The Adventuress Read Online Free

red-haired broomstick of an actress who cast her sinuous coils around admirers like one of the gigantic parlor snakes she kept in her exotic rooms on Boulevard Pereire.
    I mentioned none of these fears to Irene or Godfrey. Spinsters grow used to feeling redundant, I suspect, and to saying nothing.
    Yet I hoped that Irene’s infatuation with Sarah Bernhardt would fade. They were too much alike; Madame Sarah’s erratic flame would ever vie with Irene’s steadier radiance.
     

     
    “You have been quite as confined to quarters of late as Casanova,” Irene observed one morning as we lingered over breakfast. Godfrey had left for the day.
    “There’s not much occasion for an outing in Neuilly,” said I.
    “But there is all Paris!” Irene’s sweeping gesture threatened to overturn her teacup, filled with vile black coffee in the American fashion. Now that she had means, I had discovered that small cigars and cigarettes were not Irene’s only vice.
    “Paris is a day’s expedition, and I do not care to risk myself or my French in such a frenetic capital.”
    “Then we shall bring Casanova as translator.” Irene rose to feed that devouring beak the last of her croissant.
    “Gracious, no! Should a Frenchwoman overhear his vile doggerel—”
    “She would recite it along with the bird. Paris is not the bland, boiled-shirtfront city that London is. Paris is fresh, inventive, sophisticated—”
    “Dissolute,” I finished.
    “Daring,” Irene said in reproof. Her eyes sparkled a challenge. “Where would you like to go in Paris? Name a destination and it is yours.”
    “Not Montmartre.”
    “Of course not. Much too... Bohemian.”
    “Indeed. Nor the Boulevard, not even in broad daylight.”
    “Naturally not. Much too... Baudelaire-ian.”
    “And I have seen Notre Dame—”
    “Much too... Romanish.”
    “You know what I would really like to see, Irene?”
    “What is left?” she murmured to the odious bird, blowing a kiss at its huge yellow beak.
    “Pretty bird, pretty bird,” the creature squawked.
    “Bel oiseau, bel oiseau, ” Irene crooned until the parrot cocked its head and repeated the French phrase with irritating success.
    “I should like to stroll the Left Bank,” I said, exposing a secret wish.
    “The Left Bank! But, Nell, that is more Bohemian than Montmartre and the Boulevard put together.”
    “I’ve heard that booksellers set up shop on the riverbank near Notre Dame. I should very much like to look for antique volumes there.”
    “Bibles, no doubt.”
    “I do know that bibliotheque is the French word for ‘library’. I wish to peruse this street-side library.”
    “Bibelot is the French for ‘bauble’; perhaps we can finish with a stroll down the Rue de la Paix.”
    “Done!” said I, who had not expected to spend a dry two hours amongst musty volumes without trading Irene a jaunt into the glittering storefronts of the milliners and jewelers.
    So we set out.
    Autumn was a distant thought on the horizon that August day. Paris lay tranquil under robin’s-egg blue skies, most of its denizens having gone to the country on holiday. The Seine reflected Notre Dame’s famous towers in a wriggling fashion that resembled the work of those demented Impressionist paint hurlers.
    We ambled along the Left Bank, visiting dried-up antiquarians who sold pieces of the past volume by volume. Their customers seemed universally attired in long coats, misshapen hats and too-short pants. Despite the unsavory company, I plunged into the bookstalls. My eager fingers (far cleaner than those of my fellow bibliophiles) soon were dusted with gilt from rich old pages. I quite felt a child again, exploring treasure boxes in the Shropshire parsonage lumber room.
    Irene trailed me, playing the indulgent nanny and stopping now and again to skim some elderly theatrical memoir. I was quite aware that this outing was intended to humor me. After deep immersion in a Douay Bible—much too Romanish indeed; “blessed