it
as one flees from the plague. I had encountered it, too, in the
fashionable thoroughfares of my home city in more alluring guise, but
they were still street women all, to be passed by with disdain and fear
if one's upbringing had been as mine.
But
here, openly, unashamedly, in full view of many "good" women who had
come from all parts of the world to see Paris night life, were men
young and old, some so decrepit that they could scarcely walk with the
aid of two sticks, buzzing around the graceful scented cocottes like
bluebottles attracted by a morsel of decaying meat. We joined the
promenaders. Monsieur Gotin and I, and I noticed that he had a friendly
smile and a wave for several of the ladies who for the moment were
seated alone at one or other of the little raised tables. Sometimes he
would stop for a moment to exchange badinage with sundry female habituées, and
finally he suggested that we, too, should take our seats. He ordered
coffee and liqueurs and leaned back at his ease, pointing out to me
those among the promenaders who were men of note. To me they all looked
alike, personages of importance, well-groomed adventurers, blackguards,
guides, pimps and procurers, except that perhaps often the gentlemen
looked the least gentlemanly.
The
scene was brilliantly lit, the orchestra played ceaselessly, the
atmosphere was heavy with a medley of scents. There was a great buzz of
voices, much senseless laughter, a gaiety somewhat forced: the picture
of Pleasure with a capital P.
Presently a tall graceful blonde, radiantly beautiful,
