promise I won’t make any demands. And when I get older, if you’re not attracted to me anymore, you can just leave me enough money to get by, and I’ll go off by myself to lead the life of a gay Parisienne…while you go home to your wife. It’s the perfect arrangement.”
The man stood there, his jaw almost to his chest. He spoke not a peep.
The girl began to tremble.
“I can see I’ve made a fool of myself,” she murmured, her voice struggling with the words. “I’m sorry. Terribly sorry. I wish you and Mademoiselle St. Pierre every happiness. She’s a very lucky girl. I think you’ll be happy with her. And I want, more than anything, for you to be happy.”
The sobbing began in earnest on her last words as she bolted out the door and down the stairs. She burst into the night air, the moonlight glistening on her tears, and she wept continuously while running heartbroken down the sidewalk. She wanted to put as much distance as she could between herself and the place of her humiliation. Out of breath, she stopped at the end of the block and took hold of a lamppost. She leaned her head against it. The moisture streaming piteously from her eyes dampened the metal pole she clung to with agonized fingers. If anyone was witness to this spectacle, she didn’t care. Her grief would not be subdued for the benefit of society.
She heard the sound of heavy footsteps and knew someone must be nearby. She prayed that, whoever it was, he would pass quickly and leave her to her misery. However, the footsteps slowed and came to stop. A moment later, she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Didi.” It was Fulbert’s voice.
She turned to see him panting and sweating. His undone tie was still swinging from his open collar.
“Didi,” he said, “I remember that dance, too. When you were four and I was fourteen. It’s one of my cherished memories…along with the times when our families used to walk along the Seine, and you and I used to hang back to act like the two of us were on our own. And, after I got my job, how I couldn’t wait to come tell you all about the things I’d heard. The delight in your laughter…just hearing that made it worth choking down all that chamomile tea your mother insists on serving. And all those horrid dates with all those appalling women. I hated every one of those dates, but I enjoyed every moment of the planning of them with you. And how I looked forward to sharing every detail with you when I’d see you afterwards. I suppose I should have realized at the time that you were the only thing that made it all bearable.”
He gulped and took a deep breath.
“I guess,” he continued, “what I’m trying to get around to saying is…when you see a tree in your yard every day, you don’t notice its growth until someone taps you on the shoulder and says, ‘Shouldn’t those branches be pruned?’ You’ve been blossoming in my yard for years, and I didn’t notice. Forgive me.”
The girl’s tear-stained face looked up with impassioned sorrow into the eyes of the man who was the equivalent of all the world to her.
“I meant what I said before,” she whimpered. “Your happiness means everything to me. I just care that much. I promise I won’t do anything to come between you and Lili. Marry her. Stay faithful to her. And be happy.”
“I can’t do that,” said Fulbert in a throaty voice.
“What do you mean?” asked Didi with innocent bewilderment.
“I can’t marry Lili,” he said, “because I’ve come to realize I’m in love with someone else. And, if I have my way, that girl will never be a courtesan.”
He put his hands on her arms, just beneath her shoulders. She melted within his touch. He pulled her in. She offered no resistance. And there, under the moonlight, beneath the stars, before all the city of Paris, their lips met for a long, long passionate kiss.
Didi and Fulbert married in the early fall. Philosophically, Madame Dupuis was against it, considering it a terrible waste of all her daughter’s training. However, as a mother, she wasn’t about to stand in the way of true love, and so she gave her blessing to the marriage. Fulbert was, after all, already like a son to her, and she could think of no one else she’d rather have join the family.
Lili St. Pierre was, quite naturally, devastated by the break-off of her engagement. Parisians expected her to react in accordance with high society’s rules and attempt an unsuccessful suicide. However, Lili chose a different route altogether. She took up with a bohemian artist who utilized her as a model and relished her as his lover. Together, they made art like it was their only love, and they made love like it was an art. In other words, they were very happy.
Despite her upbringing, Didi took to marriage, and then motherhood, quite readily. They had three children, two girls and a boy. Fulbert was eventually promoted to the position of editor at the newspaper, and they moved into a nice house on a tree lined street in a fashionable part of the city. By all accounts, they were the picture of wedded bliss.
To hear their neighbors tell it, no one in Paris could recall a better suited couple than Madame Didi and Monsieur Fulbert Lémieux. They were known for being a fun-loving duo who could entertain people with wickedly funny stories that both amused and astounded. They were always careful to leave out the names of the people in their stories, so they wouldn’t cause any embarrassment to the subjects. Of course, people often tried to guess the identities of the characters and would beg to know if they had deduced correctly. But the couple would only shake their heads and say a tale is best told when it maintains some element of secrecy.
For example, Didi was fond of telling liberal minded friends about a young girl who had exaggerated the size of a particular part of a man’s anatomy, only to learn after she married him that it hadn’t been an exaggeration at all. Was that true? Didi wouldn’t say. She’d just smile.
THE END
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