Didi: The Tale of a Would-Be Courtesan, Page 3

mortar gun,” continued Didi in matter-of-fact fashion. “I mean a long—”

  “You’ve seen it?” Madeleine’s eyes bugged out.

  “No. But my mother knows someone who knows someone who has a friend who was, shall we say, involved with Fulbert once. It’s a well regarded source.”

  “It is?”

  “Oh, very. She’s a lady of high society. That’s the only type of lady Fulbert will be with. When a man’s got something like that, you don’t share it with just any girl.”

  The staggered schoolgirl remained motionless, her mouth hanging open.

  “Your Aunt Orianne might stand a good chance,” Didi added. “She’s of good breeding. And your uncle left her plenty of money when he died, didn’t he?”

  “Aunt Orianne? What makes you think she’d even want it?” demanded Madeleine.

  “Oh, all women want it. It’s just that good. An absolute marvel.”

  Recess ended but, before the school day came to a close, word of Fulbert’s “cannon” had spread to every girl in class, just as Didi knew it would. She also knew it wouldn’t take long for word to reach the ears of others outside the school, including adult ladies seeking the pleasures of a man—a man with good weaponry.

  Actually, Didi had no idea what Fulbert was packing under his trousers. But this was her notion of the quickest way to get wealthy women to pay interest in a humble journalist. Somewhere out there was a well-heeled lustful lady willing to marry someone who could fill a hole in her life—so to speak.

  “I had the strangest meeting with a lady yesterday,” Fulbert reported the following Sunday as he sipped Madame Dupuis’ chamomile tea and nibbled on her cookies. “This woman I’d never met sent a note to my office asking me to meet her at her home. I thought she wanted to share something newsworthy. So I took her up on the invitation. But, when I got there, all she wanted to do was serve me wine and chat about the idle pleasures she enjoys.”

  “What types of pleasures does she like?” Didi leaned her elbows on the table, propping her head with both her hands. Fulbert had her rapt attention. He usually did, but today the girl was especially attentive.

  “Oh, the usual,” he answered. “Dining out. Going to the theatre. Gardening. She had me walk her about her garden for an hour.”

  “I trust you offered her a gentlemanly arm to cling to as you walked?” Madame Dupuis beamed a worldly smile as she refilled his cup.

  “Naturally. But, at some point, I could see she wasn’t going to offer anything resembling a news item, and I practically had to pry her fingers from my elbow in order to excuse myself.”

  “What’s the lady’s name?” Didi asked him.

  “Madame Bergeron.”

  “Orianne Bergeron?”

  Fulbert looked surprised. “You know her?”

  “No.” With self satisfaction, Didi popped a cookie into her mouth.

  “When will you see her again?” asked Madame Dupuis.

  “I have no intention of seeing her again.”

  “Oh, but you must!” insisted Didi.

  “Why must I?”

  “It’s common courtesy. Decency demands you invite her out.”

  “Well, how did that happen?” he flustered.

  “You accepted an invitation from her,” reasoned the girl. “Now you must reciprocate. Why don’t you take her to Maxim’s?”

  “Maxim’s?” The man was flummoxed. “Oh, this is ridiculous!” He turned with pleading eyes toward the older woman. “Madame Dupuis, you’re a reasonable person. Am I obligated to take this woman out somewhere?”

  “Well,” said Madame Dupuis, “you did drink her wine and walk her in her garden.”

  “That was because I thought she was a news source!”

  “Apparently, she thought otherwise,” said Madame Dupuis.

  “Oh, what a perfect disaster,” he sulked.

  “It’ll be fun!” said Didi.

  “It’ll be nothing of the kind,” he said. “I was bored out of my mind just listening to her prattle on about her petunias.”

  “So you make the conversation,” counseled the girl. “Tell her your deliciously wonderful stories. I love listening to them.”

  “You’re a little girl,” he admonished. “You’re easy to amuse. She’s a full grown woman.”

  “I’m not a little girl!” Didi retorted. “I’ll be seventeen next month! I know what a woman likes. I can help.”

  “Help me do what?”

  “Romance her, silly!”

  “Who said I wanted to romance her? I barely know the woman!”

  “Mamma!” Didi cast a weary look toward her mother. “He’s apparently the only man in Paris who isn’t a romantic!”

  “It’s true, Fulbert,” agreed Madame Dupuis. “I love you like a son. But, in the realm of romance, you’re an unlit candle on the chandelier of love.”

  The man knitted his brow, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms. “So now I’ve got the both of you ganging up on me.”

  “Don’t worry, Fulbert,” assured Didi. “I’ll help you.”

  With the eager young girl as his coach, he extended a begrudging invitation for a Friday dinner to the widow Madame Orianne Bergeron, an invitation that was accepted with immediacy. He chose a less expensive restaurant than Maxim’s, but one that was still elegant enough to meet with Didi’s approval. Days before the date night, Didi and Fulbert conferred so the girl could help him pick out the suit he’d wear, something dark and sleek looking that went well with a crisp, dignified bowtie. Calling upon her own coquette training, she also prepped him on the types of things to say in various situations.

  “Don’t forget to compliment her hair,” she instructed. “Even if it looks like a flock of sparrows took up nest in it. Or especially if it looks that way. It means she went to a lot of trouble to make it look like that.”

  Finally, the big day arrived. Didi stopped at Fulbert’s apartment an hour before the date was scheduled to begin. She raced up the stairs to his second-floor abode to give him some last minute advice and encouragement. As he laced up his shoes and listened to the girl’s chatter, the man looked anything but enthusiastic. But Didi shoved him out the door with a final fervent plea that he allow himself to let go of his inhibitions and be the passionate bon vivant she knew he could be. She waved goodbye as he rode off in the carriage she hailed for him. He was on his way to pick up Madame Bergeron.

  The moment the carriage turned the corner, the girl raced in the direction of the restaurant where they were going to dine. She wanted to get a ringside seat to watch the date play out. The large windows facing the street gave ample viewing of the restaurant’s interior. Didi just needed to remain in the shadows until Fulbert and Madame Bergeron entered, and then she could watch through the windows.

  It was about a quarter past eight when their carriage arrived and the couple entered the restaurant. Didi waited a few seconds after they disappeared inside before positioning herself by a window. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she could see them perfectly from her vantage point. They were at a table by the wall. Madame Bergeron, a plump woman appearing to be in her late thirties, was dressed in a flowing green dress with a large matching hat that had multiple plumes sprouting from it. Beneath the hat was a crop of red hair braided in such a way that it did indeed resemble a bird’s nest. Didi took that as a good sign.

  From what the girl could make out, Madame Bergeron was doing most of the talking. In fact, she seemed never to stop. What a fool, thought Didi. Fulbert’s such a great storyteller. If only she’d shut up, she’d see how entertaining he is. Still, the woman in green jabbered on relentlessly while her dinner companion sat motionless and made occasional head nods to feign interest.

  Fulbert’s most animated moment came about halfway through dinner when he knocked over a glass of wine. To keep the escaping liquid from dribbling into his guest’s lap, he leapt to his feet like an acrobat and hurled a napkin between the spill and Madame Bergeron. Didi couldn’t be certai
n, but she was almost sure she saw the woman’s eyes drift for a moment toward Fulbert’s crotch while he was standing and mopping up the table.

  If things worked out as Didi was hoping, eventually the widow would learn firsthand what resided beneath Fulbert’s trousers. The girl was well aware that he might not live up to the legend she created. However, she assumed that, once that bridge was crossed, there would be no turning back.

  It was about 10:30 when, having dropped the widow off at her home, Fulbert returned to his own. Waiting for him there, seated just outside the door to his apartment, was Didi.

  “Why are you here?” he demanded. “And what are doing up this late? Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

  “I’m not a child. And there’s no school tomorrow, anyway.”

  “Still,” he grumped as he opened the front door, admitting them both, “a girl your age shouldn’t be roaming the streets of Paris at this hour. It’s not respectable.”

  “Friday nights aren’t for respectability.” She plopped herself into a fluffy chair as she made her pronouncement. “They’re for fun!”

  “After my having endured this evening, you’re going to have a hard time convincing me of that.”

  “Didn’t you enjoy your date?”

  “Not in the least. The woman’s a crashing bore. I’m glad it’s over.”

  “Oh, well. Perhaps you’ll have a better date next time.”

  “There isn’t going to be a next time.”

  “Oh, but there must be!”

  The man stood dumbfounded for what must have been at least five seconds. “Why must there be?”

  “Well, you’ve