When, in the
1760s, in Paris,
the Comte Du Charolais, a member of the Condé,
clan and the Faubourg St. Germain
and a Prince of The Blood is unable
locate his mistress at her usual station
inside the crowded-out cafe
beneath her current apartment,
he becomes extremely agitated.
She’s a fashionable aristitute, Delisle,
with whom Charolais sired a son
and slaughtered him at seven months
with Spanish Fly, and Laudanum.
He was no sperm of mine, guffaws Du Charolais,
if a drink like that killed him.
and throats always gape
before ejaculations of laughter.
Now Charolais, in a passionate rage,
assumes her secreted from him
in some fumiferous snug of the gathering,
wearing one of those high-society
human-hair wigs he and other
Bourbon Blood Princes have bought her,
or she’s at work in the lounge, or,
more disturbing to him, in the cellar.
So Charolais orders The Watch
(that is, the early Gendarmes),
to surround the Cafe and when the plebs
there continue concealing Delisle
directs an all-out attack.
Many ruffians are bludgeoned.
One loses an eye. Another draws arms
and is shattered through the thigh.
Delisle is not discovered in the cafe
but later, stalking the Rue Traversière,
Charolais sights her from his coach,
Orders the coachman to corral her,
leaps out whip-in-hand,
slaps her twice on the cheek, lashes her behind,
and bundles her into the coach
where he sits down upon her.
Back in the apartment, that he partially pays for,
Charolais commands Delisle
to her chamber to await on all fours there,
beats up her maid and her butler,
(who sound no alarm, but disgrace
him ever-after with the tale
and dream on their deathstraw
of his body in a bonfire),
then orders supper, dines for an hour-and-a-half and retires.
Charolais and Delisle spend all night
and the next day together
in each other’s arms.