Free Memoirs of a Courtesan in Nineteenth-Century Paris by Celeste Mogador

Mechlin lace 1 on Rue de la Lune around ten o’clock when a man assaulted her, knifing her three times: in the cheek, piercing her tongue; in the breast; and in her side.
    Nearby, a woman saw a man run away shouting, ‘ Oh! What have I done, I made a mistake.’
    The victim was taken to Hôtel-Dieu hospital where she died a few hours later without having a chance to reveal her name. It was thanks to the box of Mechlin lace that what had happened to her was later revealed. The identity of the murderer was never discovered.
    My mother was placed with a milliner. Her brother wanted to learn how to paint. My grandfather had a slight preference for this son, and, except for the disagreements with his wife, he was more hospitable to him than to his sisters.
    On a day that he had been refused some money, he returned with
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    M. Vincent
    two pistols and told his father and his stepmother, ‘‘I want money; I know there is some here. Open this desk or I blow your brains out.’
    He got it all, down to the silverware. Midway down the stairs, he was laughing his fool head off, shouting, ‘ The pistols were not even loaded!’’
    He left France and was never heard from again.
    My mother learned her trade and settled down without asking anything from her father. She could not forgive him the harm he had in-flicted on her mother. In twelve years she had seen him only twice. She would send me there for New Year’s.
    I could love passionately or hate furiously. I adored my mother, but I cried when I had to go see my grandfather.
       
    I was still under this negative impression when we arrived at his house upon our return from Lyon. We reached his house at  Rue de Bercy-Saint-Jean at ten .. The street was actually a covered alleyway.
    His shop was a furniture store. Its sign jutted out at least two feet and read: Rental house run by
    . Old and new furniture bought and sold.
    The entryway was an alley door so narrow that one could only go in sideways. A half-door with a bell announced someone’s arrival and departure, which was not necessary, since my grandfather was at once owner, doorman, bellboy, and furniture salesman.
    His own room was on the second floor. It was a lovely room with two large windows and a balcony bordered by a rusty iron railing. It jutted out over a street so narrow that once out of bed one could shake hands with the neighbor across the way.
    That was the room where we made our entrance, hearts heavy and heads bowed.
    The room was an annex for the shop. It contained so many pieces of furniture, clocks, and paintings that we could not find a place to sit.
    My grandfather was seated in a comfortable chair. The bell had alerted him, and he said indifferently, ‘ So, it is you, girl. What the devil are you doing here at this hour? We were about to go to bed.’
    He had not seen us in two years!
    ‘ Father, I just arrived from Lyon. I have come to ask you to lodge us for a day or two.’
    The stepmother jumped in her chair. ‘‘We do not have room.’
    ‘ That is true,’ said my grandfather, ‘‘we shall make up a bed for you on the floor.’
    My mother told everything that had happened to us. The stepmother
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    M. Vincent
    pretended to sleep, and as Maman was saying to her father, ‘‘I have a lot more to tell you, when we are alone,’ she pretended to wake up and said, ‘ Good night, I am going to bed.’
    She went into the next room, taking care to leave the door open. My grandfather got up and closed it.
    ‘‘Well, my child, what do you plan to do?’’
    ‘‘But, Father, what I have always done: work, once I am settled. Tomorrow I shall look for lodgings. If you want to furnish it for me, I shall pay you as soon as possible.’
    ‘ Certainly, but to avoid problems, she must not suspect anything.’
    And he was looking at the door through which he probably was afraid she was listening because he continued in a