smoky dance-halls, the meeting places of thieves, spivs and prostitutes.

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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.

Huncke was so heinous cops on Times Square called him The Creep

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Paris itself was an exotic location in those days. It had bars that stayed open later than the 10 P.M. closing time then in force in England. French cigarettes were stronger and more fragrant, the Metro had first- and second-class seats. One listened in astonishment to descriptions of the hole-in-the-floor toilets, open-air pissoirs, and the ladies who ran the public lavatories. Visitors described student bistros and casual jazz clubs; London had only one jazz club—Ronnie Scott’s—and that was prohibitively expensive. They described the easygoing sex and the freely available drugs, and it sounded a good deal more interesting than life in Britain. Everyone said the Beat Hotel was the place to stay, but if it was full, or the owner did not like the look of you, there were plenty of other, equally inexpensive places within a few blocks.

only a drunkard would swallow alcohol at nine in the morning!

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Alfred Sauveur, ironmonger, owner of a house at 57, Rue des Carmes, had asked the Court for the eviction of his tenant, Lucienne Girard, as well as a substantial sum for damages and rights, for having used the rooms she occupied for illegal purposes, in this case, unauthorized prostitution.
That time, too, Lhomond had cleared his voice before putting the question:
'Do you admit the facts of which you are accused?'
She replied simply: 'No, Your Honour.'
'The plaintiff states that with the complicity of ...'
This last name he had entirely forgotten. It was that of a young girl who was actually twenty-one, but did not look more than seventeen, she was so frail, and, probably, anaemic. She did not appear. He had an opportunity of seeing her later.
'She is my employee. Your Honour. I keep a glove shop, on the premises which I have rented from this gentleman and for which I regularly pay the rent ... '
She had no lawyer and refused to engage one. On the other hand she had brought in her handbag testimonials from the local police inspector and from two other policemen.
Armemieux was shrugging his shoulders in his scarlet gown. He considered it was a waste of time to try to understand these people. Who was it who said, summing up in one word a good third, if not more, of the world's population: 'Scum!'

“fucks too much, smokes too much, drinks too much”

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Over the years it would continue to make the odd reappearance. First came the spoof version: Up Pompeii’s Frankie Howerd duetting with June Whitfield in 1971 on ‘Up Je T’Aime’. It featured June trying to stir the snoring Frankie by whispering French words of love in his ear, only to be met by protests: “Not again! Do you know what time it is? What on earth’s got into you? It’s not Friday, is it? Speak English, woman!” It was the U.K. that truly embraced the song – for which Serge had a theory. “I know certain people close to Princess Margaret who think it’s about sodomy. A fact which made them very happy.”

"Guitar Wolf meets Super Vixen, Kitten Natividad".

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Bardot asked Serge to write for her the most beautiful love song in the world; his reply was the cult classic "Je t'aime ... moi non plus."  The song starts off simple enough, but before long the vocal track progresses into a series of moans, with Brigitte and Serge whispering "Je t'aime" and groaning lustily. The press went so far as to say they recorded themselves in the true act of copulation. In truth, they had been lovers, but you don't have to be Fellini to have figured that out. "Je t' aime ... moi non plus" was not initially released. Bardot's husband, the extremely wealthy German Guntar Sachs, was so enraged by the song's connotations that he would not allow it to be pressed. Gainsbourg locked the master tape away and 'claimed' it would stay there forever. Gainsbourg later re-recorded the song with his British wife, Jane Birkin, and the press made the same "they're doing it!" allegation. Years later Birkin was cast as Bardot's female lover in Don Juan. Being nervous about their nude scene, Brigitte suggested they sing a song. The only song they both knew the words to was "Je t'aime ... ", prompting them to break into an amusingly passionate rendition.