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Claude Jaudon and Joc DeSalle made the crossing from Liverpool, England, to Le Havre, France, on the good ship RMS Scythia. Le Havre was a busy port of entrée, with ships from every country on continental Europe in its harbor.
Aboard ship, Joc had inquired where Claude was spending the night. Claude hadn’t given any thought to spending the night in Le Havre. He had planned to catch the train and sleep aboard it until Paris. With most hotels full, Joc offered to share his room with Claude. Claude gladly accepted and now they stood on the dock awaiting a carriage to take them and their baggage to the inn where Joc had reserved a room.
Claude pulled his collar up around his neck. “This wind feels like it has ice in it.”
Joc was shaking. “I think it does.”
The horse-drawn carriage pulled to a stop and two large men ran out of the shelter of the bags of cargo stacked on the dock. They had been waiting in the cold for work, and when the carriage pulled up, they saw a chance to make some money by helping hoist the trunks on top and tie the gentlemen’s bags on the back. Claude handed Joc his share of the tip, and Joc paid the men, who quickly ran back inside to get out of the freezing wind.
It was a short ride to the inn, but very cold. Joc went inside and shouted in French, “I need two stout men to bring the luggage in off our carriage. You’ll be well paid for your trouble.”
He spoke to the innkeeper about the additional person in his room and got a pallet for Claude to sleep on. That night they ate and drank until late and were awakened at daybreak by banging on their door. It was the driver of the automobile Joc had hired, with two men to carry their luggage to it.
It was a cold morning, and there were blankets on the benches for them to cover themselves with. Claude looked at Joc skeptically. “That slow train is looking mighty good about now.”
“It will be an adventure, my friend. Think of the stories you’ll be able to tell once you’re back in your Texas.”
“Freezing to death isn’t what I would call an adventure. It would be more like being trapped in hell.”
The luggage was loaded and they had wrapped themselves in a couple of blankets. The driver finished watering the horses and jumped in. The adventure began.
The road to Paris – if you could call it a road – was still muddy from the last rain and rutted from years of travel. It beat them both unmercifully. Even Joc had to admit the train would have been preferable to such a rough ride. He soon climbed over the back and retrieved a bottle of cognac from his luggage, opened it, took a big gulp, and passed it to Claude, who quickly turned it up. As the warm glow spread throughout his body, he said, “That’s damn good. What the hell is it?”
“It’s the drink of France. Cognac!”
“Well, I’ve found my new drink. I really like it, and it did warm me up a little.”
It was late afternoon when they pulled through the gates of Château de la Salle. At the main entrance, people poured out to welcome Joc home and collect his bags. Joc handed the driver some francs, and soon he and Claude were standing inside next to a fireplace.
The room was huge, with giant portraits of family members covering the walls. In fact, there was nowhere in the château that a portrait wasn’t staring down at you.
A male servant brought two glasses of cognac on a silver tray. In French, Joc said, “Thank you, Jos. Would you tell the ladies to draw two warm tubs. We need to bathe after our long trip.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
The servant left and Claude asked, “Where are your parents? I expected them to be the first out of the door to greet you.”
“They come here only on holiday. We own a number of apartments in Paris. We’ll be going there tomorrow, for an end-of-summer party being hosted by a friend of mine. He’s a duke, and everybody will be there – it will be a good way to introduce you to ‘Gay Paree’. And after that, we’ll go to the Folies Bergère.”
“I will need to get in touch with my family at some point,” said Claude. “They’re expecting me.”
“Write a letter, and I’ll have it delivered. Tell them you’re engaged in a business deal and will contact them soon.”
Claude thought about it and agreed. “I’ll do that. I would like to see Paris, since I’m here. I may never get the chance again.”
The next morning, over espresso coffee and French pastry, Joc laid out their agenda for their first day in Paris. “The first thing we must do is get you to a tailor. We cannot have you walking around Paree looking as if you just stepped off the farm.”
Claude laughed. “In some respects, I did just step off the farm. One of the richest farms in Texas.”
“Please, my friend, don’t be insulted, but in Parisian Society, if you don’t dress the part, your money has no meaning. The Paris of 1888 is one of make-believe – it will be so much fun!”
Claude knew he was out of his depth. “I leave my life in your hands. But I need to stop by the Bank International of Paris. I had money transferred there.”
Joc clapped his hands. “Wonderful! My family owns that bank.”
The servant that had brought them their cognac the day before came in and said in French, “The carriage is out front to take you and your friend to Paris.”
“Merci, Jos.” Joc flourished a hand toward the door and said to Claude, “Shall we go?”
Outside, Claude was happy to see that the carriage had doors, windows, and real seats. He settled in the back with Joc, and the driver snapped his whip. The ride to Paris proper was very pleasant. The road was, for the most part, smooth, and they sped along at a gallop.
Coming into Paris was like stepping into a beehive. Thousands of people roamed its boulevards, alive with activity. Shops and cafés lined every street. Even in the chill of September, the outdoor tables in front of coffee shops were full. Claude was dumbfounded by the sight, more amazing than New York’s sights had been.
The driver stopped outside a tailor shop, and the next two hours were spent measuring Claude, who found the ordeal beneath him – especially when it came to his crotch. He felt the fitter was spending far too much time with his hands moving around Claude’s manhood.
In French, the tailor told Joc with a smile, “We’ll need more material to accommodate this bull’s penis.”
Joc laughed, and Claude said loudly, “I don’t speak good French, but damn it, I understand what he’s saying. You tell this pervert if he touches me down there one more time I will flatten him.”
“Please, Claude, it was a compliment. Endowed men should embrace the admiration of their fellow men.”
The tailor backed away and muttered to Joc, “J’ai pêché, monsieur.”
Joc rose from his chair. “See, that wasn’t so bad. Now that he has finished, we can go have a wine.”
Joc shook the tailor’s hand. “Merci, monsieur. À quelle heure pouvons-nous prendre la combinaison? Nous avons une fête ce soir.”
The tailor replied, “Six heures.”
Joc smiled and turned to leave. “Nous vous verrons alors.”
Joc caught ahold of Claude’s arm. “Come, we will walk to Café Terrace. It isn’t far.”
Claude’s mind felt flooded by everything, the colors, the sounds, the vibrant feeling that he felt being in the middle of it all. It was so wonderful, he almost wanted to cry.
“There it is, up ahead. Artists from all over the world hang out at this café.” Joc had no more said that than they came upon an artist he knew. The man had set up an easel on the street just down from the Terrace.
Joc placed his hand on the artist’s back. “Monsieur Van Gogh, c’est un beau tableau. Comment appelles-tu cela?”
“Terrasse du café de jour.”
“Voici mon ami Claude Jaudon d’Amérique.”
“Bonjour, Monsieur Jaudon.”
“Quand tu auras fini, viens nous rejoindre pour un vin?” Joc invited.
“Merci, je le ferai,” Van Gogh agreed.
Joc and Claude continued on to the café. Claude, who normally cared little about art, said, “I liked the scene that fellow was painting. What’s his full name?”
“Vincent Van Gogh. He’s from Holland. His work is all right, but he’s only a minor artist here in Paris.”
Claude glanced back at the little man hunched over his canvas and wondered what it took to be more than a minor artist in Paris.
| Copyright © 2019 by Ed Rogers |
The adventure continues! Always a good read.
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