He
got to know a blonde hostess with whom he fell in love. For days on end he was
away from his room in Montmartre, his wife and his monkey. The strange new life
he led with her had effects that were as enduring as they were beneficial. In
the space of a few months, he acquired an elegant bearing, decided to dress in
the approved manner. Soon, though, he was back in his little room in the Place
Emile-Goudeau, back with his wife and monkey. Those Montmartre hotel rooms! The foreigner
who frequents Gay Paree sees only the blazing neon signs along the Rue Pigalle,
the social round, money flowing as freely as champagne, the women who hang
about street-corners, the dance-halls, the dancers. But like those of
Marseille, or any other town, the Montmartre hotel rooms are small and square,
their flowered or striped wallpaper torn in places. A yellow or red satin
eiderdown covers the bed; net curtains hang drearily down each side of the
window, through which more dust than light comes in. The faded covers are
flecked with cigarette burns. The enormous cupboard holds all the tenant’s
belongings and in a shady corner a screen masks off the washbasin.
