What Others Have
Said...
Angelina Engel a
writing forum acquaintance read
it. She emailed me and said,
"I just finished reading
your fantastic story and find it
excellent! Your wording, your
creativity and your mystery form
kept me enthralled! You are one
heck of a writer and it is such
an honor to read your marvelous
work! Thanks so much again for
sending it to me."
Though
I'm certain most woman will relate to this
nineteenth century feminist, a man turned the
pages of "Rose, Ma Petite." He
emailed me this: “I felt compelled to tell you
of my opinion the minute I finished your book.
And that opinion is simply: Absolutely
wonderful. And it wasn't so much that the novel
had a catchy or particularly conventional plot
-- with conventional plot points, catchy
gimmicks, and contrivances -- so much as it was
the simple, rich, wonderfully honest unfolding
of a person's life and those who were in it.
Your descriptions of things also were enjoyable:
succinct and un-wordy, yet definitely with a
sense of a careful choice of words and rhythm --
elegance evinced by simplicity and honesty.”
A tennis friend's
wife, an erudite lady who reads
three books weekly, read it. She
passed it back with a note.
"Dear Walker, thoroughly
enjoyed reading about Rose.
Really nice to read about a
heroine who never got into
trouble of any kind. Not like
most historical novels where you
had to worry about what was going
to happen next. With all that
happened in one year, you could
really make a series of books
about Rose.
Interesting
she should say that. I have
written a sequel. "Dual
Images - Saint and Sinner"
that starts where the first novel
ends. It's told by Rose's Great
Granddaughter Shirley of
"That Neapolitan
Furlough" fame. If you've
read that one, you already know
who the sinner is.
Rose, Ma Petite
Synopsis
"Rose, Ma
Petite" is a heartwarming
saga about an unusual woman set
in Nineteenth Century Paris, New Orleans and the Atlantic Ocean.
Readers admire her nature, envy
her beauty, and marvel at her
adventures. Her handsome brother,
though highly unlikely, falls in
love with an affluent Parisian and marries her.
ROSE RÉNAUD, an
indigent villager, comes to Paris
in 1863 seeking fame and fortune—a
certainty with her beauty and
brains. She’s a fledgling
and pure as Mary, the Mother of
Christ. She becomes, however, a
beloved tease in Paris’
sidewalk cafés. Paris is
obsessed with diversity. It has
never been so naughty and
delightful. And Emperor Louis
Napoleon III is the trendsetter.
Sitting in a
sidewalk café with Brother
MAURICE, influential FRANÇOISE
HAUSMAN and her French Poodle
stroll by. Peppé pulls free and
runs away. Maurice chases,
captures and returns him. This
happenstance meeting ignites
their tender love affair, which
is woven throughout this rags to
riches story. The Renauds'
indigent lives are changed
forever.
Through Rose's
eyes painter Edouard Manet and
poet Charles Baudelaire come to
life at the swanky Café Maison
Dorée. You are saddened by their
hopeless plight. Through
Maurice's eyes Emperor Louis
Napoleon III and Eugénie are
viewed at the opera house. And
you learn why he leaves his opera
box often.
Rose uses
Françoise’s friendship to
finagle an assignment in New York
and New Orleans much to the
chagrin of her lecherous boss.
Traveling by train to Le Havre,
Rose meets JOHN CHURCHILL, a
handsome, wealthy, erudite
Englishman. He’s sailing for
America on the same steamer. Rose
is thrilled with the
possibilities.
Crossing the
Atlantic Rose experiences the
glitter and festive activities of
a luxury voyage complete with a
host of interesting characters. A
romantic affair ensues between
her and John, and the Atlantic
Ocean becomes Cupid’s Garden
of Eden, but the romance doesn’t
crystallize. They realize that
they became too close of friends
to fall in love.
In New York, her
elderly boss dies suddenly. He's
dissipated the entire voyage. The
other Rose was simply too evil,
too young, too much for him.
Young Rose has been catapulted to
great importance. Her mission to
sell bonds to continue
modernizing Paris is highly
successful. The Emperor is
pleased.
On her train
sojourn from New York to St.
Louis, she meets a troubled Union
Army major. He's headed for
battle grounds in Virginia: the
bloodiest of the Civil War. He’s
married and she comforts from
afar.
Boarding a paddle
wheeler in St. Louis bound for
New Orleans, a horrifying near
accident brings MICHAEL RODON, a
rich Spanish restaurateur, into
her life. Romance is ignited and
the flame grows steadily higher
during the cruise down the
Mississippi. An accident occurs
near Memphis. This is fortunate.
Rose has several more days to
establish a solid relationship
with Michael.
New Orleans is
recovering from the ravages of
the Civil War. There, she’s
promoted to Assistant Controller
and ordered to stay until the
50,000 bales of cotton she's
tasked to buy are shipped to
France. She knows she’ll
never leave. She opens a custom
dress shop and pursues her design
talents. During the year that
follows, their romance matures
and they marry. You sigh when, on
their wedding night, apprehension
turns to bliss. Maurice marries
Françoise and becomes wealthy.
Rose’s youthful dreams have
been realized. Her wonderful life
with Michael is beginning.
The epilogue
rushes Rose to death’s door.
Before she dies at eighty-nine,
her life with Michael passes
before her eyes.
DEDICATION
To Marjorie my deceased wife of
48 years who loved this
novel.
To my deceased erudite sister Frances
Jackson Smith,
who helped me in the beginning. She was known as Mema to
two adorable granddaughters. She
wrote this poem in memory of our
mother:
~ ESTELLE ~
She had eyes
of night
Hair black as soot
A twinkle and a
saucy grin
Her mind rapier
keen.
Lost child with no
mother
Dependent on love
from other kin
She grew to be
full of insight
Adaptable to
changing scene.
Coping became her
forte
Making do with
what was on hand
Becoming her own
person
Clinging only to
God and right.
Life was filled
with challenge
She met it with
steely will
Becoming much
beloved
The recipient of
respect and esteem.
Those who loved
her will never forget
The challenges she
set for them
A disciplined, but
caring taskmaster
She taught her own
with wisdom and care.
ROSE, MA PETITE
By Walker Joe Jackson
All Rights
Reserved
Chapter 1
"Love is
patient, love is kind. It does
not envy, it does not boast, it
is not proud. It is not rude, it
is not self-seeking, it is not
easily angered, it keeps no
record of wrongs. Love does not
delight in evil but rejoices in
the truth. [Love] always
protects, always trusts, always
hopes, always preserves." 1
Corinthians 13: 4-7
Rose Rénaud's
anxious eyes swept le Gare de
Montparnasse boarding platform
and viewed strangers idling about
the platform. She glanced at her
watch. "Where is he?"
she fussed. "He promised to
meet me here at three
o'clock." Her watch had
shown 3:21 p.m. Her irritation
heightened.
Rose boarded the
train at Brenton, France, near
the English Channel, where she
was born and nurtured for
eighteen years. But she had lived
a childhood of near poverty
without an awareness. God touched
her mother’s womb and
endowed Rose with a generous and
warm heart. He instilled genius
and imagination in her mind and
imparted great energy to her
spirit. He blessed her
five-feet-four-inch petite frame
with perfection. She was
vivacious and beautiful. God's
perfect gift to man.
She was witty,
intelligent, and knowledgeable,
having read extensively. Eloquent
French gushed from her sumptuous
lips. She spoke English with a
French accent. She had celebrated
her eighteenth birthday five days
earlier on July 10, 1863. She had
come to Paris, this Sunday, to
find work and search for a
suitable -- handsome, erudite,
and rich -- man to marry. Her
potential for success was
immense. She was such a desirable
creature.
Brenton was a
farming and fishing village
located on a serene peninsula. In
the mid-nineteenth century,
farming implements and fishing
methods were primitive.
Harvesting a living from the
earth and sea was laborious,
unpredictable, and the sea could
be treacherous. Her father,
Antoine, did both, but he fished
to earn a living. He gardened and
raised animals for meat, milk,
eggs, and butter. The seven
acres, surrounding their small
farmhouse, was taxed relentlessly
to yield sufficient nourishment
for him, wife Marie, and four
growing children. Fish caught
were sold or bartered for other
necessities and staples.
Josephine and
André were younger and still in
school. The time would come when
they would go to Paris to find
fame, fortune, or more poverty.
More promise waited in Paris than
in a small village where farmers
took pigs and cattle to the
fountains of Saint Nicodemus to
protect against diseases. And a
French Poodle named Missy and
workhorse named Jobe needed to be
fed and cared for.
The locomotive
hissed to a stand still. The
inertia pushed Rose forward
detaching her flower-patterned
bonnet, covering glistening dark,
black hair, which lay in ringlets
well below her shoulders.
Passengers were
busy retrieving luggage and
personal items purchased during
their sojourn on the Normandy
coast. She was preoccupied with
thoughts of her brother’s
failure to meet her, and did not
noticed. She was counting on
Maurice helping her get settled.
He had promised to arrange
suitable lodging with a
respectable Catholic family.
Now, Rose was
worried and frightened. Evil and
danger spread the length and
breadth of Paris. She knew no
other living soul in Paris.
Fortunately, her parents had not
neglected her worldly education.
They had informed her of the
pimps and dandies parading the
boulevards, train stations, and
cafés. She knew about the
Sicilian kids roaming the city
looking for loose purses to
snatch or pockets to pick. She
had brought her life savings,
sixty-one francs. It was wrapped
safely around her waist three
layers deep. And she knew of the
madams who scouted train stations
looking for young, helpless, farm
girls to recruit for their
brothels.
Mindful that
exiting passengers scurried down
the aisle, she stood and waited
for an approaching middle-aged
gentleman to allow her to enter
the aisle. He wasn’t
carrying a bag, and she knew he
would come to her aid. Men fell
over backward being courteous to
Rose, and she took full advantage
of their chivalrousness. She felt
a sense of power. Even as a
schoolgirl, she enjoyed leading
boys along and disappointing
them. Rose was a colossal tease;
however, she had no inclination
toward arrogance. She was a
wholesome country girl and
thankful her being was
attractively arranged. She was a
devout Catholic, believing in
every sacrament of the church.
"Mademoiselle,
have you no one to help?" he
inquired in fluent French laced
with twangs of cockney. His
unctuous, dark-blue eyes mirrored
a pair of alert dark-brown eyes.
He looked beyond her lovely face.
"It is true,
Monsieur." Her voice was
high in tone, but soft and sweet.
"Have you a
traveling case,
Mademoiselle?"
"Oui,
Monsieur. It is the large one
above."
She stepped aside.
He reached above and groaned
audibly as he delivered the case
to the floor. For his size and
age, he had strained excessively.
Undoubtedly, he hung around too
many London public houses, and
his physical fitness was wanting.
"Mademoiselle,
you are carrying gold? The
'bloody' thing weighs a
ton."
"Non,
Monsieur. I wish. Merci."
The passenger car
emptied while they engaged in
meaningless introductions. His
name was Sir Walter Johnson, and
he claimed to be a Member of
Parliament. He said he had come
to the Continent for a fortnight
holiday. Rose did not believe him
and refused his dinner
invitation. She told him her
brother was meeting her soon. The
news came as a bitter
disappointment to Sir Walter, but
he assisted her off the train and
into the waiting area. Then, he
vanished. Quite conceivably he
had a daughter her age.
The waiting room
stifled. The clippedy-clop of
hoofs of steel and the clack of
carriage wheels, echoing from the
street, was an additional
annoyance. The gnats and flies
were even peskier.
Rose occupied a
seat in the middle of a long
wooden bench. Her visage was
forlorn and perplexed, while
wondering what to do. She found a
train schedule and folded it to
fan with. She had been still for
minutes when she viewed
mademoiselle approaching. She had
just entered the waiting room
from the street, and Rose hoped
she brought word from her
brother. She felt sudden elation.
Then, she looked closer.
She observed some
woman in her late twenties, with
doleful eyes, who would pass for
forty. She viewed purple hair,
the redness of her face, the
heavy black mascara on her
eyebrows and matching eye shadow
around her eyes. She espied with
unadulterated disgust the
décolleté cut of her bodice and
the shortness of her skirt, which
flaunted sheer-black hose.
"Ma Cherie,
you look sad and abandoned."
Her voice was mellifluously
phony.
Rose elected to
ignore her. She thought she might
be a madam.
The woman sat.
Rose smelt strong perfume mixed
with the stench of body odors,
and she could clearly see the
jewelry cluttering her wrists and
fingers were cheap imitations.
Rose slid to the end of the
bench.
This dreadful
creature is too crude to be a
madam. She’s a lowly
streetwalker.
Rose's move and
the long period of silence, which
the floozy interpreted as
indifference, brought a frown of
perplexity to the floozies' face.
The quirk in
Rose's nature, the one possessing
her to tease boys controlled her,
and she decided to play along.
Rose's nature was filled with
wonder and curiosity. "It is
true. My brother has forsaken
me."
"Do not fret,
Ma Cherie. I'll be your friend.
You may come to my home."
She smiled cunningly.
"Why would
you want to befriend a total
stranger?"
"You are
pretty. I like pretty
girls."
"But you’re
a prostitute."
"Oui,
Mademoiselle. But I make love to
men only for their money. I don't
gain satisfaction -- not as much
as I feel making love to a
beautiful woman such as
you." Her voice was filled
with sensual hunger.
Rose's education
was less than thorough. Mama had
forgotten to tell her about
lesbians. She was both surprised
and amused. She couldn't
understand why a woman would want
to make love with another woman.
She'd never had such feelings or
thoughts, and she couldn't
conceive of how they might go
about it. Her curiosity sought
enlightenment.
"Mademoiselle, how does a
woman make love to another
woman?"
"Come with me
to my flat, Cherie, and I will
show you." The prostitute's
eyes flashed desire. She reached
across and took Rose's hand. It
was vexation, and Rose thought
she'd been too bold. As though a
guardian angel looked over Rose,
she heard a familiar voice from
behind.
"Sister Rose,
I am sorry to be late."
She turned. Seeing
Maurice's sanguine, placid face,
relief washed over her, then
warmth. The prostitute, realizing
her mark lost, stood, and
sauntered away, back to the
streets, absinthe, syphilis, and
total despair.
Rose stood to
greet Maurice. They embraced
briefly. He kissed her on both
cheeks. "You are late,
brother, and I am furious,"
she said, with a blistering
tongue, while staring into his
dark-blue, almost black eyes.
Maurice had grown a pencil
moustache, and she thought it
added charm to an already
charming and wildly expressive
face.
"Forgive me,
Rose, I was short of money and
could not afford a cab. The walk
from the center of Paris was much
farther than I thought." He
sounded apologetic, as he sat in
the spot the harlot had just
vacated.
Maurice was
twenty-one. He was a handsome man
by any standard. He stood a
fraction of an inch under six
feet, and he was sinewy. His
athletic body developed playing
sports. Working as a carpenter
eleven hours a day building
Emperor Napoleon's dream city,
had also been beneficial.
Being the oldest
male sibling, Maurice helped Papa
with the gardening, the animals,
and the nets. The sea air around
Brenton and wholesome country
living had added sanguine to his
high cheeks. Fortunately, the
black smoke of industry and the
stench of open sewers, prevalent
in his Paris, had not paled his
healthy facial hue.
"We go
now?" asked Maurice. "I
have arranged lodging for you
with a respectable Catholic
family. The master of the house
works with the Ministry. He has a
clerk job for you, if you are
agreeable?"
"Oui! We will
see. Maurice, I have cab
money."
He sighed and took
the heavy case in hand. They
walked toward the street
entrance.
July afternoons in
Paris were delightful and today
was exceptionally so. The
afternoon air was fresh and
sweetened with fragrances of
summer flowers. The prevailing
breeze blew the stench of raw
sewerage another direction and
controlled insects. Puffy clouds
frolicked through the azure sky,
hiding the bright summer sun for
short periods. It was the perfect
day for an open carriage ride.
A line of
carriages waited. Passing five
tired, overworked, and underfed
mares and geldings, Rose grimaced
at the sight. Roofs of all the
carriage were retracted. Rain was
impossible. They reached the
first in line, and the driver
alighted, relieving Maurice of
the case. He put it in the rear
of the carriage and returned to
open the gate for them. After
taking the driver’s
position, he looked back sharply.
"Where to, Monsieur?"
"Thirteen Rue
St. Victor."
"Oui!" A
pop of his whip and the thin, red
horse strained to break the
static friction of the carriage
wheels and top the irregularity
of the cobblestones, and they
moved away down the Boulevard
Montparnasse.
Carriage traffic
was light. Sidewalks were busy.
Sunday was a day off for most
Parisians, and their time
uncompressed. People in this mode
preferred walking to riding even
if they possessed the fare, but
few did. An occasional family
passed. The children played
roughhouse under scrutiny of
their mother.
Tourist engaged
commercial carriages. They had
come to indulge the sordid
pleasures abundant on a gay Paris
evening. But a few came to enjoy
the cultural endowments of Paris:
the Louvre, gourmet cuisine’s,
cruises on the Seine, magnificent
orchestras in concert, and great
literature.
Occasionally, a
sewer rat darted across the road,
proving that no day can be
perfect. Rose, observing the
flight of the rat was amused,
remembering an article in Le
Moniteur about the
indestructibility of Paris' rats.
It had said, "Empress
Eugénie, wife of Louis Napoleon
III, ordered cheese-flavored
ground glass poured into rat
holes to kill them, and they
found it delicious."
Rose sat, mouth
agape, quietly admiring the lush
greenery blanketing the trees and
shrubs. Paris was inundated with
new growth that follows the
advent of spring. The tall
buildings along the boulevard
seemed to touch the clouds.
Birds, flying overhead, sang for
the joy of life, and those in the
trees sang to their helpless
young. The offspring had been
prolific and the bitter cold of
winter long forgotten. Life was
easy and necessities of life were
plentiful. Predator birds weren’t
stalking nests because of the
abundance. Maurice was tired and
the tranquility lulled him to
light repose.
Rose spotted the
prostitute who had attempted to
engage her. She sat at a sidewalk
café with a portly, bearded man.
The carriage neared. Loud
laughter overwhelmed street
noises, and she wondered, with
wild imagination, what everyone
found so humorous. The boisterous
gaiety was intoxicating. She had
yearnings to dismiss the
immediate course and join the
happy throng. Rose had never
observed such carefree
conviviality. She was addicted
now.
Maurice stirred.
He yawned, stretched, and
observed Rose's sparkling eyes
dancing from table to table.
"Rose, Paris is fanatically
gay in summer. Love is
everywhere. Sidewalk café, such
as that, are numerous along the
great boulevards. People flock to
their tables to enjoy cool drinks
and gossip. Voyeurism is
incessant."
"Maurice,
take me to one?" Rose asked,
with an eagerness that was
infectious.
"Oui, but you
must get settled first."
The carriage
turned left onto Rue St. Victor
and stopped at the curb. Adjacent
to the carriage, Rose viewed a
large, two-story house. It needed
a fresh coat of paint but the red
roof looked fit.
"Monsieur,
this is Thirteen Rue St.
Victor."
"How much is
owed?" asked Maurice.
"Thirty
centimes, three-tenths of a
franc, Monsieur."
Rose opened her
purse and found the fare. She
passed it to Maurice, who paid
the driver the exact amount.
Times were desperate for many,
and gratuities were not part of
poor people's culture. Parisians
could hardly feed, clothe, and
house their families on the four
francs the average earned for an
eleven hour day. The driver
alighted and fetched the case to
Maurice, and they walked toward
the house.
Reaching the door,
Maurice knocked. An elderly woman
appeared wearing a warm and
inviting smile. You could tell
she had been beautiful, but
corpulence came with age and
birth of four children, who’d
left the nest years earlier. Her
gray-green eyes were engaging;
her voice low pitched and
understated. "Ah! 'Tis you
Maurice, and the pretty one must
be Rose. Entrez," she said
sweetly, and invited with a
sweeping wave of her arm and
hand.
"Oui. Rose,
let me introduce Madame
Mollot."
"My pleasure,
Madame Mollot." Rose bowed
slightly.
Madame Mollot gave
her a motherly hug. "Please
call me Loraine, Ma Cherie. I
wish to feel young."
"Oui. It
pleases me, Loraine."
"Come, I will
take you to your room. It is on
the second floor and fronts on
the street. My two girls occupied
it ‘til they found husbands
-- more years ago than I dare or
care to remember."
Maurice grabbed
the huge case and grunted loudly.
They followed Madame Mollot up
the stairs. The room was left and
in the rear near the bathroom.
Maurice placed the case near the
foot of the large, four-post bed
and proceeded removing the straps
securing it. Rose strolled to the
bed and lay upon it, sighed, and
rose to her feet.
"Is it to
your liking, Rose?" Loraine
asked sweetly.
Rose nodded.
"The
mattress, pillows, and linen are
new. We wanted everything to be
nice for you. If you would care
to freshen up, pitchers in the
bathroom are filled with fresh
water. Maurice, join me for a cup
of café, s'il vous plaît. It is
freshly brewed. Rose, please join
us at your earliest
convenience." Maurice nodded
his approval and accompanied
Loraine to the parlor downstairs.
The moment the
door closed Rose started
unbuttoning clothes frenziedly.
She sighed joyfully each time a
layer was removed and placed on
the bed. She hesitated a moment
before removing the halter.
Dressed only in panties, her firm
breast jiggled as she moved to
the gilded mirror on the opposite
wall.
The mirror dripped
antiquity. Had it a tongue it
might tell how much it relished
reflecting Rose's lovely figure.
She admired herself briefly. She
combed long black hair with
delicate strokes then returned to
find fresh clothes within the
case. Her search was for light
apparel less modest than the
clothes she had removed.
After dressing in
the peignoir, she went to the
bathroom to wash. The water was
cold and she shivered. Her
nipples hardened with the touch
of the cold, rough bath cloth.
She returned to the bedroom and
perfumed her body. Before
dressing in fresh apparel, she
transferred ten francs from her
waist purse to her hand purse.
She buried the waist purse in the
case and left to join Loraine and
Maurice in the drawing room
below.
She found them
sitting at a round table circled
by four chairs set in the middle
of the room. The sun dwelled at a
forty-five degree angle and
sunlight streamed through two
long, wide windows dressed with
colorful draw curtains. The room
was small and cozy, although a
large mirror on the left wall
imparted a feeling of largeness
and added animation. The real
charms were the variety of unique
knickknacks tastefully
positioned. Two bookcases, one on
each side of the fireplace, were
filled with books. Two oil lamps
bedecked the mantel of the
fireplace.
Above the
fireplace, a large family
portrait drew Rose's attention at
once. Papa and Mama stood in the
middle of two daughters on their
right and two sons on their left.
The portrait had been painted
when the children were tots, and
Rose's appraisal of Madame Mollot
had been correct, beautiful.
Monsieur Mollot stood tall and
handsome with powerful shoulders
and an interesting face
highlighted by piercing
dark-black eyes. The painting
depicted a family endowed with
great beauty and charm. The
children had inherited their
parent’s handsome
appearances.
Loraine turned to
her and smiled. "Rose, how
do you take your café?"
"Black, s'il
vous plaît."
Loraine poured the
steaming coffee into the cup
before Rose and offered to
replenish Maurice's cup.
"Non, merci. I have had far
too much cafés today. I will be
up tonight several times as it
is."
Loraine passed the
bowl, containing lumps of brown
sugar, and Rose reluctantly took
one. Lately, she had been
drinking coffee without any
enrichment, but she made the
exception, hoping the gain of
quick energy. She watched her
waistline constantly, with
marvelous results. A man with big
hands could clasp his hands
around Rose's waist and many had
wished for an invitation. She had
a serious countenance when she
broke the silence. "Loraine,
how much will you be asking for
my lodging?"
Loraine appeared
taken aback by the question.
"Ma Cherie, Phillipe, my
husband, and I discussed that
matter. I remember we decided
four francs a fair weekly sum.
We'll offer you breakfast in the
morning, and your other dining
will be at your own discretion. I
wish he were here. His work kept
him late. They are quite busy at
the Préfect's Office with all
the construction that’s in
progress. Emperor Napoleon
enthusiasm will not be quenched
until he shames all the great
European cities or bankrupts
France."
Rose took four
francs from her purse and passed
it to Loraine. "Please let
me know if this amount isn’t
correct?"
"Merci, Rose.
Phillipe would like to discuss
employment with you later
tonight. A clerk position is open
at the Préfect's Office. The
compensation is equitable, and
the hours reasonable."
"Oui. I have
sincere interest, Loraine. I will
plan to be home around nine.
Maurice has promised to take me
to a sidewalk café so we might
partake of the gaiety that
abounds in such places."
"How
delightful. You are dressed
appropriately for the occasion.
With your beauty, you are lucky
to have a strong brother to
protect you from the wits,
dandies, and boulevardiers who
stalk these places." She
smiled shyly.
A quick grin
twitched the corners of Maurice's
mouth. "If anyone needs
protecting, Loraine, it is I.
Have you forgotten about the
ladies of questionable virtue who
also haunt these
establishments?"
"Oui,
Maurice, but you have your
Catholic goodness to protect
you."
What a joke,
Maurice thought restraining a
smile. "I'm also young and
virile."
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