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Authors: C. W. Gortner
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I also gained my share of attention. My doubts over my looks began to diminish as I heard such fervent declarations from Balsan’s friends that I was almost tempted to believe them. But I did not, having developed a well-honed suspicion of flattery. With a carefree laugh, I brushed aside these scions of the high bourgeosie even as I toiled in the House of Grampayre and sang several evenings a week at La Rotunde. I refused to be seen as another impoverished seamstress, willing to forgo her virtue for a rich man’s bed. Every centime I earned went into my tin under the floorboard. I also continued to decorate my hats, though Madame G. refused to sell such “atrocities” in her shop and I had to wear my creations myself, hoping in vain to attract notice from some milliner.
Balsan attended my nightly performances. I had only to peer out through the layer of smoke over the crowded tables to find him at his spot near the stage, his legs crossed to reveal his exquisite Italian-made boots, sometimes in his pressed blue uniform with its epaulettes and sash, other times in a tailored suit, but always with a smile on his lips.
Afterward he would take me out for a late supper. It was during these intimate evenings that I began to learn about him. He told me of how he’d been sent to an exclusive boarding school in England where he developed a passion for Thoroughbred horses and demonstrated singular disregard for his studies (“I sent a telegram to my family from my dog Rex, advising them that I’d failed all my courses,” he laughed). Later, he rebelled against the expectation that upon his father’s death, he’d assume a position in the family cloth business.
“I only enlisted in the military because of my uncle,” he explained as we lingered over coffee. “He said that breeding horses is a hobby, not an occupation, and I must support our name with some accomplishment. Oh, how I hated hearing that,” he sighed, lighting a cigarette and passing it to me. Having noticed how the other chanteuses at La Rotunde employed cigarettes to make themselves appear seductive (and how their artful blowingof smoke rings earned them extra tips), I’d trained myself to master the vice, enduring the burn in my lungs and coughing until I could do it with ease. Adrienne despised it, calling it a filthy habit, but I had made more money because of it. Men loved seeing a woman with smoke coming out of her nose, for some reason.
“I hate military service,” Balsan went on. “I first enlisted in the foot regiment, which was intolerable. I wanted to be with horses, so I had myself transferred to the cavalry instead—if I must serve my family name, let it serve me, as well—and was dispatched to Algeria to the African Light Cavalry, which was boring, unbearably hot, and boring.”
“You said twice that it was boring,” I remarked.
“Did I?” He rolled his eyes. “That’s because it was. I was so bored, in fact, that I ended up sleeping while on duty and was thrown into lockup. But then our horses began to suffer from a skin ailment the veterinarians couldn’t cure. I made a pact with my superior. If I could treat the horses successfully, they would transfer me to a post in France. I distilled an ointment used in England for such ailments. I had no idea if it would work, but it did, and so here I came, to the Tenth Light Horse of Moulins—which, I might add, was as boring as Africa until I met you.”
I feigned a careless smile, though his story fascinated me. That he’d forgone a lucrative post in his family business to indulge in his obsession for horses and challenged his uncle’s expectations—it made my head spin. I, who had nothing, with no name to speak of, found his contemptuous disregard of his advantages both shocking and intoxicating.
“As soon as I’ve completed my service,” he said, “I’m going to do as I please. I am twenty-six and my inheritance is mine; my uncle can’t take it from me, no matter
I also gained my share of attention. My doubts over my looks began to diminish as I heard such fervent declarations from Balsan’s friends that I was almost tempted to believe them. But I did not, having developed a well-honed suspicion of flattery. With a carefree laugh, I brushed aside these scions of the high bourgeosie even as I toiled in the House of Grampayre and sang several evenings a week at La Rotunde. I refused to be seen as another impoverished seamstress, willing to forgo her virtue for a rich man’s bed. Every centime I earned went into my tin under the floorboard. I also continued to decorate my hats, though Madame G. refused to sell such “atrocities” in her shop and I had to wear my creations myself, hoping in vain to attract notice from some milliner.
Balsan attended my nightly performances. I had only to peer out through the layer of smoke over the crowded tables to find him at his spot near the stage, his legs crossed to reveal his exquisite Italian-made boots, sometimes in his pressed blue uniform with its epaulettes and sash, other times in a tailored suit, but always with a smile on his lips.
Afterward he would take me out for a late supper. It was during these intimate evenings that I began to learn about him. He told me of how he’d been sent to an exclusive boarding school in England where he developed a passion for Thoroughbred horses and demonstrated singular disregard for his studies (“I sent a telegram to my family from my dog Rex, advising them that I’d failed all my courses,” he laughed). Later, he rebelled against the expectation that upon his father’s death, he’d assume a position in the family cloth business.
“I only enlisted in the military because of my uncle,” he explained as we lingered over coffee. “He said that breeding horses is a hobby, not an occupation, and I must support our name with some accomplishment. Oh, how I hated hearing that,” he sighed, lighting a cigarette and passing it to me. Having noticed how the other chanteuses at La Rotunde employed cigarettes to make themselves appear seductive (and how their artful blowingof smoke rings earned them extra tips), I’d trained myself to master the vice, enduring the burn in my lungs and coughing until I could do it with ease. Adrienne despised it, calling it a filthy habit, but I had made more money because of it. Men loved seeing a woman with smoke coming out of her nose, for some reason.
“I hate military service,” Balsan went on. “I first enlisted in the foot regiment, which was intolerable. I wanted to be with horses, so I had myself transferred to the cavalry instead—if I must serve my family name, let it serve me, as well—and was dispatched to Algeria to the African Light Cavalry, which was boring, unbearably hot, and boring.”
“You said twice that it was boring,” I remarked.
“Did I?” He rolled his eyes. “That’s because it was. I was so bored, in fact, that I ended up sleeping while on duty and was thrown into lockup. But then our horses began to suffer from a skin ailment the veterinarians couldn’t cure. I made a pact with my superior. If I could treat the horses successfully, they would transfer me to a post in France. I distilled an ointment used in England for such ailments. I had no idea if it would work, but it did, and so here I came, to the Tenth Light Horse of Moulins—which, I might add, was as boring as Africa until I met you.”
I feigned a careless smile, though his story fascinated me. That he’d forgone a lucrative post in his family business to indulge in his obsession for horses and challenged his uncle’s expectations—it made my head spin. I, who had nothing, with no name to speak of, found his contemptuous disregard of his advantages both shocking and intoxicating.
“As soon as I’ve completed my service,” he said, “I’m going to do as I please. I am twenty-six and my inheritance is mine; my uncle can’t take it from me, no matter
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