Time the Avenger

by Leesainthesky

A man finds success as a composer and architect. A woman loses all she ever loved. Can they bridge the gap between their very different worlds to build a life together? HOT EOW content. COMPLETED

21. Ch 21 Wine, Song, Problem

Re-cap: Gabrielle and Caron finally make it to Paris for their night on the town.Ch. 21 – Wine, Song, Problem

Re-cap: Gabrielle and Caron finally make it to Paris for their night on the town.

Uh, oh. In the words of my sister in pfan-fiction, Kay blue Eyes, the $--t may have just hit the proverbial fan. Regular reviewers and lurkers as well, please let me know what you think of this chapter. Thank you for staying with me.

FYI: This story will be finished and the endings will be positive.

- Leesa

A broadside originally was sung to a well-known tune. Broadsides were popular in Britain, Holland, France, Italy, Spain and Germany and later in America. This one, Woman never knows when her day's work's done, was popularized in the mid to late 1800's by Lesley Nelson-Burns.

soirée grande: Grand celebrationCh. 21 – Wine, Song, Problem

The Hotel was stunning in her old world simplicity. She was a tiny Mademoiselle, dressed in fine marble, crystal and mahogany. Near the right bank of the Seine, Le Relais was within walking distance of many renowned places of interest, including the Louvre, and the church of St-Germain-l'Auxerrois.

Check in was interesting because we were two women. The desk clerk questioned where our husbands were. We assured the stuffy man that we were married sisters whose husbands would be joining us later in the evening. Not that he would refuse us our room keys, but we had to leave a substantial deposit to ensure our bill would be paid. Women, except for wealthy heiresses, had little money of their own in those days.

Our suite was elegantly decorated in ornate French provincial furnishings. The color scheme consisted of soothing cream, mint green, and rose. A bouquet of fresh flowers added cheer and fragrance to our grand digs.

No sooner had we unlocked the door and put down our bags than I ran to jump on the bed. "Free at last, free at last!" I cried, bouncing around.

Caron considered me quizzically, "Did you not enjoy your visit with Aunt Giry and Cousin Meg, Gabrielle?"

"Sure, I just get to feeling stifled holed up at the manor house all the time. Don't you ever feel like a kept woman, having to answer to your in-laws or your husband for every little need and desire?"

"No, not particularly, it is the custom to serve your husband. He is the lord of the house. Men always know what is best. Women are not always trusted to logic."

I bounced up into the sitting position and starred at her, "Bull doo-doo. They just want us to think that so they can rule and have everything their way. Might does not make right. But, then I suppose I am a tad more independent than most. Did you know American women can actually go to the theatre with their friends, or hold an honorable vocation? They also dare to travel alone, and the wealthier ones are not required to change clothes five or six times a day for various social events. We even engage in physical sports!"

I had been reduced to pining for the small freedoms of the 19th century American woman.

"Caron, you are a bright and lively woman. Wouldn't you like more freedom to do as you please?"

She shrugged her shoulders, "Sometimes, but I have a kind and loving husband. He allows me to do most of what I wish. However, as a married woman, I would never think of going out alone."

Or, not being a fashion slave by wearing a ridiculous corset, or wanting a career, or expecting to gain the right to choose your country's leaders. And let's not forget disagreeing with your husband or refusing his advances. The inequality of it all just blew my mind.

"Today my dear, we can do what we wish. The world is our oyster. So, where shall we go first? I'd love to see the Louvre, but we don't have enough time."

"We could go to the river and walk along the promenade. It is beautiful even in winter. Have you ever seen the church—St. Germain, Gabrielle?

"Why, no, I haven't. I would love to see those sights. Good suggestion, Caron. We won't have to change either. We're not going anywhere terribly formal, and it's not yet evening. Two women sans-men won't raise eyebrows. Sounds like a plan."

The afternoon was sunny and not too cold. I reveled in the glory of 19th century Paris. The ancient church was not as grand as Notre Dame, but it was exquisite with its famous stained glass window and architecture. The Seine was much like I remembered from the 20th century, flowing through the city of Paris with her promenades and picturesque old cobbled bridges, joining the left bank to the right. Some of the city's most renowned architecture can be found along the Seine.

After a long afternoon excursion, we retired to the suite to prepare for our soirée grande.

Caron retreated to the bedroom for her toilet; I remained in the parlor area and began my transformation from American woman to French man.

I unpacked my new tailored suit of clothes and laid it on a chair. Make-up went on first. I darkened my skin a shade to add depth, and then used a soft eye make-up brush to make my eyebrows bushier. Bronze powder created manly chiseled cheekbones. I slicked my brown hair back severely, tying in into a ponytail that I fixed into a neat loop at the nape of my neck. The last alteration to my face was a theater grade mustache I had purchased at a costume shop. It could be affixed by using spirit gum. I made it even more realistic by brushing dark powder onto the edges, effectively blending the hairpiece into my skin.

For the final transformation, assistance would be needed. "Caron," I called, "Could you help me for a moment, please?"

She opened the bedroom door and stood in her chemise and corset, her blonde hair set up in curls.

"Gabrielle, you look like a little boy…with breasts," She giggled.

"That's why I need your help, and start calling me Gabe, so you can get used to it."

I held out a long gauze bandage to her. "Here, I need you to bind me. These puppies have to be put in the doghouse if I hope to get away with looking like a man," I said glancing at my breasts.

Caron took the bandage from me. "Now what do I do…Gabe?"

"Start at my side and wrap the gauze as tight as you can over my chest; when you are done, secure it with these," I held up two large safety pins.

Caron wrapped the bandage around me three and one half rounds before the gauze was finally spent. Women of her day were experts at cutting off the circulation in one's upper extremities. She had bound me tighter than a corset.

I struggled to take a deep breath.

"Gabe, are you going to be alright? I can re-wrap it if you like?"

"No, it's perfect," I said, practicing my deeper timbre. "If I pass out, just tell people its narcolepsy—a sleeping disease, and I'll be fine in a few moments."

"Really?"

"Why not? It sounds logical, and most people won't know what narcolepsy is so, they'll leave us alone," I reasoned.

Caron sat on a petite silk settee and watched as I slipped on the crisp white shirt, blue and silver waistcoat, and tailored wool trousers. I stuck a folded sock under each shoulder of my evening jacket. The padding added extra bulk there.

The metamorphosis was complete.

"Madame," I bowed slightly. "I don't resemble a Nancy-boy do I?"

"Heavens, no. You make a fine figure of a young man, Monsieur Thomassen. You are my handsome chaperone and it is my pleasure to accompany you this evening," she giggled girlishly.

"Good," I took Caron's hand, and air kissed it.

"Finish dressing my dear. Tonight you and I shall make more merriment than anyone else on the entire continent of Europe!

Excitedly, she scurried back into the bedroom to dress.

Good lord was I excited. A type of electricity crackled through the night air electrifying my blood. Remembering that I was a dashing 19th century male, I suppressed the urge to succumb to giddiness. Caron looked lovely and I told her so. She wore a dove gray velvet gown with a sky blue bustle running down to the hemline. Her hair was adorned with a few glittering pins. Since it was close by, we chose to stroll to the famous Brasserie Pharamond.

Supper was a sumptuous five course epicurean feast. Fine champagne was ordered and I proposed a toast to the most glamorous couple in Paris. Caron toasted to revelries, friendship, and blessings, always.

"You are a good friend for indulging me in this frolic," I thanked Caron. "I do hope you have fun."

"This is the most fun I have had since I put worms between the sheets of the bed my brother, Warren, and his visiting friend was sleeping in. I was thirteen and they were being dreadful to me. I didn't know boys could scream so," she told me with delight.

"That's hilarious," I snorted ungracefully. I couldn't picture the dainty Mademoiselle touching a worm. "Was it Reginald?"

"No," she frowned, "Reggie didn't come along until he went to University, a dreadful boar, though, is he not?"

"And how. Let me tell you a story, but you must swear to secrecy on this, Caron."

Hungry for something scandalous, she agreed to my terms. I detailed the story of how I embarrassed Reginald in the kitchen when he and Warren had come for a visit, and how Erik had caught me and scolded me royally.

"You are wicked-fun Gabrie…Gabe. What do you think Monsieur DuPuis would do if he caught us out tonight?"

"First of all, he won't, he's in London. Second of all, we are doing nothing wrong, just asserting our right to enjoy some innocent and well-deserved entertainment. We are adults Caron, why must we ask permission to act as such?"

"Then, a toast to us!" she raised her glass of champagne in celebration.

Full of fine French cuisine, we waddled out onto the street and walked to the Café Les Deux Magots for some coffee and song. It blew my mind to think that in about ten years from now, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec and his Bohemian cronies would spend significant time here, philosophizing, partying, and hobnobbing.

Two songs and two espressos later, we were back on the street in search of a cab.

Next stop: Gay Paris's reining music hall, The Alcazar.

Parisian music halls would not meet their pinnacle until the late 1880's; however, the Alcazar was already a trendy establishment. The hall featured a small orchestra, who, as one entertainment publication put it, "…rattle merrily through one or two overtures, a march, polka … and who, if need be, are fit to play a better class of music in fair style. There are generally singers of some pretension who are equal to the proper performance…in short, the class of entertainment is such as reasonable folks may take pleasure in hearing." A vast mix men and women of various social classes enjoyed sing-a-longs, dancing, comedy and conversation in these new establishments.

A white sign with a black script Alcazar painted on it, hung from a pole in front of the dance hall. Music and conversation oozed from an unassuming, shabby green wooden door. Once on the other side of that door, we became ensconced in a Wizard of Oz like transformation. There were ornate gas lamps and chandeliers everywhere, candles lit the tables, and purple velvet draperies hung at the few ceiling-high windows, but most of the color came from the Alcazar's patrons. The men and women were either dressed in their elegant best, or bizarre, garish costumes, meant to shock or delight.

Man, the place was kickin'. Caron appeared stunned as she surveyed the long narrow music hall. It was standing room only, so finding a table would be miraculous. Patrons were dancing, drinking wine, and singing along to the small orchestra.

"Ah ha," I motioned to the front, "By the stage, an open table, let's go." I pulled Caron through the maze of tables and customers doing their best drop-it-like-it's-hot 1876-style dance. Finally, we made it to the freshly vacated small café table. A waiter promptly appeared, "A bottle of your best, Bordeaux, I called over the loud din." He dissolved into the throng, returning quickly with an open bottle, and poured the ruby liquid into our glasses.

I took a long sip. "Good stuff…let's rock and roll!" I yelled holding up my glass.

"Rock and what?" Caron asked. "Oh, it's an American cowboy expression for, let's have some fun," I explained wryly.

Mademoiselle Theresa, the diva of the Alcazar, had finished her set, and numerous audience members were being invited on stage to exhibit their talents, or lack, of. A very young man crossed the stage and began a series of slight-of-hand magic tricks. First he charmed us with a bouquet of flowers, mysteriously pulled from behind his back. Next there was the silk-scarf-from-the-mouth ruse. Both garnered the man polite applause. Although mildly amused, the crowd's interest lagged after a few more of his routine tricks. The majority of them turned back to their conversations and wine, leaving him onstage without admirers. He yelled at us, but we could not hear him. Finally, the young man stalked off to go and pout in his wine.

The orchestra broke into a rousing polka, and many patrons sprung from their seats to dance.

"Wow, a polka," I marveled. I forgot it's the casual dance of the 1800's.

Not being one to pass up an opportunity to bust a move, I asked Caron if she wanted to hit the floor.

"Hit the what?" she yelled over the din. "You know, dance; come on and live a little girl," I prodded.

I grabbed her tiny hand and pulled her up and into the swirling boisterous dance.

The polka ended and we fell back into our seats sweating and laughing. "See Caron, I told you that would be fun."

"Indeed you did, Monsieur. I haven't danced as such since I was a child."

A young chanteuse took the stage and offered us a sample of her dubious talent. She embarked on singing the tale of a woman's work. The broadside ditty would have garnered more applause if she'd had a partner. After a few verses, it was obvious she thought more of her talents than the crowd did. The hall broke into a boisterous sing-a-long, drowning out the Mademoiselle on the stage.

"Tough crowd," I hollered, but Caron wasn't listening. Instead, her voice rose in song. Caron had joined the crowd in the comical tale of a man who complained about his wife's idleness and her retort that woman's work was never done. She looked at me as she sang, and noticed that I was attempting to communicate with her.

"I know this song, Papa used to sing it to us when we were children," she enthused.

Since the tune had never been played on any FM radio station I knew of, it was unfamiliar to me, but after the first two verses, I had it down.

My date was having a royal time. Her initial nervousness was now drowned in most of the bottle on our table. She stood and took my hands in hers, "Can you sing Gabe?"

"Uh, a little, I used to sing in a chorus back in Chicago. I'm a second Alto. On occasion I would even fill in for the baritone when one of our members was missing. When I was a teenager, I used to mimic the deeper voiced divas."

I refrained from telling her they were the divas of the 20th century; Chrissie Hynde of the Pretenders, Shirley Manson, and Macy Grey, were some of my muses; but to hop on stage in a 19th century music hall and sing a duet as a man? Well, why not!

We threaded out way through the undulating crowd and up the small step to the stage. When the chorus came back around, she picked up and began to sing:

Come all who roam, both old and young,
And listen to my song,
I'll tell you of a circumstance,
That will not keep you long;
I saw a man the other day,
As savage as a Turk,
And he was grumbling at his wife
And said she did no work.
So men, if you would happy be,
Don't grumble at your wife so;
For no man can imagine
What a woman has to do.

Caron's voice was clear and melodic. She ran through the song until the chorus swung round again, nodding at me to pick it up. I pushed aside my nervousness and gave the ditty my all. I sang deeply, gesturing to my feminine partner as if we were in a play.

He said: You lazy huzzy!
Indeed you must confess;
For I'm a-tired of keeping you
In all your idleness.
The woman she made answer:

I work as hard as you,
And I will just run through the list
What a woman has to do.
Once more I sung the chorus as the man of wisdom:

So men, if you would happy be,
Don't grumble at your wife so;
For no man can imagine
What a woman has to do.

The din of the music hall lessened. People were actually listening to us and not booing. We were charming the audience with our comic duet. Caron parodied the disgruntled woman, and I, the pleading man. Imagine our expressions of surprise when we finished to appreciative applause. Reveling in the adulation, Caron curtsied and I bowed to our audience.

The diminutive orchestra struck up another polka, a signal for the crowd to get down to once more. I turned to smile at my partner. Her bright countenance had turned from ecstasy to terror. I followed Caron's wide-eyed stare to the right corner of the long room. Next to an old upright piano stood a man whose face was hidden by the cowl of his black cape. Subtle glints of white and glowing green eyes were his only discernable features.

I knew those eyes—those eyes that burn.

- O -

Uh, oh. In the words of my sister in pfan-fiction, Kay blue Eyes, the $--t may have just hit the proverbial fan. Regular reviewers and lurkers as well, please let me know what you think of this chapter. Thank you for staying with me.

FYI: This story will be finished and the endings will be positive.

- Leesa

A broadside originally was sung to a well-known tune. Broadsides were popular in Britain, Holland, France, Italy, Spain and Germany and later in America. This one, Woman never knows when her day's work's done, was popularized in the mid to late 1800's by Lesley Nelson-Burns.

soirée grande: Grand celebration