going on here, Billy asked herself, opening the card that Gigi had written to go with her gift.
Gabrielle, yes, indeed
, that
Gabrielle, the divine one who invented
“Le Coucher de Gabrielle,”
always said that this peignoir was her lucky charm, for she wore it for her debut at the Folies-Bergere. Her debut took place on a night in the springtime, it took place, of course, in Paris, and it took place at a time when all women, no matter what their position in society, wore five layers of undergarments, fastened together by an infernal system of straps and hooks and buttons that had been invented so that it would take a very long time indeed for them to be removed. Women, especially our divine Gabrielle, did not wish to seem as if they could be easily conquered by any man. Every woman knew that men only wanted one thing of them, and this one thing they were determined not to surrender, for their Mamans had told them of the dangers of allowing men to have their way, and their Mamans were wise in the ways of the wicked world. Gabrielle, who lived on very few sous in a tiny attic with a view of the tops of the trees of the Parc Montsouris, was a dreamer by nature, and as she watched the buds on the trees swell in the purple twilight, she thought of all the unmarried men, all over Paris, who were, at this very minute, going home to their empty bachelor apartments. Oh, softhearted
Gabrielle! These men, dangerous and wicked though they were, she told herself, must be lonely in their empty rooms. She felt pity for them, a pity that grew deeper as a new moon rose and the evening star spoke to her. Wasn’t there anything that a charitable girl could do to make them happier, she wondered, without, of course, surrendering that precious thing that was of great price? Night by night Gabrielle meditated until she arrived at an idea that no one in the history of civilization—or at least in France, which is the same thing—had ever had before. What if a woman, a woman as demure and chaste and lovely as Gabrielle herself, were to permit these poor bachelors to watch her undress for bed? What if she were to arrive on the stage of a theater, well-covered, it went without saying, in her pink satin and cream lace peignoir, for which she had saved all her extra sous for three years? What if she were to allow her peignoir to slip to the ground, while a pianist played light classical music to which she would listen, unaware of the eyes upon her? What if slowly, very slowly, in time to the music, she were to remove, with delicate manipulation of all the fastenings and buttons, the first of the five layers of dainty undergarments that every woman wore? And another and another? And yet another? Of course, she would never remove the last layer, the chemise and the knickers, for that would not only encourage men to have indecent thoughts, but it would bring the
gendarmerie
to close the theater. There should be a screen on the stage, Gabrielle realized, so that when she took off that last layer and put on her nightdress, a high-necked white nightdress made of heavy starched linen that no woman need fear being seen in, she could do it behind the screen. And there should be a bed on the stage as well, a simple white bed into which she would slip, taking only two quick steps from the screen to the bed. Perhaps an audience
could be found for this decent representation of an event from everyday life, Gabrielle told herself as she made a rendezvous with the director of the Folies-Bergere
.
Ah, Gabrielle, the toast of Paris, Gabrielle who invented
le
strip-tease out of compassion for her fellow men, why did you never allow any of the men who wanted to marry you and share your little white bed to accompany you home? You could have married two kings, twenty-five noblemen, and two hundred stockbrokers, one more handsome than the other. Was it because each night, after you had given the performance of
Le Coucher de Gabrielle,
you changed into your dove-gray
Gabrielle, yes, indeed
, that
Gabrielle, the divine one who invented
“Le Coucher de Gabrielle,”
always said that this peignoir was her lucky charm, for she wore it for her debut at the Folies-Bergere. Her debut took place on a night in the springtime, it took place, of course, in Paris, and it took place at a time when all women, no matter what their position in society, wore five layers of undergarments, fastened together by an infernal system of straps and hooks and buttons that had been invented so that it would take a very long time indeed for them to be removed. Women, especially our divine Gabrielle, did not wish to seem as if they could be easily conquered by any man. Every woman knew that men only wanted one thing of them, and this one thing they were determined not to surrender, for their Mamans had told them of the dangers of allowing men to have their way, and their Mamans were wise in the ways of the wicked world. Gabrielle, who lived on very few sous in a tiny attic with a view of the tops of the trees of the Parc Montsouris, was a dreamer by nature, and as she watched the buds on the trees swell in the purple twilight, she thought of all the unmarried men, all over Paris, who were, at this very minute, going home to their empty bachelor apartments. Oh, softhearted
Gabrielle! These men, dangerous and wicked though they were, she told herself, must be lonely in their empty rooms. She felt pity for them, a pity that grew deeper as a new moon rose and the evening star spoke to her. Wasn’t there anything that a charitable girl could do to make them happier, she wondered, without, of course, surrendering that precious thing that was of great price? Night by night Gabrielle meditated until she arrived at an idea that no one in the history of civilization—or at least in France, which is the same thing—had ever had before. What if a woman, a woman as demure and chaste and lovely as Gabrielle herself, were to permit these poor bachelors to watch her undress for bed? What if she were to arrive on the stage of a theater, well-covered, it went without saying, in her pink satin and cream lace peignoir, for which she had saved all her extra sous for three years? What if she were to allow her peignoir to slip to the ground, while a pianist played light classical music to which she would listen, unaware of the eyes upon her? What if slowly, very slowly, in time to the music, she were to remove, with delicate manipulation of all the fastenings and buttons, the first of the five layers of dainty undergarments that every woman wore? And another and another? And yet another? Of course, she would never remove the last layer, the chemise and the knickers, for that would not only encourage men to have indecent thoughts, but it would bring the
gendarmerie
to close the theater. There should be a screen on the stage, Gabrielle realized, so that when she took off that last layer and put on her nightdress, a high-necked white nightdress made of heavy starched linen that no woman need fear being seen in, she could do it behind the screen. And there should be a bed on the stage as well, a simple white bed into which she would slip, taking only two quick steps from the screen to the bed. Perhaps an audience
could be found for this decent representation of an event from everyday life, Gabrielle told herself as she made a rendezvous with the director of the Folies-Bergere
.
Ah, Gabrielle, the toast of Paris, Gabrielle who invented
le
strip-tease out of compassion for her fellow men, why did you never allow any of the men who wanted to marry you and share your little white bed to accompany you home? You could have married two kings, twenty-five noblemen, and two hundred stockbrokers, one more handsome than the other. Was it because each night, after you had given the performance of
Le Coucher de Gabrielle,
you changed into your dove-gray
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