with use and glanced over his shoulder at Henri, who nodded.

"I will be back tomorrow," said Henri. "For my first fee." For a moment he waited as the club owner unbuckled his belt.

"What? You want to watch? That will cost you that fee," he said to Henri with a laugh. His fingers moved to the hooks and eyes of Marie's dress as she sat on the bed, looking around with dull eyes.

Henri left.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

She should leave. She couldn't stand up. She wanted to sing. This would not get her a job as a chanteuse. She swayed as the man's fat sausage fingers lowered her dress. "I... " His trousers were down, an obscene bulge jutting from his underwear. He pushed her backward like a ragdoll and lifted her dress.

Marie winced as he grabbed her breast, twisting, tugging at her sensitive nipples, his other hand insinuating itself between her thighs. Henri! She felt herself growing wet at the recent memory of his fingers caressing the soft petal folds, rubbing against her erect bud. She bit her lip. This wasn't the same. It wasn't the same at all.

He was over her. Mountainous. His breath reeked of sour booze and stale tobacco. He grunted. Marie squeezed her eyes shut trying to picture... "That's it mon petit choux. Spread those lovely legs and sing while I... "

She squealed in alarm as she felt him place his bitte against her entrance and thrust, growling in frustration, struggling against her hymen as he thrust again. Harder. Marie clenched her teeth; the pain was sharp and unexpected but the barrier was gone.

A bead of his sweat splattered on her cheek, mixing with the tears that rolled down the side of her face and into her ears as he continued pleasing himself. A few more thrusts and a satisfied grunt later, he lifted himself from her body and flopped beside her. "Now you know what it is to have a real man," he told her. Not even close, she thought. Couchon!

******​

The next few days were a blur. She was told what to do, how, where and with whom. There was no chance of slipping away as she was never left untended. She had been bought and she must learn her place. Not only learn it, she must earn it. A common putain -- even her mother had more status in the Pigalle than she had here in the backstreets of Paris.

The only thing that kept her going was the sound of the chanteuse singing of an evening as the sound of her voice drifted upstairs to the dingy little attic room that made an Ursuline's stark cell seem like a grand suite by comparison.

She would sing. She would!

In the meantime, Guillaume used her whenever he pleased. Teaching her the ways of a man and a woman he said, while the thin, shrewish woman who warded the whores for him taught her more helpful things. "You are here to pleasure, Marie, not to be pleasured. Your cunt is your meal ticket," the harridan had cackled. "Perhaps," Marie had replied, earning herself a slap across the face for her smart reply. It didn't matter though. Marie Gagnon knew her meal ticket was her voice... And she would do whatever was necessary in order to get what she wanted.

She learned to imitate the others as they cried out; practicing in the privacy of her room until she got it perfect and surpassed them. "Where is he?" Madame Poiret demanded, bursting into her room one afternoon. "Who?" Marie had asked. "The man!" "There is no man!" "Then what... " She had smiled and repeated the sound of lustful orgasm, leaving the Madame wide-eyed and grinning. "I think you are ready. Yes, indeed. I believe you are."

 

[chris2c4u]

It was late into the night when the first client was ushered into Marie's room. The smoky voice of the chanteuse drifted up the stairs with him and Marie stood up from the bed in her dressing gown and smiled.

Madame Poiret mouthed "drunk" to Marie and left him with her.

"What's your name my dear?" The man swayed and slurred "Jacque" before moving closer to her his hands on her hips, pawing, trying to open the dressing gown.

Marie giggled girlishly and led him to the bed, pushing off his jacket and down with his braces as she sat on the edge of the bed, pulling him down beside her. Outwardly warm, inwardly she wanted it over and hoped there would be no others tonight.

She helped him undress and as she did so she studied his cock, noting how different it was to Guillame's; her hands lifted it and pulled back the skin to a purr from him and a half laugh. She ignored him as she studied the organ as it began to respond to her fingers. She had a fascination for it and the balls that hung down, her fingers gently caressing them.

She became aware of his urgent hands under her dressing gown, pawing her skin. She slipped a hand behind his neck, lay on her back and pulled him over her. He wasn't as heavy as the owner of the club but he lay on her, smothering her body as his cock slid between her legs, moving randomly, seeking out its place in her. She pushed at him, almost lifting him until she could get her hand on his cock again, guide him into her warm tightness and hear him moan in pleasure.

She urged him on, her hands on his ass, pulling him between her splayed legs as his mouth sought hers. She screwed up her eyes as he kissed her, as she felt him climax inside her. She smiled and lay on the bed as he did up his trousers, a bleary eyed smiling face a token of his satisfaction.

There was another; a man not as drunk and who wanted her to suck his cock. She blushed and didn't know how to tell him she had never done that before so instead she smiled and patted the bed.

"Tell me how you like it," she purred as he quickly pulled off his pants and underwear. Again she studied the cock that was already rising for her without a touch. She bent to kiss the tip.

"Yes, that's right...suck the end..." The man reeled off his intructions and she complied, only once or twice making him hiss as her inexperienced mouth grazed him with her teeth. Deeper, deeper; she slid down on the member, her heart beating fast in trepidation - what would it feel like to have him cum there? What would it taste like?

She held his hips down as he tried to thrust and instead moved her head quicker on him, up and down until she felt his cock throb and the hot fluid filling her mouth. Once more she screwed up her eyes and swallowed the seed, sucking it from him to get it out of her mouth as quickly as she could. Slowly she relinquished his cock and with the air of a practiced whore, licked her lips and smiled at him.

****

In the kitchen the next morning, Marie ate porridge and drank coffee with the other two girls of the house when Henri arrived, opening the back door and walking in. He smiled at Marie and came over and kissed her. She smiled back, a smile that hid her recognition of him now as a pimp but - she still needed him.

He sat at the table and winked at the other two girls, asking them how work was, what they thought of the newcomer, when were they going to come to his rooms and sleep with him?

"Now you, my little flower," he covered Marie's hand with his own, "you are progressing?"

She shrugged and gave a half nod. "May I speak with you? Can you take me to the market - I would like some better clothes, I think I could earn more..." She blinked and tilted her head with a smile. Henri arched an eyebrow. Without taking his eyes off Marie he told the other girls to tell "the madame," he had taken her for a walk.

She pulled on a coat as they made their way towards the market, linking arms with Henri and standing close. "You know what I really want..."

Henri nodded. "You will get your chance. You will sing."

Patience, she told herself. Perversely she had, after the initial revulsion, started to think she must make the best of her new life. She had decided to enjoy studying men, their bodies, their pleasure - the thought of that gave her enjoyment of her own. That previous night after the man she had sucked - and done it well for a first time - she had masturbated, recalling the bodies of the two men, wondering what more there was to learn. She wasn't naive in this - she knew that a chanteuse had to be skilled - in every way. It would be easy to get away from Madame Poiret, from that club - but for now, she wanted to combine business and pleasure. And she wanted to sing.

The dress shops Henri was taking her towards stood at one side of the market square but they wended their way slowly towards them, Marie's eyes lighting on a craftsman's stall, where some cheap jewellery was laid out on a dark velvet cloth,

Henri was saying something about talking to one of his lookout boys and he said he would meet her by the jewellery stall.

The man at the table wore a brown leather apron. His fingers were delicate as he carved a piece of stone with small implements. He looked up as she approached and she swallowed; his smile made her heart leap. His eyes - later that day she wondered why it was she found it was so hard to remember them - were they dark? Blue like Henri's? And his features - yes, they were handsome, she knew that but try as she might the exact face would not quite come into focus in her mind.

There was a kind of ripple in the air too that seemed to seal the two of them off from the bustle of the market. He leaned forward.

"You would like some pretty thing?" He smiled. "Our secret," he seemed to say and reached into his breast pocket of his thick woollen shirt. She grinned. The toe ring was of thin, almost flexible gold. At it's centre in the shape of a tiny star sat - she frowned - was it emerald? He shook his head.

"Jade," he said, "a flake of jade. Wear it and it will keep you safe..." she was sure he then said, "Marie," but how could he? She had never met this person before - no, it must have been "my dear," she had misheard him.

She looked around, vaguely waving at where Henri had gone. "I must ask if I may have it..."

He shook his head. "No, it is yours, there is nothing to pay. Just remember - wear it always. It's a lucky charm against - disease...and other things you don't want."

His face was serious for a moment and she seemed to feel him reading in her heart what was happening to her - that she needed such help as he suggested. She blushed - and then there was Henri, next to her. She drew a deep breath, the ring safely in her pocket. The jeweller was already at work again and Henri dismissed his wares with a glance telling her to follow him and they would go to a real jeweller. She glanced back at the stall as they walked away and then turned her attention to the dress shops where she was a mannaquin for the designers, for Henri - and for herself. She enjoyed the finery and dreamed of stepping out on stage - any stage - and singing.

After lunch, the clothes she had bought for her sent on to Henri's address, all but one, which she would wear that night, they set off back through the market. She looked around at each stall, sure they were going back the way they had come - yes, there was the bookstall - she got Henri to buy her a sheaf of the latest songs and an introduction to reading music - but of the jeweller, there was no sign.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

"It's high time you... " Madame Poiret bit back the sharp words of chastisement she had prepared for the newest whore when she spotted Henri Schwartz standing behind the young girl. "Monsieur, a special evening has been arranged," she said instead, gloating. "Un coup. Some gentlemen here on business who are also... looking for pleasure." Laughing lustily, she turned her eyes to Marie. "You should prepare yourself. It will be a busy evening."

Henri's uncompromising nod indicated that Marie must do as the Madame said, despite the fact that she was bubbling over with curiosity. "A coup?" she blurted to Colette who was sitting on the edge of her bed beside Mignon who was sliding a silk stocking up her shapely leg. "Madame said... "

Mignon giggled, sitting up and kissing Colette on the neck. "Un coup de troupe, chéri. Comprendez?"

Marie looked from Mignon to Colette and back again. There were many things she hadn't learned about this life and this was one of them. "Non."

She waited as the more experienced women conferred wordlessly, obviously deciding who was to explain. This lesson fell on Colette. "There are men, Marie, and women, too, who enjoy fucking in the presence of others."

"Well, yes. It would be difficult to fuck without someone else present," Marie giggled. "So?"

"You misunderstood, chéri. They enjoy fucking with many present -- men and women. Together, you see?"

It took her a while to grasp just what Colette was saying, but when she did... "Ohhhhh! But I've never... And the rest I just pretend."

Mignon nodded and laughed. "We know. We hear!"

Marie blushed but was unable to hide the grin that spread across her face. "So do I. And tonight I learn a new trick, yes?"

"Yes. Now go and bathe and prepare yourself. If you need help, we are only a loud moan away." They all laughed at Colette's remark, but for none did the smile extend to their eyes.

******​

They were all waiting in the largest bedroom of the house when the gentlemen were ushered in a few hours later. Americans. Loud mouthed and lewd, they commented as if the girls didn't even exist. Marie bit her tongue as one grabbed her breast, tearing the lace that adorned the green satin dress that Henri had bought for her that afternoon, knowing full well that there would be many other dresses just as there would be many other men... this one was just another rung on the ladder.

"You are anxious," she giggled coquettishly, her hand teasing the overt bulge in his trousers. "Perhaps I should get the rest of this silly froufrou out of your way, Monsieur?" Marie swirled and dodged as the man lunged at the bodice of her dress. "Patience, chére," she purred. "Let me entertain... you."

Giving him a nudge toward a chaise, she stepped back and began to undress. Slowly... her eyes never leaving his as she began to sing.

Between the words to her song and the unhurried way she peeled off her clothing until she stood clad only in a garter and hosiery. The man and his companions were entranced as Mignon and Colette moved to her sides, their hands caressing the would-be-chanteuse as the men raped her with their eyes, hands fumbling to remove their own apparel.

"I wonder if one of them is going to lick her cunt," one of them mumbled to the other.

"Don't know. But I could do with a bit of cock sucking."

Colette moved in to oblige as the third, stroking his cock, watched her take his friend's swollen prick into her mouth, spittle running down her chin as he fucked her face. "Suck him hard, you slut!" the companion slurred, stepping behind her and rubbing his cockhead against her ass.

Marie struggled to stay calm, to continue singing, as Mignon knelt between her legs. "Spread them, chéri," the woman whispered, parting her lips with her thumbs to open her.

Her legs were shaking as Mignon's mouth closed over her sex. She'd never experienced anything of this sort, though she knew this is what Colette and Mignon did when they were alone together. They'd hinted as much. But the gasp of delight that escaped Marie's lips was genuine as the new-sprung sensations Mignon's lips and tongue aroused in her spread throughout her body. Did men do this, she wondered? If not, she would find a way to teach them how.

The scent of sex permeated the room, the men grunting and the women moaning for them. Mignon eased her down to a chaise as "their" gentleman thrust his cock toward Marie's mouth. They came together, the man squirting his seed as she convulsed against Mignon's mouth, her body shuddering as she called for someone to fuck her.

"Will I do?"

Marie looked up into the icy blue of Henri Schwartz' eyes. "When... ?"

Pushing Mignon aside, he spread her legs and thrust himself inside of her. "Mmm... Fuck for me, Marie. Show me what you can do besides sing."

Still spasming from the intensity of her first orally induced orgasm, Marie was only too happy to oblige as her pussy clenched and eased around the pimp's cock. She'd learned enough to know what most men liked and this one needed to know what he had sold away. "Oui... " she whispered against Henri's ear as she wrapped her long legs around his slender waist, though she really wanted to say... "You fuck for me." Given time she knew that he would.

 

[chris2c4u]

Time passed and Marie learned more of the ways of men and women and their couplings - but slowly she grew bored and frustrated. Henri was seldom seen. She wanted to complain to him, wanted to get to sing in the club.

She was becoming a popular girl; always clean: the doctors who visited the girls periodically were surprised she had not sucumbed to some pox. A few of the clients now would ask for her, like Charles, the banker was a favourite when she didn't want the excitement of sex. He would sit on the bed and more often than not tell tales of his family - his fat, homely wife his children and when he had her it was undemanding; she straddled his large form, half naked and let him turn red in the face and paw her body as she milked his cum.

Jules, the young man who fucked quickly, with little skill, who she was trying to teach a few tricks, told of his search for a girlfriend. He had decided to join a bicycle club, he told her on the last occasions. "We ride at the weekends," he said, reading from the club's brochure. She ran her hand through his short blonde hair and looked over his shoulder. "In the hope of getting a ride during the week?" she giggled in his ear and he looked shocked at her words before laughing and pulling her down on top of him.

The day dawned bright and clear when she met Pierre for the first time. They were short of waitresses in the club and she was volunteered - she made sure she would get paid for it and Madame Poiret grumbled but had to agree - she knew well enough she could steal most of it back anyway.

The black dress with its low cut front was meant to intrigue, to get tips, to encourage the men to spend. She was popular, learning to walk with an exaggerated sway of the hips she collected the tips and began to wonder if she needed a change of career.

The night was fast sidling up to morning as Pierre sat halfway back and watched the dancing girls, stopping Marie as she walked past and flashed him a smile.

"Another wine," he drained his glass and she nodded, her eyes on his olive skinned face. In the half light and the smoke he looked rugged, his clothing dark so she could not judge his figure but their eyes lingered on one another as she walked slowly towards the bar.

Returning, she brought a carafe and set it on the table for him.

"It's from a bottle with a little more quality," she smiled.

He nodded and poured himself a glass, his nose investigating the bouquet and nodding, passing her a note across the table.

"Keep the change. A pity you can't join me," he said, his voice deep, almost rolling to her between the racous music that began to fill the air. She threw back her blonde curls and was about to laugh a standard cocquetish laugh when again their eyes met.

"Perhaps later, if you want..." she let the sentence trail off.

"You're one of the girls?" He gestured with a raise of his head and eyes to the ceiling what sort of girl he meant. She blushed, suddenly thinking how cheap he must think she was and for a moment couldn't answer but then slowly nodded.

He drew on his cigarette, studying her as she stood in front of him. She contemplated the moment when she wasn't a cheap tart in his eyes, when she had some respectability - but now she was just an object again - or so she thought.

"I'll see you afterwards," he said simply and turned his attention to the stage.

****

He saw her afterwards, saw her and took her body, gently, excitingly with his mouth and his sex. He enjoyed her arousal as she arched her back under him and pushed her wet groin against his as he suckled her breasts as she came again before he climaxed deep in her tight pussy. They took time together, he still inside her after he had filled her with his seed, she stroking his back her legs still entwined with his. She smiled as he studied her again, his serious face finally breaking into a grin as he kissed her.

She held him, wanting him to come back, wanting to find out more. He was taciturn and she suddenly had an idea.

"Pierre, may I ask you a favour?"

He moved off her body and lay beside her his fingertips running between her breasts, feeling the dampness where their bodies had been so close. His green eyes ran over her face and he made a questioning face. She moved closer and lowered her voice.

"Tonight - the tips I made in the club - will you look after them for me? Otherwise they will..." she clicked her fingers then slipped them into the downy hair on his chest, "disappear."

"And what makes you think I won't use them in another club?" he said.

"Because," she slipped close again and ran her hand down to his pubic hair and caressed his soft cock. "You have a nice..." she looked down to where her hand gently stroked, then back to his eyes. "Face," she said with a dimpled smile.

He laughed softly. "All right, I'll be your treasurer," he said.

She kissed his cheek, knowing now - if indeed he did prove trustworthy - she would see him again.

****

He did see her again and he took her out - the first time to the market where she used her money to buy more music.

"You sing?" He looked at the sheets on the stall as she looked for the latest songs, engrossed in her search it was a few moments before she looked up to him and nodded.

"It is what I want to do," she said. "I was hoping at the club -" she shrugged but noticed him studying her again. She opened her eyes wider and smiled. "What is it?"

"You want to sing...Would you like me to make that happen for you?"

She drew in a breath and just stopped herself hugging him in public.

"How?"

"I have a club," he said simply and she let out a little squeal before putting her hand to her mouth.

"I will buy you one evening and you can perform. Also several afternoons - so you can rehearse. But first, an audition." He moved closer. "In my apartment, this afternoon."

 

[Maid of Marvels]

The sisters at the convent had always said that everyone had their own personal guardian angel, and while Marie wasn't foolish enough to believe that Pierre LeDoux was hers, she quickly realized that this man was going to play an important part in her life -- and in her career as a chanteuse.

She sang brilliantly for Pierre that first day, using her voice as well as her body to delight and captivate her benefactor. By the time he returned her to Mme. Poiret's several hours later, they had arranged for two afternoons of rehearsals and an evening for her debut at his club. Marie was in seventh heaven.

Marie struck up an instant camaraderie with the pianist at Le Chat Bleu. This, she thought the most amazing thing of all. There had never been a doubt that she would sing. Oh, no. But she had never sung "accompanied"... and certainly not by one the likes of Claude Fourchet.

He knew all the latest songs and played them without using a scrap of sheet music. He knew the great composers also -- Beethoven, Bach, Handel and more, having been trained at the Conservatoire though he didn't say which one. His family was quite well-to-do it seemed, though he was a disappointment to them, preferring music that was... more modern. They called him infidèle.

Pierre left them alone through all their fits and starts, listening to the arguments and repartee between the musician and his protégé, as he had begun to think of Marie Gagnon. When he announced that she would sing in the club proper le samedi prochain, Marie turned to Claude who hung his head and shrugged.

"What?"

Marie faced Pierre timidly, though her conviction was bright in her eyes. "I need more practice."

"You've had two days, chéri. How many more?"

The last was directed at Claude who waggled his hand back and forth. "She must learn, Monsieur LeDoux, to sing with the music. She already knows how to sing with her body."

"Bien. Two more days and that is it."

"You won't be sorry. I promise," Marie enthused. Linking her arm through his, she tilted her head in the direction of his private office where she would show him her gratitude and so much more.

******​

"You're really going to sing?"

"I am," Marie replied to Mignon and Colette with a nod as she slipped the toe ring on after her bath. It couldn't hurt. Her calm exterior belied the swarm of butterflies that were careering throughout her belly but her friends were just as excited.

"Will LeDoux buy you away from the old hag?"

"I don't know. He's humoring me because he likes the way I... " Marie pantomimed fellating a man and winked conspiratorially, grinning when the other two burst into giggles.

To be fair, that is exactly what she was hoping for. That she had Pierre LeDoux's unwavering attention in the bed was an understatement. Whether she could convince him that she was a worthwhile investment for his establishment was another. But one could always hope.

******​

The conversations in Le Chat Bleu barely quietened when Pierre himself introduced her as the evening's entertainment. A few looked up from their drinks when she began to sing, but it wasn't until she was midway into the song and weaving her way around the room that they actually began to notice her.

"The Moth and the Flame played a game, one day,
The game of a woman's heart;
And the Moth that played was a maid, they say,
The Flame was a bad man's art,
The Moth never knew, as she flew so near,
That flame was the light of shame;
But she flutter'd away just in time, so they say,--
That's the tale of the Moth and the Flame!"

Marie Gagnon not only had their attention, she had their wallets. Requests for private performances mingled with cries of "Encore!" and the titles of various songs. She was a hit! At least here. But it was a beginning... and a good one.

 

[chris2c4u]

Pierre was pleased for Marie, she had achieved what she desired and was good at it. That first night her pleasure bubbled over into bed and they made love happily, laughing, pleasuring each other until they fell asleep in a tangle of bedclothes.

Le Chat Bleu had it's new starlet, her enthusiasm and joy in singing winning over even Pierre's established singers. Yes, they were a little jealous of the lithe young woman and her popularity but they couldn't resist smiling at her sheer exuberance.

But Pierre was still paying, still taking her away from the brothel-club; it was a luxury he couldn't afford to keep doing and soon he knew he would have to confront Poiret - but it was to be sooner than he thought.

****

Mdm Poiret complained to Marie the next time Pierre was to take her out. "Off with him again?"

"Doesn't he pay for the time he is with me?"

"Perhaps," said Poiret grudgingly, "but I thought you wanted to sing - to have your chance in the club."

Marie's eyes opened in surprise and she bit back the reply that she'd seen no opportunity offered her at the seedy club. Madame Poiret let her go but later that day sent word to Henri, grumbling about the "new girl and her client."

Henri knew all about the new girl's talents, both in bed - where the satisfied customer's word was getting round - and her talents with her voice. He also knew of Pierre and his club and suspicions began to form darkly in his mind.

That evening he sent one of the appaches into Le Chat Bleu; before long he was out and nodded to Henri. Yes, she was singing, yes she was raking in tips and attention. Henri slunk back into the shadows of the street opposite the club; a wraith of frozen breath rose into the Montremartre night. He murmured some words and they went into the bar opposite Le Chat Bleu.

Morning was wearing thin when Henri and his henchmen - he had been joined by another and Henri had plied them both with drink - went across the road into Pierre's club. There were few patrons left; a cleaner had begun work. In the corner sat Pierre and Marie, over a small round table with a bottle of wine. They were kissing so didn't notice until Henri wound his hand into Marie's gold locks and pulled her head back. Pierre tried to stand and get to Henri but the appaches held him.

"Now, no need to disturb the quiet," Henri said and released his tight hold on Marie's hair. "Just a few questions." He looked at Pierre. "She is my girl - Poiret's is the stable I keep this whore in. You understand me M. LeDoux?"

Pierre glowered and didn't acknowledge the remark but said, "This is my club. You will leave immediately."

"We have to get a few things clear first." Henri indicated with a glance to one of the thugs that he was to come around and take Marie. He did so and she shouted and struggled but the appache easily lifted her and took her onto the stage and into the wings.

"Follow me, monsieur," Henri walked off in the same direction as Pierre shrugged off the hands of the second henchman. When they got into the wings however, the big man held Pierre. Marie looked frightened.

"Henri? What is the matter? Why are you here?"

Henri ignored her and the man holding her waved his arm. The black rubber truncheon hit Marie in the ribs; she squealed and fell to her knees. Again the man hit her. She fell forward onto her hands. The truncheon struck twice more and Henri gestured for the goon to stop. Pierre was struggling uselessly in the grip of the other man.

"You have been singing, not fucking." Henri looked at the heavy who hit Marie again. She whimpered yet remained strangely submissive; she wondered if she deserved this, if she had overstepped the mark somehow.

Henri went forward and took her chin in his hand and lifted her face.

"You sing in the club where I put you. Not here."

"Schwartz," Pierre shouted and slowly Henri turned to the club owner.

"How much? How much to buy Marie?"

Henri took his time lighting a cigar. "She is beyond your price, I fear," he said, exhaling smoke slowly.

"Name it."

"10,000 Francs."

There was silence.

"I'll give you 5 and a cut of her shows for a year."

Marie looked at the two men, bargaining over her like she was a trained animal. She felt the ache of the bruises that were forming on her skin under the dress and waited for Henri to decide.

"We will draw up a contract," Henri said, "it won't be quite as simple - I think she might go far so we'll deal with her moving on and sheet music associated with her name. You'll still get a good deal. I'll see you in my rooms, tomorrow." He turned to Marie, still on the floor, supporting herself on her arms.

"A good investment, don't you think? We'll make you a star." Henri was never one to lavish great amounts of time on his discoveries. Anything could happen to them in this brutal world of the clubs - as Marie had just discovered. Sooner or later an angry client could cut her face or the drink would take her voice. If this fool Pierre was convinced by the good little cock sucker, he could take those risks, make her work to pay off the debts. He smiled to himself as he retreated with the two appaches.

Pierre hurried over to Marie, calling out for help from anyone nearby to get her upstairs and her bruises attended to. He shook his head in wonder at his own words - to pay so much for a girl he had bedded as a whore. A girl with a voice, yes but still...was it a moment of madness? Time would tell.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

The reality of her situation slowly sank in, replacing her bruises and two cracked ribs with a new resolve. Pierre may have gotten her out of Mme. Poiret's but his contract with Henri had taken her out of the frying pan and placed her smack dab into the fire.

"Five thousand francs and a cut of the profits is a huge amount," Pierre had explained with a mendaciously pococurante shrug. "You understand... "

Oh, yes. Marie understood. She was a putain, plain and simple and he was her macquereau -- no different than hundreds of others except for her ability to sing. Even her mother was a step above. She, at least, was her own woman.

The glow that surrounded the young girl with the initial prospect of singing for Pierre in his club had faded; even her hair had lost its lustrous sheen. The only time the puissance of her former vitality peeked through was when she was singing, and even then it was a mere soupçon of what it had been. It was beginning to look as though Marie Gagnon was a liability rather than an asset.

To offset expenses, Pierre put her to work with the "regular" girls four nights out of the week, taking her less and less often to his own bed. As for Henri, he danced attendance on the three when Marie sang, his hand out, prehensile fingers wiggling for his slice of the slowly decomposing pie.

Three months later...

The three women sat quietly around a small table outside the café where they met for lunch once a week. "Talk is that Henri is displeased with his share of the profits, Marie," the tall redhead said. "You don't really want a repeat of... "

Mignon shuddered, fingers that had been twirling a stray lock of her chestnut hair stilled. "Marie. Listen to Colette. C'est vrai. C'est vrai. He is very angry. We heard... "

Marie shrugged as if it made no nevermind to her. "Tant pis. Let him do as he pleases."

Colette grasped her friend's wrist as she flicked it and lowered it to the table. "Now you are talking stupid. I thought you wanted to sing? Dead birds don't sing, Marie. Use the brain God gave you and the education you got at the convent. Think, girl! Think!"

"All the thinking in the world is not going to get me on a proper stage, Colette. You know better. Look at you," Marie spat. "Stuck at Poiret's with Guillaume and Henri for how many years?"

"That's not fair, Marie," Mignon said quietly, a crimson blush spreading across her face. "You know why Colette stays. It's because of... me. She could have bought herself out two years ago, but they want much more for me. I keep telling her... "

"Shhh, chéri," Colette whispered, leaning over to kiss her lover gently on the cheek. "This isn't what we meant to discuss. We are here to talk sense into this... this... rock!" Yanking at Marie's lackluster blonde hair, she squinted her eyes and hissed. "You are not stupid. Don't pretend to be!"

"Ow!" Marie slapped her friend's hand away, balling her hands into tight, white-knuckled fists as she glared back.

"People are looking," Mignon cautioned, tears welling up in her eyes.

"Pah! Let them look all they want. It certainly won't be at the mousey one," Colette retorted. "Drunks and cuckholded husbands is all she's good for now. She never wanted to get out from under, Mignon. She only wants to lay on her back and spread those pretty legs."

"Enough!" Marie's sapphire eyes flared as color rushed to her face, the first sign of zing she'd shown in quite a while. "That isn't true! You know that isn't true!"

"Isn't it?" Colette asked, arching one carefully tweezed brow cynically. "Then what is, Marie? Look at you! Your hair! Your clothes! Corner whores look better. As for the singing... " She shrugged and laughed sardonically. "Pfft! Quelle domage."

Marie seldom lost her temper, but there was an exception to every rule... and she was mad enough to spit. "De l'air, Colette! I... " She buried her face in her hands, but not to cry. To think. Something she used to be good at. Something she needed to do.

After a few minutes, she raised her head and looked from Colette to Mignon and back again. "Je suis désolé. Excuse moi. You're right. I have to make a plan."

Mignon clapped in delight as Colette nodded somberly. "So... First we eat and then we plan. Oui?"

Good humor restored, the three ate as if they hadn't fed in days. For Marie, that was most likely true, and she was famished.

 

[chris2c4u]

The plan was simple; the following week Colette and Marie went together to the house in the faded genteel Faubourg Saint-Germain. They were ushered in by an old woman in an ill-fitting maid's uniform. She obviously knew - and cared little for - Colette but eyed Marie quizzically but did not step out of her place.

The large drawing room they were led to smelt of tobacco smoke and had a garish gold flock wallpaper. On a chaise lounge a middle aged gaunt woman smiled at them and held out her arms for Colette. The two kissed passionately almost forgetting Marie's presence.

"Now, who is this," said the woman her eyes running over Marie's figure as she smiled an aside to Colette. "I know we've always had faniasies of another in our bed..."

Colette laughed and introduced Madam Juliette Daudet to Marie. The three sat as the maid reappeared with coffee for them, clattering the cups a little as she placed the silver tray on the ash-veneered table. She was dismissed by Madam Daudet. "It is better I pour it myself, it saves the carpet from a soaking."

Slowly, Colette and Marie unfurled the story of Henri and Pierre and their growing frustration, at the fears Marie might be sold on to a lesser brothel or - worse.

Madam Daudet's thin lips grew taut and pale; she drew in a breath that made her thin nostrils flare and she smiled and tilted her head.

"You sing, you say?"

Marie nodded and Colette said, "it is of course why I thought of you...and Alain."

Marie frowned and Juliette explained it was her husband. She said it in a tone that made it certain to Marie that there was nothing left in the husk of the marriage but a desire to remain respectable. Juliette's needs were met by Colette, Marie mused - and any other girl she could buy.

Juliette moved to a piano and searched through sheet music. "You like popular song?"

Marie smiled and nodded and told her of the music she had recently bought. Madam Daudet reached out with a laugh and held her arm briefly. "You are an expert!"

She showed Marie a copy of Rose Blanche, which she knew and sat down to accompany her.

Marie closed her eyes a moment and began.

Alle avait, sons sa toque d'martre
Sur la butt' Montmartre,
Un petit air innocent;
On l'applait Rose, alle etait belle,
A sentait bon la fleur nouvelle,
Ru' Saint Vincent.

The song ended and Madam Daudet leaned back on the piano stool her long fingered hands in her lap.

"I will speak to my husband," she said with a smile.

Two days later Alain Daudet met Marie at The Blue Cat and bought some time with her. His face was florid from wine but the rest of his skin pale, his body a little bloated with good meals but Marie didn't mind his touch, surprisingly gentle and expert for one who she knew had no satisfaction from his wife. He spent time arousing her before he slipped into her body with moans and compliments to her "sweet, sweet pussy. Ahh...can you squueze me with it...yes, wrap your legs around let me get deeper...there...do you like that?"

She did and her body flushed as she closed her eyes and conentrated on squeezing his cock as he moved quicker inside her body. Her fingers curled into the skin of his back as she felt the hot seed's warmth in her body while he mewled and kissed her neck.

He took his time with her still, caressing her and only slowly getting on with the business Marie hoped he could help with. He lay beside her stroking the soft curve of her belly as he explained.

"I travel - working for theatre companies. My wife says you sing well; I could perhaps find you some work - but she also said you need to leave Paris - some trouble?"

Marie nodded and explained again the difficulties.

"Then perhaps, England. You speak English?"

Marie bit her lip. "A little," she said, in English and smiled tentatively.

"Try and learn more - you might not make it into shows straight away but you'll be around them - though there's a demand in some of the circles I move in for French women. Some of those circles are well aware of the pleasures that can be had over here, for one of their aristocratic families."

Marie's eyes widened.

"So, the only payment I ask..." He smiled and leaned forward to take her pink nipple in his mouth. She purred and stroked his hair as he did so. It would scarcely be a payment, she thought as she cradled his head at her breast as his hand circled her waist.

A knock came at the door signalling their time was up. She sighed, knowing it also meant some juicer would be next in line, wanting to suck the cum of her previous "guest" fresh from her pussy. But not for much longer. Not now. She wriggled her toes excitedly and noticed a glint of green from the toe ring.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

How is the Queen like the weather?
Because she reigns, and reigns, and reigns... and never gives the poor son a chance.

Alain Daudet had continued to visit her from time to time, his influence in the theater had certainly placed her in better situations than her previous benefactors back in France. She no longer had to endure the constant pawings and rough fumblings of Mme. Poiret's - or those of the men from the Blue Cat, but there were still times when the owners of the places she'd been employed here in England made certain arrangements under the auspices of "keeping the clientele content".

Well after hours at the Paragon of Varieties on Mile End Road, Marie Gagnon stood in front of her dressingroom mirror rouging her nipples. She had heard that the music hall sometimes closed to entertain particular patrons, but this was her first experience with such an occurrence.

"Who is he?" she'd asked one of the other girls, only to be told she would know when she saw him... and only if he "chose" her. Esther's tone implied that she had been "chosen" on previous occasions, though her pock-marked skin, hidden behind layers of make-up and clever lighting from those in the audience, made Marie doubt the fact. Even so, she let the girl prattle on. Esther clearly didn't think Marie, as a relative newcomer to Varieties, would be "chosen" either.

Powdering her chat with gold-dust laced powder, a gift from Alain, Marie slipped the diaphanous gown over her head and set about fixing her hair. She was in the mood for a man, and if this one was able to resist her voice, she was going to make sure he would not be able to resist her other... qualities. One could never be certain when the next steppingstone to her ultimate heart's desire would appear.

Marie stepped out onto the stage, peering into the darkened room for a glimpse of the man who could afford to hire the Paragon of Varieties for his own personal entertainment. The last in a line of brilliantly, rainbow-clad showgirls, she was obviously the pot of gold and fully intended to prove her value.

After a couple of songs with the others, it was Marie's turn for a solo. She was meant to sing something slow and sensual but changed her mind at the last minute, knowing that the small group of musicians that accompanied them would pick it up. They'd had a lot of fun with it during rehearsal when she'd shared the sheet music with the piano man the week before.

"I love my little cat, I do
With soft blonde silky hair
It comes with me each day to school
And sits upon the chair
When teacher says "Why do you bring
That little pet of yours?"
I tell her that I bring my cat
Along with me because... "

Marie could see where the gentleman was sitting now, although his face was still hidden in the shadows and she aimed to remedy that. As she began the chorus, the young woman who longed to become a chanteuse, stepped off the stage and wove her way around the tables that separated from the object of her attention.

"Daddy wouldn't buy me a bow-wow! bow wow!
Daddy wouldn't buy me a bow-wow! bow wow!
I've got a little cat
And I'm very fond of that
But I'd rather have a bow... "

Her voice had become sultry as she moved sinuously toward him, the sheer material of her gown wafting around her naked form like a warm summer breeze.

"Wow... "

Standing directly in front of him, Marie knew that he could see every curve, smell her perfume, and, as she leaned forward, feel her breath as she exhaled the final word of the song...

"Wow!"

Marie blinked as the man drew her onto his lap, his large hand caressing her thigh. Could she be mistaken? Trying not to seem like a besotted schoolgirl, she scrutinized his face; broad like his mother's though his nose was long and thin like his father's had been. His hair was short and wavy, parted in the center and his mustache and beard were full, making his face seem wider than it was. His body, at least what she could discern while he was fully clothed, was more like his mother's, also. Queen Victoria's Consort had been tall and much thinner than his son.

Someone behind them clapped and the stage went dark almost exactly at the same time as lights went up in the main room. "You may call me, Bertie," he said, his hand now cupping her breast as she snaked her arms around his neck, nuzzling at his earlobe to hide the look of incredulity on her face. She couldn't believe her luck.

 

[chris2c4u]

The upstairs room at the Paragon had been a place of liason between Lords, Members of Parliament, judges and...their chosen women from the shows for many years. This was the first time though that Bertie had used it.

Marie betrayed no nerves as she teased the Prince, realising that he was a man of humour and fun as she giggled - yes, somewhat forcedly - and easily out manoeuvered him around the bed until he was red faced and laughing and she came to him.

She lost the diaphonous dress easily and he hurriedly tried to remove his clothes until she laughed, throwing her lustrous blond hair back over her shoulders and came to help the portly young man.

He fell back to the bed, naked and she grinned down at him, kneeling beside him on top of the covers. Her expertise then, learnt in the dingy rooms of the small clubs in Paris stood her in good stead. Slowly she teased him and they laughed together; he was in no hurry to use her body and abandon her. She bent to kiss the head of his cock and he growled pleasantly, his hands in her hair as she deepened the kiss to his shaft. He murmured something she didn't have enough English to grasp but he was pleased. Almost as pleased as when she straddled him and slowly lowered herself onto his hardness.

****

It was two days later when Esther ran into Marie's dressing room. She was trying to keep from speaking too quickly and she flapped her hand in front of her mouth and bit her lower lip. Marie grinned.

"What is it Esther?"

The other girl giggled and pointed at Marie. "You. He wants you. Paris." The garbled words were eventually teased out into more sense. Albert Edward, the Prince of Wales, wanted Marie to accompany him to Paris.

All at once, Marie's heart sank and rose a thousand times. To be not only chosen - but asked to accompany the Prince to Paris...but yes, Paris. Daudet hadn't been in touch recently but when he had last he didn't intimate that it would be safe to return to her city, the city she knew to hold her destiny, her heart. She kept her worries from Esther who grinned and hugged her.

"I knew you'd make it," she said and again Marie's heart sank a little. Yes, she'd made it as the high class courtesan. Every time she sang the crowds wanted more yet these club and theatre owners just wanted her to spread her legs...She screwed up her eyes to prevent a tear escaping.

The "official" news of Bertie's request came later that day via a discrete gentleman's gentleman, who gave her tickets for trains and ferries and a hotel room in a quarter of Paris she had never visited but knew well. In amongst the tickets was a short note; she did not know Bertie's handwriting but it must have been from him she surmised as she deciphered his scribble.

"The room will be made in your name - what would you like to be called?"

She grinned to herself, aware of his necessary caution. She asked the messenger for a pencil and scribbled her reply.

"I will be Avelaine. Simply Avelaine. The singer." She underlined singer.

There, she thought. I have my new life - if I live long enough to enjoy it. The thought echoed in her head.

****

Henri had been - upset. He quickly discovered that Pierre was not to blame but still, Henri felt he should suffer for the disappearance of their prize asset. However, he was now canny and kept a guard of Appaches. The deal had fallen through and both he and Pierre knew that she had slipped through their fingers, a golden goose.

It was Henri whose web first quivered with the information she was in London. Then it didn't take long to find out that a French singer was at the Paragon. He hand picked the hoodlums himself; they had to have a certain intelligence. If she could be brought back alive and looking reasonably attractive, then he would have that. Yes, they could fuck her but she must not be too damaged. This was a matter of honour - and pleasure. He would have her first himself and wondered what to do with her thereafter. He didn't like to be outwitted by his chattel. He smiled as he thought that there were certain specialist clients who would...well, she would not be seen again.

He remained content until a few days later. The envelope he received contained a penis and graphic photographs of the execution of his henchmen. The note made no bones about his fate should he try to interfere with Marie again. He ground his teeth and his scar flared as he looked at the note and the name he knew was an associate of the well known English debaucher, the Prince of Wales. He sniffed, lit a cigar and went back to prowling the alleys around the Moulin Rouge for his next victims.

****
Le Chabanais was expensive; it was not a difficulty for Bertie. The brothel was his favourite and he came back time after time to sample the exotic Hindu Chamber, and the infamous champagne bath - and his own room.

The chair was made according to his instructions and the help of the house. The seat was designed to make oral sex between two or three people not only easily possible but erotically charged.

So Marie - or Avelaine - found as she stood, naked, over the Prince's body as he lay on the upper chair. She bent down and suckled his erection as Lizette, the young woman lay beneath them, sitting up. She suckled the Prince's balls, making him thust up. Then she moaned and whispered, "oh, Marie...." and she licked the singer's slit and then sucked her clit.

"Avelaine," murmured the singer, her lips leaving the royal cock.

"Call me Avelaine."

 

[Maid of Marvels]

http://www.Bibracte.dreamwater.org/ATWAS/EdwardVIIchair.jpg​

They used the chair often, for Bertie's pleasure and also for Avelaine's -- which was, in a manner of speaking, always his. Their combined appetite and enthusiasm for sex knew few (if any) boundaries.

"Are you ready?"

Avelaine nodded, her blue eyes glistening as her body rose and fell on his cock. Edward grinned back lewdly, flexing as she tightened her inner muscles, coaxing his seed from deep within. "Come for me, Chere," she murmured. His grip tightened on her waist, guiding her as their bodies collided frantically, she taking her release first and he following quickly, gloriously behind.

"Ahh, what you do to me," the Crown Prince exclaimed happily as he regained his breath. "Today I will do something special for you."

"Oui?" She arched her eyebrow and leaned up on an elbow to kiss him lightly.

"Oui," he replied, pinching one of her pert nipples and grinning before sitting up and clapping his hands sharply to summon his everpresent valet. "We will be going out this evening, Peter. No guests but we will have need of your... services... when we return."

"As it pleases you," Peter responded, his face showing no sign of whether Bertie's announcement pleased or displeased. "Your baths have been drawn."

Once he had retreated, Avelaine pinched Bertie. Hard. "And just where are we going?"

"You'll see ma petite choux," he replied enigmatically. "Wear the yellow gown, I think. Now shoo."

Avelaine giggled and, slipping into a robe, was still tying it as she scurried off for a soak in what she knew would be deliciously scented and sensuously hot water.

~*~​

It soon became apparent where Bertie was taking her today - L'exposition Universelle! As they approached and passed through the turnstile of the Porte Monumentale, a huge portion of which was covered by Binet's cast iron canopy, Avelaine's eyes widened with wonder. Above them sprawled a sculpted statue by Moreau-Vauthier called "La Parisienne" but dubbed by many as "The Triumph of Prostitution". Even so, she was fascinating.

She could see the Petit and Grand Palais across the Alexander Bridge and the Dome of Les Invalides as they walked, surrounded by friends of Bertie's.

"You are as golden as the Sun King himself," he whispered in her ear, making her blush at the sheer heresy of his comment. Avelaine had worn the gown he had suggested, layers of golden silk and lace, the bustle an enormous bow. She carried a fan made from dyed maribou which also ornamented her coiffure, which she raised to cover her blush, her sapphire eyes burning over the top of it.

Musicians and jugglers strolled through the crowds and food vendors hawked their wares. Knights in armor duelled as Quasimodo stared down on a dancing Esmeralda. There were moving sidewalks that led to the Trocadero and finally the Eiffel Tower. They passed Arabic tents and railway cars with moving dioramas until they stood, finally, at the base of a huge wheel, La Grande Roue.

"Please?" She was nearly jumping with excitement. Avelaine had neither seen nor been on a ferris wheel before. Of course she would go, and did. Several times.

There was little Bertie had denied her in their time together. Only one thing had not materialized -- her desire to become a singer -- and she is bluntly reminded of that by the tinny strains of Sarah Bernhardt singing in the cinema pavillion. A second blow, it seemed, when someone reminded her that Bernhardt had also been the model for the statue at the entrance.

Avelaine did not remain disheartened for long, though. The Palace of Electricity and the Chateau L'Eau brought childlike wonder to her eyes and still, Bertie insisted, the best was yet to come. She couldn't even begin to imagine what that could be.

~*~​

The sun had long set by the time they arrived outside a theater. "An American performer," someone said. "Loli Fuller," another one added. Avelaine glared. She had her own statue as well as a theater! Enough was enough.

"Bertie," she said, barely able to conceal the shrillness in her voice. "We need to discuss... "

"Yes, yes. And we will," he answered vaguely as a tall man approached, claiming his attention.

"Bertie! How long have you been in Paris and still you have not come to Le Baiser. Je suis desolé!"

"Joubert!" Bertie shook the man's heartily. "I have been... " His eyes and Joubert's caressed Avelaine.

"I see. And is this the girl who sings?"

Avelaine hadn't been paying close attention, but she did hear that one word: sing.

"Oui, Monsieur, je peux chanter," she answered for herself, her eyes scrutinizing Bertie's twinkling ones suspiciously. "Pourquoi?"

 

[chris2c4u]

It all seemed to pass in a daze for a few moments as the two men spoke together. Was she being treated like a chattel again? No, they weren't speaking of her as an object but Bertie was saying how she sang to him.

He stood closer, not concerned at the stares of the passing Exposition goers as he took her hand.

"You will always please me in bed my little nightingale but - I have not forgotten the promise I made to you about singing. It is in your blood, you are a performer," he gave her a wink and didn't have to add 'in more ways than one.'

"So my good friend, and patron, the Prince Edward," Joubert spoke in English and gave a mock, stiff bow to the Prince, who laughed at the lampooning formality, "suggests that you might be interested in an opportunity at the new club I am opening. Le Baiser Foncé. In Montmartre."

She bit her lip, shaking her head in confusion and looking to one man and then the other. "Thank you," she breathed to both of them.

"The day is not yet done," said the Prince with, if possible, an even wider grin. Avelaine's eyes widened and the Prince turned around towards his Mercedez, in which all three were driven to Montmartre, scattering people before the still unusual motor car and coming to a halt at an apartment building on the Rue des Saules. Here, Edward led the way, entering the building imperiously and climbing the stairs to the second floor. He stood before a laquered wooden door and handed Avelaine a key. He grinned at her expression.

She took the key, her hand shaking a little and opened the door.

The apartment was spacious, its several rooms already partially furnished; the bedroom already held a mahogany sleigh bed. She looked around again at Bertie.

"It is yours," said the Prince simply. She put her hand to her mouth and a tear leaked from her right eye.

"What's the matter?" Edward was concerned. "Don't you like it?"

She nodded a sob escaping her and she came to him and put her arms around his neck crying on his shoulder. "I like it very much," she managed to say. She never dreamed of this... Both men made cooing noises to their new treasure.

****

They then went together to Le Baiser Foncé; here, workmen still swarmed around, on the roof, on scaffolding, at the door. A few of them nudged each other, a few craned down from the roof, their eyes caught equally by English royalty and the elegant woman in the yellow dress; they suppressed their catcalls and whistles as she took the arm of the Prince and all three went inside.

Here, things were more complete - the stage was finished and red velvet curtains were being hung by two thin young men balanced precariously on ladders. Avelaine looked around and climbed onto the stage, walking to the back, to the small wings and forward again, where she curtseyed and began to sing the popular Amoureuse, in its seductive waltz time.

At the end both men applauded, as did several of the workmen who had stopped to listen. She came down from the stage.

"You have both done so much for me," she purred, a naughty glint in her eye. "Tell me, M. Joubert - do you have rooms here that we could escape to for a while?"

****

She led the dance in Joubert's private quarters. The dance she had perfected as she had worked her way up from nothing. It was another of her skills and one she enjoyed exercising.

First, cognac for them all, then her slow, sensual striptease before she began to pluck at their clothing, encouraging them to join her on the bed.

She knew of Bertie's liking for her mouth so she had him lie on the bed as she let the last of her silken underthings flutter to the carpet. The Prince was sprawled, half off the bed and she walked, her hips swaying even in the few steps it took, between his spread legs and she bent to his already hard member. She kissed the tip of the head, hearing him chortle as her mouth slowly lowered as she suckled on him.

Her fingers lifted the weight of his balls as she broke off her kissing and half raised herself to look back through her long blonde hair.

"Do you like the view," she asked Joubert, who she saw standing naked, rubbing his hard cock. She noticed with pleasure that his erection was long and thick. She gently patted her behind.

"Come, take me," she said as she lowered her mouth again to the Prince.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Avelaine groaned, her fingers massaging her temples. "There are cannons exploding in my head," she wailed miserably, peering through her lashes to watch the duvet-covered hillock that was making its way slowly between her legs. "Bertie?"

"Non," came a muffled reply. "But I have the cure for what ails you."

Pushing aside the covers, she watched Joubert kiss his way up her thighs, his dark, ravenous eyes fixed on hers as he parted her with his thumbs and began to feast. Avelaine groaned again, though this time it was not because of her hangover.

Bertie, or so Joubert later informed her, had been called back to England, but, he added, the Crown Prince had left her a note and a passbook. The message was a thank you and a standing offer to contact him at any time if she had need of anything. The passbook was not a simple. It seemed that, in addition to having purchased a home for her, Bertie had left her more than enough to furnish it and support herself for quite some time.

For perhaps the first time in her short life, Marie Gagnon, now known only as "Avelaine", was in control of her own life and about to launch what would become a brilliant career as a chanteuse.

"Joubert," she said, setting down the mementos from her sojourn with a man who would soon become the King of England. "When will I begin?"

"Begin?" he teased, slowly stroking his cock. "Come here, chere... I would think as soon as possible, oui?"

She stood before him naked, her blue eyes sparkling as she brushed her hair back over her shoulders. "Oui," she she replied, taking him into her mouth. A favor for a favor.

******​

Within just a few months, Avelaine had become La Grande Dame of Montmartre Society. She learned to pick and choose her men, her amoureux, accepting "gifts" of money, jewelry, pieces of art. She was Le Baiser Foncé's shining star and the apéritif for those men who could not afford her favors and so would leave with one of the others from Joubert's jardin des fleurs.

She didn't marry, nor did she stay with any man for long. How could she possibly choose one from so many? They were all so delicious, she was fond of saying. Well, except for one... There is always that particular one. Isn't there?

 

[chris2c4u]

Except for the occasional vacation with a special patron of Joubert's, Avelaine rarely left Montmartre over the next few years. Here, on the hill, was her home - and she had everything she had always wanted.

Joubert was more than generous and her apartment filled with treasures from others too, those mesmerised by her beauty, her voice, her sultry eroticism.

She sang and people came and listened and didn't expect her to leap into bed with them; they came because she was a chanteuse. There were offers to sing elsewhere now - but somehow, she was content with life and something told her to stay at Le Baiser Foncé.

As they strolled the hill one light May evening, Joubert took her arm and sighed.

"Who is going to steal my little nightingale away from me?"

Avelaine laughed and patted his hand, recognising one of his periodic periods of doubt. "No one, dear man, no one. I am - happy." She looked at him and smiled and he saw her face flushed - perhaps with the warm breeze of spring but then he looked into the blue of her eyes and smiled; he believed she was, even after offers from much larger clubs, where occasionally she would do a guest appearance, she always came back to the heart of Montmartre, back to Le Baiser Foncé.

He led her down to the shop that he wanted to show her. Inside were paintings, painters materials and the smell of strong coffee and tobacco. Avelaine smiled at Joubert and frowned a question wondering why they were there.

"Tanguy, you rascal, where are you hiding?" Joubert called out to the empty room. There was a laugh from the back, a deep, comforting laugh and a large bearded man appeared from a doorway behind a counter and came out to hug Joubert. His eyes sparkled when he was introduced to Avelaine, whose hand he took in his own large paw and delicately lifted it to his mouth and kissed it.

"I see I have been away from your club for too long - I had heard rumours of your beautiful new singer." He smiled at Avelaine again then winked at her and she laughed back and inclined her head, accepting the compliment.

"So, we will see you in the club soon, I hope?" Joubert asked, strolling around looking at the works on show.

"I am helping artists - it is difficult to get time but yes, I will make it my business now to drop by."

"Anyone in particular?" Joubert asked.

"Yes a few - oddly today I was visited - but not by a painter."

Joubert looked at his old friend who went into the back of his shop again and returned with a paint stained rag.

"He left me this to sell."

Avelaine and Joubert came close and he opened the folds of the cloth.

The tiny figurine of a fairy lay in his palm, her wings of green jade made almost transluscent. As they looked it seemed the more they would see, the more detail would be revealed. No one spoke for a long time.

Finally, Avelaine whispered, "she is beautiful!"

"Very," said Tanguy. "I decided I would not sell her on but paid the artist a good price - he will not starve in his garret for a while. I will keep her, I think. The Green Fairy will be mine."

"Oh!" Avelaine leaned on Joubert suddenly, lifting her foot from the floor. She rubbed her shoe.

"An itch!" she said and laughed but still it persisted and she went to a seat to remove her shoe.

She hardly thought of the toe ring that she always wore, that was her constant companion through her adventures but now - she looked. The tiny fleck of green...

"Is it emerald?"

"No, jade..."

She remembered the jeweller in the square and his gift and looked at the green fairy again - and wondered.

****

There is always that particular one. Isn't there?

Yes, always one...

Thomas Bellion held the telegram in his hand as he sat outside the cafe. He ground his teeth and read the words again.

Attend the auction and look for paintings from the 18th century. You may also buy some of the new impressionist work but do not pay over the odds for it. I understand that many of the artists work in the clubs go there and see what you can find. I do not want to hear more of the statuette. It is a chimera. With affection, Papa.

He folded the telegram making a knife like edge before pushing it into the inside pocket of his jacket. He pushed thoughts of his father aside and drank the coffee and drew in a deep breath. Paris in the springtime - it was not the place to think on old wounds but to look at the budding cherry trees and relax.

He dabbed his lips with the napkin and stood, adjusting his grey suit before walking off towards the auction rooms for his first appointment of the day. The cane he habitually carried tapped the pavement in time as he walked, always careful, precise.

Despite his father's avuncular concern he was a man with his own circle of contacts and clients and he made money not just for Bellion and Son but on his own account. So, despite of his papa's dismissiveness of the rumours that had begun to emenate from Paris, he knew that there was something in them. The tiny statuette was perfect, they said. An artist of sublime skill. He wanted to find the person who could carve jade into something so miraculous he - or she - had been compared (in the gentlemen's clubs, in valuers rooms, in smoky clubs) to Michaelangelo.

So it was he was drawn here, his personal quest and work combining and over the days he bought the works his father asked for, he bought his own investments and he asked about the tiny statuette.

Montmartre, the rumours all circled on there and, somewhat reluctantly, he entered that world of mystery, vice, high living and low morals.

He entered Le Baiser Foncé and mixed with the artists, who, knowing he was a dealer in art and antiques, welcomed him and told the tales he wanted to hear in the hope he would by their works.

It was there he saw Avelaine; after the dancers had finished she came out to cheers and immediately had the crowd eating out of the palm of her hand; no exception was to be made for the young Belgian. He was captivated. After she finished her songs he could not move and watched how she mixed with her friends in the audience and would sit, the centre of the attention of men young and old and flirt cocquetishly with them.

For several nights he watched this, desiring to be among those she chose - and he noticed that some nights she would pick just one man to sit with, to leave with.

He entered the club that night and smiled at the pretty waitress who had served him the previous evenings - and he ordered champagne and two glasses...

Would you like to know what happens next? the go to...

The Tabard Chronicles: "The Green Fairy"​

Page 2, Post #34

And look out for the next prequel...Thomas - coming soon!