“That’s a good idea, Pierre. I’ll see if I think it’s worth while to carry things that far.”
One look at the model after I checked into the art class, and I knew it was going to be worthwhile. Her hair was blonde and cropped, and since she was nude, it was easy to verify the other details supplied by Gina when she described Françoise Laval. Petite body, large breasts and hips — everything tallied. I paid particular attention to the hair below her slightly rounded belly. It was golden, all right, but I couldn’t tell whether it was dyed or not.
Once I’d taken inventory, I began feeling self-conscious about not doing anything with the brushes and canvases which had been set before me. But a quick glance told me there was no need to feel that way. At least half the men in the room were making no pretense of painting. They were simply sitting there and staring at the lush naked body.
Every so often one of these phonics would walk up to the platform on which she was reclining and cop a feel under the pretext of rearranging her limbs. Aside from this, she remained motionless. She made no protest when they touched her. She didn’t respond in any way. Her face simply stayed fixed in that permanent pout, and the green eyes were glazed over with boredom.
Finally the instructor called time, and the artists began filing out. The phonies stayed to the last, devouring Françoise with their eyes. I stayed with them, also continuing to stare at her.
She was stretching luxuriously, getting the circulation back into her limbs, I suppose. Then, still nude, she picked up her purse from the table where she’d set it and took out a comb. I Watched as she ran the comb through her short-cropped curls. And then my eyes almost popped as she lowered the comb and rhythmically ran it through the sleek hair beneath her belly.
“Does she always do that?” I grabbed one of the phonies by the arm.
“Always, M’sieur. Is it not provoking?”
“Very,” I agreed.
Through combing now, Françoise began to get dressed. A sigh swept the room, and the phonies began drifting out. By the time she was pulling her dress over her head, the last of them was gone. Only then did I approach the model.
“I would like you to pose for me.” I came straight to the point.
“I’m sorry. I do not pose for individual artists."
“I will pay you well.”
“How well?”
I mentioned a generous figure.
Her green eyes opened very wide. “Just to pose, M’sieur?”
“Yes.”
“I think not. I think perhaps you want something else.”
“No,” I assured her. “I just want to have you to myself so that we can talk.”
“First posing, now talking. What else do you expect, M’sieur?” Her voice was teasing.
“Nothing.”
“I do not believe you. Not for a minute. But do you know something?” She looked at me approvingly. “I do not mind. It is just possible that my need is as great as yours. And I think it likely that it is the same sort of need.”
“Then you‘ll come to my studio?”
“Oui. Give me the address.”
I wrote it out for her.
“What time do you want me?” she asked. “I can't make it this afternoon. Will this evening be all right?”
“If you can come early this evening,” I told her.
“Eight-thirty?”
“That will be fine.”
“Then I shall see you then, M’sieur.” Her hand was very hot as she gave it to me to shake good-bye.
It was so hot that it never occurred to me that she might not show up. But that’s what happened. By ten that night I knew I’d been stood up. I didn’t waste any time on regrets, though. The striptease candidate was due at eleven.
She didn’t disappoint me. She was prompt. She’d come straight from the Naughty Nude. All she'd worn was a one-piece dress to cover her through the street. I knew she wasn’t wearing anything underneath the moment she greeted me with a kiss.
Being human, I tried for an encore. But she pushed me gently away. “First the money,” she reminded me.
“Of course.” I fished it out and handed it to her.
She counted it carefully. “Correct.” She beamed. “And now let us begin.” She stooped over, pulled the dress over her head with one theatrical motion, tossed it across the room, and flung herself on the bed. “Come on, chéri.” She held her arms up to me. “What are you waiting for?”
“I want to talk to you a moment first.”
“Talk? Oh! Oui!” A look of comprehension lit up her face. “Of course! I had forgotten that you are an American.”
“Let's not get chauvinistic! I’m not shy. It’s just that I got you up here for a reason.”
“I rather thought you had, M’sieur.”
“Not that reason. Another reason. I want to ask you some questions.”
“Very well. If you insist.”
“Good. Now, your real name is Françoise Laval, isn’t it?”
“Oui. I try to keep that a secret for professional reasons, but I suppose there are many who know it.”
“Yes. And you’re not German. Is that right?”
“Oui. I am a native of Paris."
“All right. Now, a few years back you left—” I was interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Are you expecting someone?” Frieda Fieler asked anxiously.
“Not that I know of.”
“Oh!” Her anxiety turned to panic. “Pierre! He must have followed me here. He mustn’t find me! Where can I hide?”
I watched as she darted, still naked, around the room. When it looked as if she was about to dive under the bed, I stopped her. “Just go in there,” I told her, pointing out the door leading to the bathroom. “Whoever it is, I’ll get rid of them right away.”
The knocking at the door sounded again as she followed my instructions. As soon as she was safely out of sight, I opened the door to the room. Françoise Laval, the model, stood there. “Quickly! Let me in!” she gasped. “I may have been followed!”
I stood back, and she slipped into the room, closing the door behind her and leaning against it while she caught her breath. “I‘m so sorry I’m late,” she said finally.
“I had given up on your coming at all,” I told her frankly. “You were supposed to be here at eight-thirty, and it’s already past eleven. I’m afraid this is a little inconvenient. Could you possibly come back tomorrow?”
“Oh, please, M’sieur! I could not come at eight-thirty because my-—-my protector was seized with a sudden fit of artistic jealousy. It was all I could do to get away now. If I am to pose for you, we must make the most of this opportunity.”
“But as you can see,” I lied to her, “I have already put away my easel and brushes for the night.”
“Then take them out again, M’sieur! While you are doing so, I will get ready.”
“But--” It was no use. She was already slipping out of her clothes.
“Well?” Naked now, she looked at me inquiringly. “Where are your sketching materials?”
“Look, Françoise, it’s like this. I’d like to talk with you a moment first.”
“Aha! I thought so! You're not really an artist at all. You lured me up here so that you might make love to me!”
“Well, no—I mean, not exactly-—”
“No?” She looked disappointed. “You mean you don’t want to take advantage of me?”