The Other Side of Midnight

The hotel room consisted of a large double bed, cheap furniture and a washstand and basin in one corner. Monsieur Lanchon was not a man to throw away his money. He gave the bellboy a small tip and the moment the bellboy left, Lanchon turned towards Noelle and began to tear off her clothes. He cupped her breasts in his hot, moist hands and squeezed them hard.

‘My God, you are beautiful,’ he panted. He pulled down her skirt and pants and pushed her onto the bed. Noelle lay there unmoving, uncaring, as though she were suffering from some kind of shock. She had not uttered one word driving down in the car. Lanchon hoped that she was not ill. He could never explain it to the police or, God forbid, his wife. He hastily took off his clothes, throwing them on the floor and then moved onto the bed beside Noelle. Her body was even more splendid than he had anticipated.

‘You father tells me you have never been fucked.’ He grinned. ‘Well, I am going to show you what a man feels like.’ He rolled his plump belly on top of her and thrust his organ between her legs. He began to push harder and harder, forcing himself into her. Noelle felt nothing. In her mind she was listening to her father yelling. You should be grateful to have a kind gentleman like Monsieur Lanchon wanting to take care of you. All you have to do is be nice to him. You will do it for me. And for yourself. The whole scene had been a nightmare. She was sure that her father had somehow misunderstood, but when she started to explain, he had struck her again and begun screaming, ‘You will do as you are told. Other girls would be grateful for your chance.’ Her chance. She looked up at Lanchon, the squat ugly body, the panting animal face with its piggish eyes. This was the Prince to whom her father had sold her, her beloved father who cherished her and could not bear to let her waste herself on anyone unworthy. And she remembered the steaks that had suddenly appeared on the table and her father’s new pipes and his new suit and she wanted to vomit.

It seemed to Noelle that in the next few hours she died and was born again. She had died a Princess, and she was reborn a slut. Slowly she had become aware of her surroundings and of what was happening to her. She was filled with a hatred such as she had not known could exist. She would never forgive her father for his betrayal. Oddly enough she did not hate Lanchon, for she understood him. He was a man with the one weakness common to all men. From now on, Noelle decided, that weakness was going to be her strength. She would learn to use it. Her father had been right all along. She was a Princess and the world did belong to her. And now she knew how to get it. It was so simple. Men ruled the world because they had the strength, the money and the power; therefore it was necessary to rule men, or at least one man. But in order to do that one had to be prepared. She had a great deal to learn. And this was the beginning.

She turned her attention to Monsieur Lanchon. She lay under him, feeling, experiencing how the male organ fit and what it could do to a woman.

In his frenzy at having this beautiful creature under his fat, bucking body, Lanchon did not even notice that Noelle simply lay there, but he would not have cared. Just feasting his eyes on her was enough to rouse him to heights of passion he had not felt in years. He was accustomed to the accordioned, middle-aged body of his wife and the tired merchandise of the whores of Marseille, and to find this fresh, young girl under him was like a miracle come into his life.

But the miracle was just beginning for Lanchon. After he had spent himself making love to Noelle for the second time, she spoke and said, ‘Lie still.’ She began to experiment on him with her tongue and her mouth and her hands, trying new things, finding the soft, sensitive areas of his body and working on them until Lanchon cried aloud with pleasure. It was like pressing a series of buttons. When Noelle did this, he moaned and when she did this, he writhed in ecstasy. It was so easy. This was her school, this was her education. This was the beginning of power.

They spent three days there and never once went to Le Pyramide, and during those days and nights, Lanchon taught her the little that he knew about sex, and Noelle discovered a great deal more.

When they drove back to Marseille, Lanchon was the happiest man in all France. In the past he had had quick affairs with shopgirls in a cabinet particuliers, a restaurant that had a private dining room with a couch; he had haggled with prostitutes, been niggardly with presents for his mistresses, and notoriously penurious with his wife and children. Now he found himself saying magnanimously, ‘I’m going to set you up in an apartment, Noelle. Can you cook?’

‘Yes,’ Noelle replied.

‘Good. I will come for lunch every day and we will make love. And two or three nights a week, I will come for dinner.’ He put his hand on her knee and patted it. ‘How does that sound?’

‘It sounds wonderful,’ Noelle said.

‘I will even give you an allowance. Not a large one,’ he added quickly, ‘but enough so you can go out and buy pretty things from time to time. All I ask is that you see no one but me. You belong to me now.’

‘As you wish, Auguste,’ she said.

Lanchon sighed contentedly, and when he spoke, his voice was soft. ‘I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. And do you know why?’

‘No, Auguste.’

‘Because you make me feel young. You and I are going to have a wonderful life together.’

They reached Marseille late that evening, driving in silence, Lanchon with his dreams, Noelle with hers.

‘I will see you in the shop tomorrow at nine o’clock,’ Lanchon said. He thought it over. ‘If you are tired in the morning, sleep a little longer. Come in at nine-thirty.’

‘Thank you, Auguste.’

He pulled out a fistful of francs and held them out.

‘Here. Tomorrow afternoon you will look for an apartment. This will be a deposit to hold it until I can see it.’

She stared at the francs in his hand.

‘Is something wrong?’ Lanchon asked.

‘I want us to have a really beautiful place,’ Noelle said, ‘where we can enjoy being together.’

‘I’m not a rich man,’ he protested.

Noelle smiled understandingly and put her hand on his thigh. Lanchon stared at her a long moment and then nodded.

‘You’re right,’ he said. He reached into his wallet and began peeling off francs, watching her face as he did so.

When she seemed satisfied, he stopped, flushed with his own generosity. After all what did it matter? Lanchon was a shrewd businessman, and he knew that this would insure that Noelle would never leave him.

Noelle watched him as he drove happily away, then she went upstairs, packed her things and removed her savings from her hiding place. At ten o’clock that night, she was on a train to Paris.

When the train pulled into Paris early the next morning, the PLM Station was crowded with those travellers who had eagerly just arrived, and those who were just as eagerly fleeing the city. The din in the station was deafening as people shouted cheerful greetings and tearful farewells, rudely pushing and shoving, but Noelle did not mind. The moment she stepped off the train, before she had even had a chance to see the city, she knew that she was home. It was Marseille that seemed like a strange town and Paris the city to which she belonged. It was an odd, heady sensation, and Noelle revelled in it, drinking in the noises, the crowds, the excitement. It all belonged to her. All she had to do now was claim it. She picked up her suitcase and started towards the exit.

Outside in the bright sunlight with the traffic insanely whizzing around, Noelle hesitated, suddenly realizing that she had nowhere to go. Half a dozen taxis were lined up in front of the station. She got into the first one.

‘Where to?’

She hesitated. ‘Could you recommend a nice inexpensive hotel?’

The driver swung around to stare at her appraisingly. ‘You’re new in town?’

‘Yes.’

He nodded. ‘You’ll be needing a job, I suppose.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re in luck,’ he said. ‘Have you ever done any modelling?’

Noelle’s heart leaped. ‘As a matter of fact, I have,’ she said.

‘My sister works for one of the big fashion houses,’ the driver confided. ‘Just this morning she mentioned that one of the girls quit. Would you like to see if the vacancy is still open?’

‘That would be wonderful,’ Noelle replied.

‘If I take you there, it will cost you ten francs.’

She frowned.

‘It will be worth it,’ he promised.

‘All right.’ She leaned back in the seat. The driver put the taxi in gear and joined the maniacal traffic heading towards the centre of town. The driver chattered as they drove, but Noelle did not hear a word he said. She was drinking in the sights of her city. She supposed that because of the blackout, Paris was more subdued than usual, but to Noelle it seemed a city of pure magic. It had an elegance, a style, even an aroma all its own. They passed Notre Dame and crossed the Pont Neuf to the Right Bank and swung towards Marshall Foch Boulevard. In the distance Noelle could see the Eiffel Tower, dominating the city. Through the rearview mirror, the driver saw the expression on her face.

‘Nice, huh?’

‘It’s beautiful,’ Noelle answered quietly. She still could not believe she was here. It was a Kingdom fit for a Princess … for her.

The taxi pulled up in front of a dark, grey stone building on the rue de Provence.

‘We’re here,’ the driver announced. ‘That’s two francs on the metre and ten francs for me.’