isn't another Maggy working in the quartier, that I know of, and I know everything there is to know, I approve, in
principle, for the moment anyway."
"What luck for me. And if I hadn't met with your approval?"
"Tiens, tiens! She sits up and
barks." Paula's smile, which had
the power to banish all despondence, broadened. "You're cheeky for a provincial."
"A provincial!"
Maggy exploded. "That's the second
time in one day. Oh, it's too
much!" Although she had never known a Parisian other than Moreau, she
understood that the provincial is a matter of constant superior amusement to
anyone who has the sovereign luck to be born in Paris.
"But it jumps right out,
my poor little pigeon," Paula said without apology. "Never mind. Ninety-nine percent of the
people in the quartier are provincial. But I — I am the exception." She was intensely proud of
herself, this child of the streets of Montparnasse, a "flower of the
pavement" as she liked to say with a romantic sigh, the daughter of a
framemaker who had been brought up within a few hundred feet of the Carrefour
Vavin. All Paula Deslandes knew or ever
wanted to know of nature was contained within the walls of the Luxembourg
Gardens, all she knew of mankind, and she was steeped in the subject like a
cherry at the bottom of a bottle of old brandy, she had learned during the thousands
of hours she had spent posing in the studios of painters or seated in a cafe. Paularepresented, in her round,
abundant and buxom form, the embodiment of the passion for gossip, endless
gossip, that was embedded so deeply in the artistic life of Montparnasse.
Meeting Maggy put Paula into
the highest category of the only three moods she permitted herself. She rated her emotional temperature every
morning and never admitted to a mood that was not good, better or superb. Superb had long been reserved for an addition
to her list of lovers — there were and would always be men who
appreciated a woman who embodied that classic trio of pleasures: fair, fat and
forty. Recently she had found that
uncovering a fresh item of news before anyone else in the quartier had
wind of it was able to make her feel a mood that deserved the designation of superb,
and Maggy promised a great feast of novelty.
Every Monday, when her
restaurant, La Pomme d'Or, was closed, Paula treated herself to a tour of her
village of Montparnasse, knitting together the many threads of gossip to which
she had been privy during the busy week. Each night she presided over the dinners of artists and art collectors
from all over the world who had made her restaurant so profitable. Paula Deslandes was a natural, untutored
historian, who could easily put stray bits and pieces of information together
so that they formed a coherent social fabric.
"Well then, Maggy Lunel — so it didn't go well this morning with Mistral, eh?"
"Oh!" Maggy cried.
"How could you possibly know anything about that? You've never even seen me before!"
"The word travels fast
in this little corner of Paris," Paula answered smugly.
"But ... who told
you?"
"Vava. He dropped in on Mistral right after that big
bastard threw you out, poor thing, and being Vava, naturally he couldn't wait
to spread the story. He's an old woman,
I always say."
"Oh, no!" Maggy
hammered on her new skirt with both fists, punishing her bold pink knees. She
felt drenched in a blush, once more intolerably shamed, shown up again as a
childish little prude from the country.
"It's not
important," Paula said urgently. "You mustn't take it seriously — everyone has to start somewhere."
But Maggy had stopped paying
attention. Two women and three men had
just taken complacent possession of a table in the center of the room. One of the women was Kiki de Montparnasse,
who stared openly at her, elbowed her friends and pointed toward Maggy and
Paula. Her male companions fixed Maggy
with their eyes and raised their hats to her with satiric
principle, for the moment anyway."
"What luck for me. And if I hadn't met with your approval?"
"Tiens, tiens! She sits up and
barks." Paula's smile, which had
the power to banish all despondence, broadened. "You're cheeky for a provincial."
"A provincial!"
Maggy exploded. "That's the second
time in one day. Oh, it's too
much!" Although she had never known a Parisian other than Moreau, she
understood that the provincial is a matter of constant superior amusement to
anyone who has the sovereign luck to be born in Paris.
"But it jumps right out,
my poor little pigeon," Paula said without apology. "Never mind. Ninety-nine percent of the
people in the quartier are provincial. But I — I am the exception." She was intensely proud of
herself, this child of the streets of Montparnasse, a "flower of the
pavement" as she liked to say with a romantic sigh, the daughter of a
framemaker who had been brought up within a few hundred feet of the Carrefour
Vavin. All Paula Deslandes knew or ever
wanted to know of nature was contained within the walls of the Luxembourg
Gardens, all she knew of mankind, and she was steeped in the subject like a
cherry at the bottom of a bottle of old brandy, she had learned during the thousands
of hours she had spent posing in the studios of painters or seated in a cafe. Paularepresented, in her round,
abundant and buxom form, the embodiment of the passion for gossip, endless
gossip, that was embedded so deeply in the artistic life of Montparnasse.
Meeting Maggy put Paula into
the highest category of the only three moods she permitted herself. She rated her emotional temperature every
morning and never admitted to a mood that was not good, better or superb. Superb had long been reserved for an addition
to her list of lovers — there were and would always be men who
appreciated a woman who embodied that classic trio of pleasures: fair, fat and
forty. Recently she had found that
uncovering a fresh item of news before anyone else in the quartier had
wind of it was able to make her feel a mood that deserved the designation of superb,
and Maggy promised a great feast of novelty.
Every Monday, when her
restaurant, La Pomme d'Or, was closed, Paula treated herself to a tour of her
village of Montparnasse, knitting together the many threads of gossip to which
she had been privy during the busy week. Each night she presided over the dinners of artists and art collectors
from all over the world who had made her restaurant so profitable. Paula Deslandes was a natural, untutored
historian, who could easily put stray bits and pieces of information together
so that they formed a coherent social fabric.
"Well then, Maggy Lunel — so it didn't go well this morning with Mistral, eh?"
"Oh!" Maggy cried.
"How could you possibly know anything about that? You've never even seen me before!"
"The word travels fast
in this little corner of Paris," Paula answered smugly.
"But ... who told
you?"
"Vava. He dropped in on Mistral right after that big
bastard threw you out, poor thing, and being Vava, naturally he couldn't wait
to spread the story. He's an old woman,
I always say."
"Oh, no!" Maggy
hammered on her new skirt with both fists, punishing her bold pink knees. She
felt drenched in a blush, once more intolerably shamed, shown up again as a
childish little prude from the country.
"It's not
important," Paula said urgently. "You mustn't take it seriously — everyone has to start somewhere."
But Maggy had stopped paying
attention. Two women and three men had
just taken complacent possession of a table in the center of the room. One of the women was Kiki de Montparnasse,
who stared openly at her, elbowed her friends and pointed toward Maggy and
Paula. Her male companions fixed Maggy
with their eyes and raised their hats to her with satiric