Dear Diary,
Paris is such a
mad rush of colors and smells. Mostly blue, from the bruises
I've gotten trying to steer Mr. Trout through doors (I think
he's been tippling a little!), and garlic. Lots of garlic. I
wish I'd brought clothespins.
Mr. Blumenfelt and I alighted from the train and were immediately accosted by one of the natives, an ancient Gypsy woman wearing a red skirt and a horribly dirty handkerchief over her hair. I suppose she could tell I was American. "Paris, she is not safe for you!" she warned.
"Isn't she? I mean it?" inquired Mr. Blumenfelt, his eyebrows furrowed.
Mr. Trout, I am sorry to say, belched in reply. I hastily shoved him into the taxi and gave instructions to the driver to take him to the Louvre, where we were to meet the Count.
"Beware! She is not safe!" she told me, leaving quite a smudge on the cuff of my shirt. Oh, how I do detest a smudge!
I fumbled in my pocket and gave her something gold. She bit into it to test it, and then made a sound of surprise. "Oh, I say, that's not real," I quickly told her, but it was too late. "That was a toffee coin I bought on the boat. I thought you looked hungry. Too sorry."
The poor woman apparently had stuck her teeth together, for she drooled quite copiously and said some colorful things in French that I didn't quite understand, but the tone was much the same as Mr. Trout's the night that I tried to take him to the men's only night at the Powder Puff Lounge in London. "Thtupid tourithtth!" she lisped after us. I did hope the toffee became unstuck soon. I didn't want to wish lockjaw on anyone, even if they were French!
When we arrived at
the Louvre, a courier was waiting for us. He handed Mr. Blumenfelt
a package, which turned out to be a pet of the Count's--Beppo
the monkey. Can you imagine having a monkey for a pet? Wouldn't
it be darling? I was entranced immediately. Think of the outfits
you could make for a monkey with just a minimum of cloth and
a little bit of sewing! I wanted to see if he knew any tricks,
but Mr. Blumenfelt thought it would be best if we went indoors
and found the men and told them the news about their first duel.
Sweet little Beppo kept looking at me entreatingly while I set up the board set on an exquisite period French table, deep in a remote part of the museum where, Mr. Blumenfelt claimed, no guards would find us. Mr. Blumenfelt cleared his throat and announced that the first duel would be backgammon.
"Backgammon!" roared Mr. Trout.
"Backa gammona?" said the Count. (I think he was Italian.)
Mr. Blumenfelt looked over at me nervously, and for a moment I thought he was going to tell everyone how I'd muffed it all up and forgotten Mr. Trout's weapons. And then I'd never get to meet Mrs. Titus W. Trout! Luckily, he told the men it was a warm-up to the other events, and the two grudgingly settled down to the board.
Lucky me! I had several minutes free to play with Beppo. I let him out of the cage and instantly he pranced over to me. I felt an affinity between us instantly, the dear darling little monkeyshines. "Treat for Beppo?" I asked, taking a dried fig from my bag. He gobbled it down instantly, and looked at me with love in his eyes. "Treat for Beppo?" I asked again.
I took another dried fig and put it into the brim of my hat. Sweet Beppo leapt up onto my shoulder and took the fig, ate it, and hopped down again. "Another treat for Beppo?" I put another fig under my hat ribbon. It took him a moment to find, but eventually he extracted it and ate it, jumping up and down excitedly. Just then another gentleman with a hat walked into the room, and I could see the speculative gleam in the monkey's eye. He made a shrilling noise and lunged for the man, causing him to edge from the room. "Naughty!" I told him. "Just because they're wearing a hat doesn't mean there's a treat for Beppo in it!" Beppo didn't look very convinced, though, the little fuzzy-wuzz.
Just then a commotion started from the backgammon table. I never really knew what happened . . . suddenly there were just backgammon pieces flying everywhere, and Mr. Blumenfelt was brandishing a leather whip of sorts, and the Count let Beppo out, and Beppo instantly went after the hat of a woman in the room. . . . It was awful. The Count was roaring, Mr. Trout was roaring, Mr. Blumenfelt raised his voice. I instantly started to have a migraine. And then Beppo dived for my bag, looking for more dried figs, but there were none.
"No, Beppo!" I cried, but it was too late. The mischievous little monkey was tossing my raspberry jam jars everywhere. I thought to myself, What am I going to have on my baguettes? Then I pouted and put my hands on my hips. "Oh, double dog darn it all!"
It was about then
that Mr. Trout yelled at the top of his voice, "Mincing
little so and so!" He was on the floor, brandishing an antique
crossbow from one of the displays. I felt something whiz by between
my legs, and when I turned, I saw a crossbow bolt freshly vibrating
in the middle of a small middle period Tintoretto.
Whatever could he have been talking about? Whatever could he have been aiming at?
Then I felt a sudden sensation. There's just something about having a crossbow bolt come so close to . . . well, you know where . . . even if it was an accident, that makes a boy feel all urgent inside. "I really think I have to go now," I said, and next thing I know, the others were running out of the room towards the exits. "Well!" I said, surprised. I guess when nature calls, nature calls! "Let me just get my bags and Beppo, and. . . ."
"Forget the bloody monkey!" Mr. Blumenfelt snarled. "The gendarmes will be here soon!"
Forget little Beppo, after I'd taught him that darling hat trick? I couldn't! I just couldn't! Mr. Blumenfelt leaned in close. "They won't let you crochet in the Bastille, you know," he said.
I grabbed my bags, blew Beppo a kiss, and ran as fast as my calfskin-lined kid slippers could take me.
Still, it was a pity about the Tintoretto.