The Twilight of the Bums Read Online Free Page A

Je m’en fous!) [Hey, did you mention the pipe that Henri is holding in his hand? Yes, my co-author again.]
    Monette is reclining on a curious bit of furniture (hard for us to tell what it is from where we are), a sofa of sorts, elevated at one end, on the bolsters of which she is carefully, most piquantly semi-reclined, her camellia gown draping, its folds flowing and draping, flowing and falling, and falling [you’re pushing, keep the effusions down. Oh shut up, let me go on] .
    Henri is working it up, his major new thought [une pensée cartésienne , to be sure] on the Fall Of Rome (he capitalizes his opinions).
    I , he begins, the word in his register one endless vowel. Iyeeeeeeee
    Whereupon enters Bum Two, aka Blitz. Who, Monette ma chérie, was your most superior lover?
    Blitz , of course, speaking in this manner, nominates himself [bien entendu] .
    Hmm, responds Monette, wishing, perhaps, that she had a fan to shield her face at this moment. [Hey, nice touch the fan!]

    Henri is taken aback (he has the look of a musketeer who has just been touché). Bum One enters, Tell us do, dear Monette, which one it was who touched your sacred source, the font of your essence .
    Henri returns to the plate. After a long drag in and a slow puff out on his pipe, Do , he commands, do it .

    Gosh, poor Monette is on the spot, eh? Do you think she is enjoying this? Perhaps you even think she expected to sit on this hot seat? [Stop asking the reader to think, it’s dangerous.]
    Ah , begins Monette, somewhat shyly, almost in a whisper [Wow, there’s a lot of whispering in this thing] , One was gymnastical, but recited the loveliest poetry as he worked me over, something like un cube sur un cube cela fait deux cubes, deux cubes sur deux cubes cela fait un mur entre toi et moi, et toi tu es là tout gras en train de manger ta soupe , a poem that Juliette Greco, I recall, performed in one of those existentialist movies set in North Africa with that Brit of a Brit as hero, I forget his name, his face is horribly pocked. Tea?
    The men at this moment are experiencing profound regret for having permitted any floor space at all for the question which elicited Monette’s response. [Watch your syntax, still whispering in my ear, you know who.]
    Monette pours the tea, Hmm , it has a saffronish quality, somewhat unarticulated. The tray of tiny cakes [make it French pastries] … the tray of petits fours she then nudges toward the men (Henri having repositioned Himself behind the loveseat, next to the record-player -- we told you the record-player would play an important part in this).
    But , continues Monette, softly, ultimately, I felt like a grip on a horse, you know, one of those hand-grips on stationary horses -- how do you call these horses? -- which gymnasts do their stuff on. Now, as to the next one in question, I have a most curious response, a response I will make as plainly as I can. He was a wonderful lover I am sure no doubt, to be sure, but being with him was like being alone. I speculated, if I may say so, that he loved me profoundly, so utterly, that he quite disappeared within the force-field of my Being, if that doesn’t seem too farfetched . [Which of the bums do you think she is alluding to?]
    Do you suppose, dear Reader, that at least one of Monette’s guests is regretting having accepted her invitation to tea?

    The men have stiffened considerably, Henri stark in his Gallic uprightness, the boys on the upholstery sinking back, which movement most unfortunately brings them closer (do you understand here the design of the love seat? -- if not, hurry now to an appropriate information source before continuing).
    Bum Two interposes, Gentlemen, how many seconds of consciousness does a person have after the blade of the guillotine has done its work?
    The third lover , Monette now speaking with some confidence, a bit louder, refusing utterly the last question, not about to be chopped off, now there