La mort n'a peut-être pas plus de secrets à nous révéler que la vie?
While we usually leave the more somber topics like death for the obituary page, us girls just can’t say no to a story this big. News of the prominent business man’s untimely passing rocked the city of Paris when they found the lifeless body of Anthony Holst at The Pont Neuf bridge in the early morning. He is survived by his ex-wife Mathilde Abrielle Holst née Pelletier, and his daughter Sofia Veronique Holst. Authorities have yet to find the suspect and the public is urged to come forward for any information that might help the investigation.
With that said, even in death, we can count on Monsieur Holst to throw the best parties, which is why his interment will be held at one-half of his infamous club L’Enfer. Is it an inside joke for the man rumored to have built his empire on a pile of bones? A little too on the nose if you ask me, that all it’s missing is for L’Enfer to be engulfed in flames. Maybe they’ll do something like that for the décor?
We do love a man with a flair for drama.
Expect music and dancing, champagne and other spirits, your most delectable courtesans from both sides of the riverbank and the rest of the Parisian society eager to take part in this morbidly curious and once-in-a-lifetime experience. So join us as we celebrate and commemorate, the life and times of the late and great Anthony Ivan Holst.
I’m guessing Helene Bisset is a newcomer, and darling, no one has whispered anything to me yet about what this Helene is doing. If she’s an artist or a performer, then this is certainly bad news to be this anonymous, but if she were working say...as a thief, then she should be pleased that I haven’t heard of her. Otherwise, Helene might expect a visit from the police real soon.
Remember, anonymity isn’t always that bad, dear, especially when you’re in the business of doing illegal things.
Biggest dicks in Paris? And I'm not talking personality.
Finally, someone asking the important questions.
Clementine and I don’t claim to be experts on this, but we have this uncanny ability to guess someone’s endowment accurately, ninety-eight percent of the time. Plus we also slept with most of them so there’s that.
Do know that our answers are in no particular order.
So I lost my virginity to Anthony Holst when I was just a girl of eighteen, and I know that it’s the first time I’ve had a dick, but it’s not the first time that I’ve seen one. I don’t know if he still remembers, but the way he commanded my body still send shivers down my spine; he has a lot of experience too so consider me very lucky. There’s just something sexy about a powerful man that screams of danger.
Next is the infamous Arturo de Marin, and I know that we called the man a joke, but back in his glory days, Clem and I had the opportunity to spend a drug-fueled threesome with the Adagio himself. He was like Giacomo Casanova, whispering sweet nothings and playing with our bodies as though we were that grand piano; pair that with his favorite substances and you have a mind-altering experience.
Gabriel de Silva for all his fury knows how to channel that well, and a man who acts like he’s got the biggest cojones certainly delivers, and more. We’ve spent many late nights in the office with me bent over his desk, or me on my knees and under his desk, or him on his chair and me on top of…well you get the idea. He’s going to hate me for revealing this and I for one look forward to ride the anger out of him, but the critic deserves his own phenomenal review for his performance.
Now I don’t know if this will be a suprise, but Clementine once told me about a time when she had a drunken one night stand with Bhari Sinclair. My sister is a romantic, but like me, she’s also a connosseiur when it comes to a good dick, and let me tell you that writer has it. What every sentimental girl would say no to that especially when paired with some good cuddling after? No one. And that is why he’s on this list. It’s the stuff of romance novels.
Last but not the least is where we use our abilities. Neither of us have sampled Dallas Reed, but I think we can all agree that a man that big should have the dick to match. I’ve seen that man roaming the streets of Paris and throwing unruly patrons out of the twin clubs, and let me tell you, those arms alone already make my lady bits quiver. If anyone can prove us right, do feel free to send us a post.Now, while we all adore a good, thick, mouth-watering… well, you know, there’s always an exception. There are those who don’t rely on size alone and for our runners-up we recognize their prowess and they can consider this an invitation to prove us right, or wrong.
Anatole de Celeyran is not just messy, but also fun, and the number of lovers revolving through his door is enough proof of that. Next is Jean-Baptiste Sauvage, he’s smooth, he’s charming and we really have a thing about immortalizing all our dirty deed on camera. Finally there’s Casper de Gernevois whose antics surely extend to the bedroom and can you imagine the crazy things he can whisper in your ear in the midst of it? I can’t, that’s why curious minds want to know.
Today we talk about the rise and fall-- and continuous fall --of the once great Adagio: the infamous Arturo de Marin.
Beloved, admired and sought after, Arturo was one of the main attractions of The Moulin Rouge a lifetime ago. His fingers were magic and the music he produced could make angels weep; his beauty was comparable to mortal youths that ensnare Greek gods and despite not being a courtesan, well, the Adagio had his own fair share of patrons. Life was good.
But those days are long gone.
Now, hardly even considered a musician, Arturo is known for other things-- debts, scandals, an assortment of pills, lewd artworks, a long list of male lovers, indecency and infamy. While rumors abounded of his inclination and addiction even back in the days, it wasn’t until a couple months back that everything came to light; after failing to show up for several shows, the Adagio’s apartment was searched and we will say this now: it would have been better if it was his body that had been found instead.
So he went missing for a while, and sources say that Arturo was snatched up by some foreign royalty and all he had to do was play his music and occasionally suck a royalty’s cock. Now that would have been a better twist in his story, but even that supposed fairy tale ending, the Adagio managed to ruin for himself. So he’s back, dumped in the Seine and forced to face the scrutiny and disgust of Paris.
Now while we do love a good scandal, talking about Arturo de Marin just feels like beating a dead dog. But it’s April Fool’s and we can’t resist a good joke. After all, the Adagio is the biggest punchline that ever walked this side of Paris.
I can't help but wonder if Queenie's set about running the mafia as a child has some truth in it.... Perhaps the comedienne has a dark streak?
Now that’s a punchline worthy of a hearty laugh.
Queenie Horovitz having a dark side is like my pet poodle taking down a bear. It just is impossible. If that metaphor isn’t clear enough, the comedian is the poodle and her alleged ties to the mafia is the nonexistent bear. I heard she came from New York but isn’t it judgmental of us to assume that all New Yorkers are part of the mob?
We’re going to dismiss this as a form of promotion for her show at Le Gnome; it is hard for a woman to break into comedy, but with a punchline such as ‘comedian has mob ties’, well, looks like our girl Queenie knows a thing or two about making people laugh after all.
What are your thoughts on Miss Allaway's poems as of late?
I prefer reading fashion and lifestyle magazines.
I’m not the critic, but I am a staunch observer of Parisian society’s poor life choices and scandalous actions, and the lovely Isla Allaway hasn’t done anything remotely scandalous as of late. In fact, she’s done nothing scandalous ever. Who could forget her attending a wedding with a dog for her date? It was pawsitively adorable.
The closest thing she’s ever done that would be considered newsworthy is her alleged affiliation with a young and handsome alcohol peddler. If you ask me dear, stick with the dog, they’re better companions than who you’ve set your eyes on. As for her poetry? I don’t know and I don’t care; maybe make a poem about me, that should motivate me enough to read her work.
Sebastien Dufort: friend? Foe? Indifferent? What are your thoughts?
Pretty but useless.
Sebastien Dufort is a very pretty boy, one that could make poets– or just one poet in particular –write love sonnets about him. He’s your typical tall, dark and handsome, with a hint of danger and a laissez-faire approach to life that promises adventure; what wide-eyed girl could resist?
Alas, Monsieur Dufort is all promise. Like my order of whisky from a week ago, none of the danger, adventure or even my liquor has been delivered! That boy’s been slacking off and I’m not a fan of lazy bums. And my liquor? Gods have mercy on anyone who comes between me and my alcohol.
Annette Micheaux should be a success story for any girl who wants to conquer the global stage, at one point in her life, not only was she a Moulin dancer but also a Ziegfield girl. But not everyone can endure the harsh lighting of the center stage, which is why we welcome back The Green Fairy with open arms and our wallets wide open.
Sure she’s a little frayed, a little torn, a little bit alcoholic and probably missing a wing, but she’s still one of Moulin’s stars.
Adorable Annette bid us adieu a year or so ago, after being snake charmed by an American agent who promised her the world. But New York for all its glitz and glamour can be a cold and lonely city for a girl who is used to the warmth of Paris, and so our little green fairy turned to the bottle as her trusted companion.
Reports say that Annette was released from her contract due to her severe drinking problem-- and I thought American men were dashing, I guess New Yorkers are an exception? --and that she had to rely on the generosity of a well-known patron to buy her a ticket back to Paris. Poor Annette returned home jobless and penniless, but never loveless. She’ll always have the adoration of the patrons of Moulin Rouge... at least until she drinks herself to ruin.
Monsieur Holst appears to look over his shoulder a lot more these days...
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
You don’t get to where you are by playing nice, and dare we say that it also applies to Anthony Holst. The man is a business mogul and we all know that some businesses tend to get dirty.
In fact, there are whispers that the tycoon has built his empire on a pile of bodies and that he sits on a throne of skulls. Whether that’s literal or metaphorical, we can only guess, but with a history as bloody as Monsieur Holst’s, we’d be uneasy too.
Who would win in a great car race: Sebastien, Gabriel, Anthony, Arturo, or Dallas?
Listen, love, this is how it’ll go down:
The race happens before dawn, it’s a short lap from Montparnasse, across the Seine and with the church at the top of Montmartre as the finish line.
Our racers get ready, but Arturo de Marin is passed out in his room and he never makes it to the meeting point. Anthony Holst, being the busy man that he is, sends someone else to race for him, who in this case is his club bouncer, Dallas Reed. The big man is decked out in gear and is driving one of the mogul’s expensive cars, but it’s a show car so he falls behind in second place.
Sebastien Dufort works nights, and with his connections, he is able to secure a decent automobile for the race. But exhaustion and a subpar unit takes him out of the race. So that leaves us with Gabriel de Silva. That boy is hell on wheels not just with his critiques but also with his driving, plus he already owns a sports car so it’s an obvious choice.
I’ll need to check our pending Obituary announcements. If not, then, it’s only a matter of time. If you’re reading this, love, get out there and make your mark. Or forget about leaving a legacy and just enjoy your very short life, Wednesday Pepper.
…Unless this is an elaborate April Fool’s joke. I just checked my calendar, and if that darling girl announces that she’s been pulling our leg all along, I’ll scream. That kind of dedication to a prank is an art form.
If you haven’t heard, Bhari Sinclair has finally published his book, a memoir of his time as a reporter-turned-soldier during The Great War. Amid the Weeping Lavender is a bestseller though I haven’t read it because I can’t stand depressing books. And from what we heard, it was a lucky break in a string of unfortunate events during his year-long adventure in America. Upon his triumphant return to Paris, he’s enjoyed wealth, fame, a job in another newspaper and the girl of his dreams. Quite nice no?
Aside from being an ingrate accomplished writer, Bhari has made a reputation of being an all-around nice guy and everyone would agree that he has no bad bone in his body, possibly the only decent man left in all of France (aside from my darling Guigui). But if so, then why is he making a fortune on tragedy? The mild-mannered writer may have everyone fooled but we know better.
Whispers of drug abuse, gambling, debts, and other questionable dealings can be found if you know where to look, and Saint Bhari, in the absence of his Green Fairy is just like a dog in heat. Some say the money from the book deal is already gone, used to pay off loan sharks, courtesans and a well-known mobster, which is why he’s desperate to secure that job in the other publication...at least until another war comes along.
How is everyone’s weekend? Clementine and I are still nursing our hangovers with more champagne after a darling bellboy helped us load a crate of bubbly in our car. Everyone in Le Journal, of course, each received a bottle on their desk-- the critic included -- and as promised, we bring you stories from the wedding.
Let me just pour myself a refill hm?
First off, congratulations to Monsieur Rousset and his beautiful bride, it’s always a win for us girls when a dancer bags a dependable man like Guillaume, so it’s no wonder that several Moulin girls took a page from Elodie Celestine’s playbook and were seen with their own potential golden ticket secured tightly in their arms. Some got it right, and others well...they surely could do better.
Like my darling Annette Micheaux who returned to us after a short-lived stint as a supposed Ziegfeld girl, she was seen swooning in the arms of former Le Journal writer Bhari Sinclair. Everyone can see just how much they adore each other and it seems nothing and no one can tear them apart... except that is, for a very insistent patron. The writer could do nothing but hand over his date to the brute with a smile on his face before making his exit.
I don’t think he ever had a chance to defend his lady’s honor but Bhari, my dear, when you get a girl from The Moulin, you have to remember: the pen is definitely not mightier than the sword.
Another Moulin girl in our radar is the infuriatingly dreamy Charlotte Leigh, who doesn’t seem to mind if she ends up in the streets. Charlotte was seen getting cozy with the disgraced Arturo de Marin and it got me wondering who paid who for the time. Say all you want about how unreliable that pianist is but that man can move, which is a relief because then he can teach the dream girl how to dance. And she’s definitely in need of a few lessons.
And don’t quote me here but I think I saw them wearing matching rings.
Now there weren’t a lot of L’Enfer and L’Ciel girls in attendance and whether it’s because they found the event too classy for their taste or they were too busy being down on all fours, we'll never know. But the infamous La Reine de la Nuit did make an appearance who surprisingly arrived solo. Either no one was good enough or nobody wanted to touch that dancer with a ten-feet pole, but Carmen Moreno managed to hold her head high and be an independent woman until it was time to play an old game of hide-the-pickle with one Malachi Murdock.
Not even a club ban could keep this pining, creepy, thin man away from his favorite hole.
Oops, I meant watering hole.
No one is safe, and that’s why our very own critic makes an appearance here. Gabriel de Silva may have forgone a date, but that didn’t mean he left the party alone. Maybe it was deliberate, maybe he planned to try his luck at the reception, but whatever it was that we saw, certainly made our eyebrows waggle. Now, where do we start?
From an ominous conversation with Anthony Holst to the tall drink of water that is Jean-Baptiste Sauvage tenderly caressing the critic’s hand, that’s a lot to unpack. Throw in the elegant Anais Veilleux walking out on Gabe in the middle of the dance floor, only to be seen sneaking out with him later in the evening... a lovers’ spat? Well, stick a fork in me and call me done.
My, my, Gabriel, you’ve been very busy.
But what of dear ol’ Jackie boy? Well, after looking like a very thirsty fish out of water when his date ditched him for the critic, the cinephile was seen nose to nose and doing under-the-table hand action with my favorite messy artist Anatole de Celeyran. Methinks it wasn’t losing the opera singer that got Jack Sauvage feeling blue, but what do I know?
Now, speaking of Anthony Holst, the business mogul-- and I use the term loosely -- played family man during the event, his lovely daughter was visiting in town which perhaps explains Vivienne Moreau at his side. Now being a fresh-faced, young girl like myself, their history predates me or my sister, but that doesn’t make us blind. If that isn’t the look of two people in love then I don’t know what that is.
And it’s not like they’re waiting on anything, au contraire, they should hurry up-- time is not on their side. Maybe Sofia should stay a little longer, just in case there’s another wedding?
And finally a few surprises, like the lovely Isla Allaway-- I dare you to say that three times fast --who opted to bring a canine companion instead. That just made her the smartest woman in the room. Personally, I’m glad that she didn’t arrive with a questionable company.
There’s also big daddy Augustin Badeaux who looked so dapper as he played the role of best man. But I must say that I’m a bit disappointed that he didn’t bring his handcuffs with him, then again, I didn’t ask. Oh, the things I could do to that man.
And how can I forget Lucianna Gatti, a woman after my own heart? I wasn’t able to say hello since I was busy doing lines powdering my nose in one of the stalls, but honey you’re a spitfire. Never change. Don’t forget to visit me and Clem at Le Journal the next time you’re in town.
...And that’s about it! Now you won’t feel so left out, dear reader, and next time, do try to join in on the fun. I swear to you, it’s much better experienced first hand.
Have you received your invitation yet? Camille and I have been busy preparing our outfits for the weekend event to be in. Fear not, if you haven’t received yours in the mail, your darling girls of Le Petit Journal will have you feeling like a VIP with the stories we have in store for you. And as we extend our best wishes to the happy couple, let’s take a look back at their strange but sweet union.
Monsieur Guillaume Rousset and his magical hands are known for his wonderful shoe designs, and anyone who’s anyone has definitely owned a pair or two of his shoes. His not-so-blushing bride Elodie Celestine, on the other hand, is also known for her magic... of a different kind. You might recognize her on stage for her dazzling performances, so every man-- and some women --would definitely know The Butterfly of Le Moulin Rouge. You can already guess how they’ve met and fallen in love.
This will be the second marriage to date for Monsieur Rousset and a first for Mademoiselle Celestine.
Now that you know whose party you’ll be crashing into this weekend, let’s talk about the guests. Who’s going with who and who’s going solo? How about a trio perhaps? We all know any and every party is just an excuse for Parisians to show off their latest garb and drink until they see the stars, so you can be rest assured that there’ll be plenty of trouble to be had.
Even if we have to start it ourselves.
...J’adore les mariages!
P.S.
My darling Guigui, I shall never forget that afternoon we spent in your workshop.
I will miss your magical hands.
You probably last saw him passed out in the gutter outside of Moulin Rouge, you tossed a franc to help the poor soul only to realize upon closer inspection that it’s not a beggar after all but the one and only Anatole de Cèleyeran. And now he’s back, like a phoenix rising from the ashes of a career-destroying critique, our beloved promoter has returned to us with new art and hopefully, more wild antics.
So where has he been?
A little bird told us that our tea-drinking neighbors snatched up the unruly artist, and just in time too. After suffering a devastating review on his art, Anatole ceased to exist in the Parisian scene with some even saying that he died-- and we have the right to think that if you’ve read the review --but if he found success in London, why come back at all?
Whispers say that he was chased out by the British for his lifestyle choice, which is just another word for having too much fun. I don’t know about you, but others tend to be uptight about these things. So now that Anatole is back, he’ll be in need of a new muse, someone who can work long hours and doesn’t mind spending nights with the artist as he slaves away on his canvas. It can get exhausting, sitting there and looking pretty, but don’t worry, I heard his bed is big enough for two...
Spring is in the air, and all dead things have come back to life: the flowers, the trees, and some of the old faces from here.
Some have triumphed, others remained the same, some found love, and there are some, who might be better off dead. But they’re all here now, back in the beautiful city of Paris, and we’ll be catching up with them in the next couple of days.
And just when you thought you saw the last of them.
