There is no moral or immoral art.'s Journal

PARIS 1924--Paris was far from Grasse. Physically, of course, it was--it had been an interminable train ride for the boy from the countryside who had been accustomed to carriages or horseback--but the difference was more than that. Paris, city of lights and focal point of Europe's Greater recovery from an already Great War, was practically the opposite of the pastoral life which Louis Marcel Tavernier had known. He had been a boy drawn to Paris like moth drawn towards flames, ensnared by etchings, paintings and pictures which showed a vibrant city. He had been duped for ample reason.

However, even the the grittiest of those had failed to capture the reality of Paris. To the boy from the country, the sheer number and proximity of people was dizzying, if invigorating. He was not yet, though would only slowly become aware of the fact that at night the stars were afraid to come out over the Seine, that the dust never settled on the Champs Elysee, and that even behind the walls of the seemingly palatial room he had acquired in the Quartier Latin, his neighbours were still there, audible as ever.

The power of delusion on a young mind was as great of the power of his dreams. Louis Marcel, Marc to the intimate companions he had left with the flowers, was a great dreamer who had come to the city aiming to conquer it and the city, he mused, as he adjusted his blue ascot, and fixed a dirty gray curl to fall just so over his forehead. He had always been appearance conscience, a trait somewhat laughable in the countryside which made him blend into the Parisian crowds. He just needed someone who could see something in him. They hadn't yet, but he knew they would.

Marcel continued the work he had been struggling with this past week, trolling the streets for someplace--a cafe, a salon, a tutorial, anything to hire him and rescue him from a fate of quickly dwindling funds, and intellectual stagnation. But as the afternoon drew on, it was harder to remain so confident in the face of closed doors and clipped refusals. The sun was setting as he came upon a group of men in finer suits talking of Masson and Hemingway. The sort, Marcel mused, he aimed to join.

He could not help but follow, at a slight distance until they came upon a club: le Caveau des Oubliettes, not far from his apartment, but another world yet. They entered easily, allowing the sounds of jazz and success to gasp briefly out into the street, but the man at the door was not so easy as to allow a fresh-faced youth gaping in wonder through the portal. Marcel turned to leave, all but giving up on the club for the night when he spied an open window on the second floor in the alley.

Paris was not a city built for climbing trees, but Grasse had been, and in an act escaping reason and better judgement, Marcel was able to climb on top of trash cans to the fire escape and from there, through the window. It was act, inspired or desperate, and he was amazed to have not been caught immediately and thrown out then. He fixed his suit, somewhat dated in style and found his way coolly downstairs.

It was bold, but fortune did not favor the meek.