Chapter Twenty
The Mademoiselle From Armentières
"Mademoiselle from Armenteers, parlez-veus,
Mademoiselle from Armenteers, parlez-veus,
You didn't have to know her long
To find the reason men went wrong
Inky-pinky-parlezveus
She sold her kisses for ten francs each
Soft and juicy - as sweet as a peach
Inky-pinky-parlezveus
I had more fun than I can tell
Beneath the sheets with Mademoiselle
Inky-pinky-parlezveus..."
In the 12th arrondissement of Paris, the warm afternoon sun filtered fitfully through the louvres of the closed shutters of the bedroom window of the second floor apartment. Within, on the unmade double bed, a woman lay en-déshabillé.
Marie was bored; decidedly so. She glanced at the ornate clock on the mantelpiece, pouted and sighed. Her last client for that afternoon had failed to keep his appointment. Admittedly, Monsieur Pierre had telephoned apologetically, and at the very last moment, with the decidedly lame excuse of being detained in town on business; not that Marie believed him of course. After all, he had used the same excuse before, in fact, more than once. Perhaps he was tiring of her. Men were like that reflected Marie lighting yet another cigarette, although, on balance, it was rather more than likely that Pierre's wife Cecile had not gone down to the country as her husband had expected her to do.
Originally from Armentières in the Pas-de-Calais, Marie La Sale, now aged twenty nine, with consummate ease, had begun plying her trade during the very last year of the war, first in her home town until, that was, the Boches had shelled Armentières with mustard gas in the late spring of 1918. This, it must be admitted, proved to be something of a serious inconvenience, as until then, Marie had found the British Tommies in the district surrounding Armentières to be more than appreciative of her own particular way of supporting the Allied war effort. However, the incessant shelling by the Germans left the town's inhabitants, Marie included, with no choice but to leave and seek alternative accommodation elsewhere.
Thereafter, until the signing of the Armistice later in that same year, by which time Marie herself was living in Amiens, as the tide of war had ebbed and flowed across the battlefields of northern France, so as to be able to continue plying their trade, Marie and several other like-minded girls, along with many other civilian refugees, had found themselves forced to move along the Western Front from one shell ravaged town to another.
A chance encounter with a French infantry officer originally from le Puy-en-Velay in the Auvergne had led to accommodation of a more permanent nature. This particular relationship, proving satisfying to them both, might well have continued had not Capitaine Francois Laval of the 55th Infantry Division had the singular misfortune to be blown to bits by a German shell in the closing stages of the war. Yes, reflected Marie, the Boches had a very great deal to answer for, first uprooting her from her nice home in Armentières and now this, as a result of which, whether in war or peace-time, Marie, who was decidedly liberal with her favours, made it a point of honour never to sleep with a German: after all, a girl had to have some standards.
With the end of the war, and having been somewhat more prudent than some in her profession in safeguarding the money she had earned, along with several hundred francs which she had "liberated" from the wallets of her more wealthy clients when they had been too inebriated to notice, Marie had moved to Paris where she rented a modest, but spacious, well-furnished second floor flat overlooking the railway line in the 12th arrondissement of the French capital.
Here, her clients were somewhat different to the soldiers, British or French, she had been used to entertaining and who were for the most part, affluent, married, middle aged Parisian business men, much like Pierre, and who paid generously for their pleasures; after all, they could afford to do so, being significantly better remunerated than the average army private. But for all that, Marie always retained an especial fondness for her young British Tommies, many of whom lost their virginity in her bed and for one in particular, a young Irish boy by the name of Daniel Boyle of the Royal Irish Fusiliers, who like so many others had been killed in the war.
The bedroom was hot and stuffy. Wearing nothing but her floral-pattered, silk dressing robe, caught loosely at the waist, Marie slipped off the unmade bed, walked across the room to the window, flung wide the shutters, and leaned out, breathing in the warm, scented air of the summer's afternoon.
The train with carriages for the overnight Rome Express continued to grind its way slowly round the Petite Ceinture from the Gare du Nord en route to the Gare de Lyon. Built to link together the principal stations of Paris, the circular Ceinture or "Little Belt" railway ran mostly in deep cuttings, so, apart from a hurried glimpse of the white domes of the Sacré-Coeur when their train had pulled out of the Gare du Nord, there was certainly nothing to see of the sights of Paris, and Danny in particular was very disappointed when Uncle Matthew, who knew the French capital better than anyone else in their party, explained that sadly there would be no chance of seeing the world famous Eiffel Tower either, since it lay some distance away, on the other side of Paris.
From the windows of their carriage, high above them, along with the tops of tall trees, there could, from time to time, be glimpsed the upper storeys of the buildings which fronted the streets lining the route of the railway far below, along with their cast iron balconies, shuttered windows, tiled mansard roofs, decorative finials and chimney stacks topped by all manner of pipes, pots and ventilators.
But, save when the train rumbled across the lattice metalwork of the Viaduc de la Villette, and thereafter somewhat later across the much longer stone built Viaduc de Vincennes, where below them they saw something of the hustle and bustle of the French capital, causing Matthew to remark that the motor traffic appeared to be as bad now in Paris as it was up in London, there was really very little for either the Bransons or the Crawleys, adults or children alike, to see, except a seemingly endless vista of smoke blackened high retaining walls, built either of brick or stone, before the train plunged into yet another reeking, sulphurous smelling tunnel.
In fact, the only moment of note in the entire journey round to the Gare de Lyon occurred shortly after passing through the station at Bel Air-Ceinture where the train was brought to a sudden and unexpected stop which, for whatever reason had occasioned it, lasted for upwards of a quarter of an hour.
Bored, having wandered out into the corridor of their carriage in search of something to do to help them pass the time, Danny and Robert were both standing at the far end of the coach leaning out of the open window of the door of the carriage. It was at this precise moment, directly opposite where the two boys were standing, that the shutters of a second floor room in the building which abutted the railway line at this point were flung open whereupon young Danny nudged Robert sharply in the ribs.
"Have you seen Danny and Robert?" asked Matthew.
"They're back there, at the end of the carriage" said Saiorse sitting down. She jabbed her thumb in the direction from whence she had just come.
"And no doubt, getting up to all sorts of mischief for sure I shouldn't wonder" laughed Tom.
"No doubt!" Matthew smiled broadly at his friend and brother-in-law.
"They're talking to a naked lady" announced Saiorse flatly and in the most prosaic of tones; at which precise point all conversation in the compartment immediately ceased. Horrified, the adults looked at one another, not believing the evidence of their own ears.
"Saiorse!" exclaimed Sybil.
"I beg your pardon?" queried Mary aghast at what she had just heard.
Edith flushed and young Max looked questioningly at his mother, wondering why it was that she had suddenly gone so red in the face.
"Was ist denn Mutter?
Edith smiled, shook her head.
"Nichts mein Liebling".
"Saiorse, darlin', that's not at all funny" said Tom,
"Well Uncle Matthew asked where they were" said Saiorse crossly.
"Saiorse…" began Tom, a warning note of clear exasperation creeping into his voice, but for her part Saiorse was having none of it. Sticking firmly to her guns, she folded her arms defensively across her chest.
"Like I said Da, they're up there, at the end of the corridor, talking through a window, to a lady with no clothes on" repeated Saiorse disinterestedly, at the same time flicking a loose thread from off her skirt. "If you don't believe me Da, go see for yourself".
At that Matthew and Tom exchanged glances, simultaneously rose swiftly to their feet, and hurried out into the corridor.
"And so 'andsome!" The woman smiled; bluish tinged smoke from her cigarette spiralled languidly up into the heavy afternoon air.
Danny blushed and grinned back. Through the open window, behind the scantily-clad woman, in the dim interior of the room, the twelve year old boy glimpsed briefly the disordered and unmade bed.
"Et, comment s'appellez-vous?"
For a moment, understanding briefly eluded Danny. When he didn't answer her, the woman tried again.
"Votre nom… your… name?"
"Ah! Danny" said Danny pointing to himself.
"Dannee" repeated the woman. "You are Irish, non?"
Danny nodded.
"From Dublin".
"Ah! Dublin. In Irelande?"
Danny nodded his head once again.
"I knew a young man. "ee was from Irelande. But that... that was a long time ago. 'ee was killed... in zee war".
For a moment Marie fell silent. Given the youth of the two boys, even if her command of the English language had permitted it, Marie decided it was probably for the best that she did not try and elaborate further just how it was she had come to know the young Irishman of whom she had just spoken.
"And this… this is Robert".
"Ah, Robair!" exclaimed the woman giving Robert's name its French pronunciation. "You are English, non?"
Robert nodded his head and smiled.
"He's my cousin" said Danny by way of further explanation.
"Votre cousin, ah". Marie nodded. "And where is it you go?" asked the woman, drawing heavily once again on her cigarette.
"Italy" said Robert promptly, continuing to stare fixedly at the woman's bare breasts. Compared to the large, luminous, white orbs now displayed prominently before him in the full glare of the afternoon sun, Jenny Smales was positively flat-chested. Not surprisingly, in no more than the twinkling of an eye, the fleeting memory of Jenny's infantile charms, glimpsed but briefly in the dim interior of the boat-house at Downton earlier that summer, vanished completely from Robert's young mind, to be replaced with an altogether much more vivid memory; one which he would retain down to the very end of his life.
"Ah, Italie! Si belle", Marie enthused, and still making no attempt to pull together the open front of her dressing robe.
So engrossed were they in conversation that the two boys failed to hear the soft footfalls in the corridor behind them. Equally bored, Saiorse had herself also now wandered as far as the end of the carriage.
A short while later and there came more footsteps in the corridor and just behind the two boys someone cleared his throat. Half-turning, to his consternation, Robert saw, standing directly behind him, grinning broadly, both his father and Uncle Tom. Danny was still completely engrossed in conversation with Marie, so much so that not until Robert nudged him sharply in the ribs did Danny at last turn, and on seeing his father and uncle, flushed scarlet to the very roots of his hair. Behind the two boys, the shutters of Marie's bedroom window promptly slammed shut.
"What's this? French lessons?" Matthew quipped.
A moment later there was a sudden jolt, and the train moved off, bound for the Gare de Lyon.
Back in their compartment, and still grinning broadly, Tom and Matthew stood with their hands resting lightly on the shoulders of their two errant sons.
"Honest, Da, we were only talking to her" said Danny turning his head and looking up apologetically at his father.
"Really? To a lady with no clothes on?" asked Saiorse provocatively.
At Saiorse's repetition of this astonishing revelation, once again Mary's head snapped up. Lofting an enquiring eyebrow, she now looked inquisitively at her own eldest child.
"Robert Crawley just what have you been…" she began; then stopped mid sentence as Mary saw Matthew shake his head, an amused smile playing around the corners of his mouth.
"Don't even ask" he said quietly, his eyes dancing with mirth.
"And?" asked Sybil enquiringly.
"Darlin' if I told you, you'd never believe me" said Tom with a laugh.
Author's Note:
"Mademoiselle From Armentières" was the title of a song sung by the Allied troops during the Great War. Very popular with the British Tommies, it tells of a young French girl of decidedly easy virtue. There are several variations of the song including the much more ribald "Three German Officers Crossed The Rhine" and which is sung to the same tune.