By Martin Pearson
When the Can-Can troupe, Les Demoiselles de Moulin Rouge, first came ashore upon the island of Hopeless, Maine, they, like all newcomers before them, were generously offered bed and board in The Squid and Teapot. The Squid – as the inn is fondly known by its patrons – is proud of its legendary hospitality, as readers of ‘The Vendetta’ will be aware. For those who survive their first few weeks on the island without serious mishap, the protection afforded by the stout walls of the inn is priceless. In time, however, most gain confidence and wish to find their own space. Usually, this is not a problem; in a community where the mortality rate is phenomenally high, there inevitably exists more buildings than there are people with whom to fill them. So, when the five demoiselles decided that they needed to find more conducive premises in which to practice their Terpsichorean art, they moved out of The Squid and into a corner of a foreign field which was forever France… or would have been, had they stayed there.
Les Demoiselles were happy to encourage the few girls from the orphanage who had been keen to learn the Can-Can, comfortably away from the disapproving gaze of the Reverend and Mrs Davies. Their classes were small and manageable, but everything changed when their principal dancer and choreographer, Mirielle D’Illay, was introduced to young Septimus Washwell. Septimus had a reputation of being something of a pugilist, so when he told Mirielle that he would love to be able to dance (but definitely not the Can-Can) it took little effort for her to think of the perfect outlet for his bottled-up violence. Back in Paris, performing in the Moulin Rouge, part of their act had been La Danse Apache (as described in the tale of that name). It seemed obvious that this would be ideal for Septimus, with the stylised fighting that it enacted. Somewhat inevitably, love blossomed and before long Septimus was accepted as being an honorary Demoiselle. Following their first public performance, however, there was a sudden surge of interest from young – and not so young – men keen to become “French Apache Dancers”, as they called it. While this was gratifying, Les Demoiselles soon realised that their current abode was far too small for the space needed to accommodate their pupils, and so they looked for somewhere larger.
Their new home seemed to have been deserted for years. Someone thought that it had once been some sort of Social Club, but nobody had lived there for a long time. The décor which had survived the ravages of time seemed lurid, and some of the rooms more resembled dungeons than guest chambers – but hey, this was Hopeless, Maine, so oddness was commonplace, and it was a good space. Besides this, there was a more than life-sized statue of an angelic looking woman standing in the courtyard, so surely it would be the perfect haven for Les Demoiselles. With Septimus as part of the team, it seemed only natural to his father and six brothers that they would help renovate the property, with all of the resources of the Washwell Sawmills and Foundry at their disposal.
Long-time devotees of these tales will maybe remember a certain Sister Evangeline, an Irish nun who, many years before, took charge of Hopeless’s only bordello. She took it upon herself to become the guardian of the women who worked there, and, to be less incongruous, adopted the name of Madame Evadne. To make her transformation complete she tried to affect a French accent when dealing with clients. The result was a strange Gaelic/Gallic hybrid which was not unpleasant to the ear but, more often than not, slightly unintelligible, a nuance which added an air of mystery to all who frequented the establishment, which, by then, had become known as Madame Evadne’s Lodging House for Discerning Gentlemen. Madame Evadne was adored by just about everyone, and some years after her death a statue was erected to honour her as the island’s greatest benefactor.
Les Demoiselles, of course knew nothing of any of this, for the bordello had closed its doors many years before. They also had no idea that once, long ago, the statue standing in the courtyard had come to life, and had taken terrible vengeance upon a brutal, cowardly man named Tobias Thrupp (this was related in the tale ‘The Supper Guest’).
Mirielle D’Illay regarded the statue uneasily. She could have sworn that it winked at her, but quickly dismissed the idea with a Gallic shrug.
“It’s just a trick of the light,” she thought.
