Grisettes can be recognised by the distinctive, sack-like volva around the base of their stem, that persists as the mushroom matures - I had to brush away the leaf litter to get a good look. Initially white, the stem of this mature specimen has stained tawny, like the cap, and has begun to degrade a little.
Though edible, they are not a fantastic find, and most foragers avoid all Amanitas for fear of confusion, as the genus contains some of the most deadly mushrooms in the world.
While The Legal/Social/Economic Conditions That Created The Class of Grisettes Were Absolutely Sexist And Exploitative, Individual Grisettes And Their Relationships Were As Varied As Individual Humans And Relationships Between Humans In Any Society Including Our Own, Because Individuals Operate Within the Social System But Are Different From That System; In Addition, Grisettes Were Not Hapless Children Wandering Into Unexpected Dark Woods But Individuals With Their Own Agency; And Casting the Lives of Grisettes As Inherently Tragic Is Both Classist And Sexist, Inasmuch As It’s Based On the Idea That A Grisette’s Life Without Her Student Lovers Was Inevitably Incomplete, Thus Narratively Making Her Only An Accessory To A Richer More Male Counterpart, And One With No Awareness of Her Own Social Position On Top of That; The Romantic Narratives That Popularized The Tragic Grisette Are Tellingly Written By Middle Class Men and Should Be Interrogated As One Would Any Comment on An Underclass Written By Members of A More Dominant Class; Admittedly It Is Difficult to Find Primary Sources By Working Class Women On Their Own Lives But The Few That Exist Tellingly Do Not Cast Student Lovers As A Major Event in Most Of Their Lives, Rather As Most Women Today Do Not Consider Their High School Or Even College Datemates A Pivotal Event In Their Career Unless Those Relationships Became Permanent Or Ended Traumatically; There are Many Implications to This For Writers Of Historical Fiction And The Fandoms Thereof,
They do not speak this way to each other. They say, “Your waistcoat is appalling”, “Your ringlets are unflattering” . They do not say, “I should like to take it off you”, “I should like to run my fingers through them” even if they both know it is what the other is thinking.
---
"Do not move.”
“I’m no-”
“What did I just say?”
“But why are you frowning like that?”
“This is how you look when you-”
“No…”
“Yes.”
“That displeased?”
“Yes.”
“… Well… Do not take it to heart if I do - you are a lovely subject.”
“Ssh.”
"… You are supposed to assure me of myself now.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
She emerges from behind the canvas and he bites his lip against giving her the satisfaction of laughing at the crooked mustache she has given herself.
“And what shall I say?”
“That I am an Adonis, obviously. That never have you seen a finer thigh, a more well made torso, a more magnificent co-”
“Never have I seen a larger mouth.”
He grins at her with it and she puts on her Art Student Face once more which seems to involve pursing her lips and frowning very very hard. She makes a show of pulling out another one of his brushes and gives it an exaggerated twirl as she dips it into the untidy pile of black paint on her palette, the neck of the shirt she has stolen from him slipping low.
“You look well in my clothes…”
“Do I?”
He motions for her to show him more and she laughs and turns like a figure in a jewel box, bringing the tail end of the brush to her lips like a cigarette after blowing at a jaunty curl that has escaped from under his pilfered cap. She turns out a leg loosely encased in his breeches for good measure, a hand going to her hip, index finger stroking the worn silk of his cravat tied about her waist like a belt to keep the costume in place.
He thinks that he would very much like to untie it.
She peers at him over her exposed shoulder, the creamy white of it echoing the lovely curve of her cheek and other places, and he firmly tells his twitching cock, No, shifting slightly so his bedclothes might better conceal it as she raises an eyebrow.
"Your final pronouncement?"
"Finest gentleman I have ever seen.”
“Finer than yourself?”
“Apparently, since all you can bring yourself to compliment is the size of my mouth…”
“Was that a compliment? I’m not so sure…”
She disappears behind the canvas once more and he quickly adjusts himself keeping an eye on her bare foot sweeping an arc in the dust as she resumes painting his portrait.
She has charged herself with cheering him this evening after finding him at a cafe staring sullenly into his dinner which she promptly relieved him of without even the courtesy of asking what was the matter first. It is an infuriating habit she has - not just of stealing his victuals at every opportunity, but that she will never ask what is troubling him. She will simply stare at him expectantly, eyebrows raised in an exasperated, what is it this time? and then wait until he tires of speaking in circles around the thing and finally tells her outright. If she deems it worthy of consideration she speaks plainly. If not she flirts and goads and argues until he forgets the root of the ache.
He admitted to her as she spooned his abandoned crème brûlée into her mouth that this morning’s rejection by the Salon had stung worse than he had anticipated. He had made a serious attempt this time to follow Gros’s instruction, had truly made an effort, and not only had his piece been turned away, it had been verbally assaulted to such a degree he half expected it to burst into flame by the end of the assessment. The wretched thing is currently lying in an alley somewhere not far from the cafe.
“I put my foot through it. It was very satisfying. More so than the duck.”
She had gazed at him for a long moment, assessing the damage, and then calmly put the spoon down in the saucer and stood from the table with an extended hand.
“I shall make you laugh,” she announced and on the walk home had explained to him how she would endeavor to do so.
“I shall paint you a portrait so terrible you will never question your talent again…”
“I can not question what I do not have.”
“Hush. It will amuse us both.”
“Very well then.”
When they had reached his rooms, he had barely time to shut the door before she commanded him to strip and he did so with a winking bravado, knowing she would stop him before he could relieve himself of his underclothes. He had made a great show of tugging at the drawstring, his eyebrows hitching up and down ridiculously, thoroughly prepared to tease her for her inevitable squeamishness, and though she had playfully slapped a hand over her eyes, she did not say that will not be necessary, monsieur, but gestured blindly that those were to go as well. He had faltered then, he had paused. She had heard it and smiled below the line of her palm, “Do you need assistance?” and reached out her free hand with distressingly grabby fingers. He’d sputtered a No and jumped back shedding them quickly before tumbling onto the bed. She had scooped his discarded clothing into her arms then and proceeded to exchange hers for them behind the canvas she is currently engaged in painting his portrait upon.
She peeks her head around it, the Art Student Face undermined a bit by the smile twitching on her lips as she makes a show of observing him and scolds, “I am looking for ‘nymph lying in a meadow’, not ‘corpse on a slab’…” and he remembers he had said those very words to her the first time she had posed for him. He had added “Do not fear for your virtue, you are not handsome enough to tempt me…” and it had been a lie but she had been nervous being alone with him thus. Insulting her was the only thing he could think of to put her at ease, and it had worked. It still works.
She does not echo that particular sentiment though he is expecting her to, but simply gestures with the brush that is dripping paint all over his floor to go ahead then. He rolls his eyes but dutifully loosens his limbs until he is spilled across the bed, the sheets mercifully staying put as his legs fall open, his arms arcing over his head in an exaggerated version of the pose she had taken herself all those months ago.
Her eyes travel over him, memorizing his details before disappearing behind the canvas again to mark them down.
“You are lovely in the candlelight…” she says after a moment, and he scoffs, “I am lovelier in the dark,” as he looks down at his pasty flesh. For all his previous posturing, his body is remarkable only in it’s un-remarkableness , his thigh no finer than that of a plucked chicken, his torso paunchy with too much drink and whorled with dark hair, his cock not magnificent in the least and apparently more unruly than a schoolboy’s.
She does not answer and after a moment of uncomfortable silence he shifts, he closes.
He had not meant to disrupt the playful mood between them and he is sorry for it.
She had been enjoying herself. He had been enjoying that.
He opens his mouth to speak, to assure her that the moment has passed, that he is determined to be well for her this evening, when she says, “Let us see,” and his cravat flies over the top of the canvas like a streamer to land on the bed beside him in a sloppy coil.
There is a soft sigh of fabric as his trousers suddenly fall and pool around her ankles, and he watches, mesmerized, as her small feet step out of them one after the other, his shirt landing in a gentle heap beside them.
He holds his breath as a long white arm emerges from behind the canvas, unfurling like a fan to writhe like a snake, and then a leg kicks elegantly out, followed by the curve of a naked hip as her hand comes to rest along the edge of the canvas, sliding down it just once before sweeping towards the corner of the room in a languid gesture at the flickering candles.
“Blow them out…” she murmurs and he scrambles off the bed, taking no heed of his nakedness now as he kicks the tangled sheets away and nearly stubs his toe on the bedside table. He douses the flames with his breath and his fingers and turns to stand on the other side of the canvas, waiting with baited breath for what may come next.
After a long moment where he convinces himself she has decided the joke has gone too far and is most likely putting her shift on, she steps out from behind it decisively, resolutely.
With what little light there is spilling from the window high up above them he can see she is wearing nothing but his cap and the painted mustache.
And she is glowing in the blue dark, her skin like starlight. And he has seen her before, seen all of her before many times, but it has never been like this, both of them naked to each other’s gaze like this and…
There was none of this between them.
He did not know that this could be between them…
“I have done a terrible job of capturing you…” she says softly and he murmurs back,
“Not at all.”
“You have not seen it yet” she reminds him and he blinks.
“You mean the painting.”
“Yes, I mean the painting.”
“Well, that was your intent, was it not?” he huffs, “To show me that for all my failings as portraitist I am at least surer with a brush than you?”
“Yes, but I find now…” She looks at him, all of him, says almost to herself as her gaze comes to rest on his face once more, “I wish that I could do it… recreate you as you are, as I see you…”
He does not know how to answer her.
They do not speak this way to each other. They say, “Your waistcoat is appalling,” “Your ringlets are unflattering.” They do not say, “I should like to take it off you," “I should like to run my fingers through them,” even if they both know it is what the other is thinking.
They had wordlessly come to an agreement long ago that they were not to voice certain things, and now suddenly she is speaking them aloud and he does not know how to respond…
She takes his face gently into her small hands, knowing this, and continues, “You are as lovely in the dark as you are in the day. Lovelier still when you forget to be sad. I would like you to forget for a while…”
“I am not sad.”
“Hush. You are a terrible liar. I knew that from the first.”
Her fingers slide into his hair and he helplessly closes his eyes as she draws him nearer. He murmurs, “Why…” without meaning to because he does not want to know, he does not want to know why she has chosen to break the rules now, he just wants, and she whispers like she is revealing a great secret,
“Because we are friends. Because I like you. And because you have a magnificent cock.”
He laughs and it sticks in his throat. He begins to step away from her, half hurt and half relieved that she really was joking all the while, but she holds fast.
“I am no longer playacting.”
“You are,” he insists, the edges of his laughter still resting in the corners of his mouth framed by her thumbs even as his stomach twists and burns.
“No,” she says simply.
“Floréal-”
“You always insist on calling me that ridiculous name…”
“It suits you.”
“I am no flower. I am not delicate.” She comes closer until he can feel warmth radiating from her body as though there is fire beneath her skin. “I can not be crushed…”
And he has never been at a loss for words in his life but they have deserted him entirely now. He feels even more naked without them, more exposed, and it seems he has never felt the air on his skin before, has never felt gentle hands on his face before, has never just listened before without thinking ahead of what he might say to counter, deflect, defend, protect, and she rises to the tips of her toes to whisper impishly against his lips, taking advantage of his silence,
"Shall we try it then?"
"What?"
"Each other."
He swallows as her hands come down to rest on his chest and he is sure she can feel his heart pounding there against her palm so close to the skin, too close to the skin, the fire behind hers sinking in and warming him, making him flush, and he nods stiffly at the state of their mutual undress, says with a nonchalance he does not feel, that she knows he does not feel, ”I suppose we might as well…”
"You suppose we might as w-”
He dares a hand on her hip deciding he will risk being serious about this. Meaning this. He knows it will ultimately be one more mistake in a day full of them, but in this moment, with the curve of her in his palm he does not particularly care.
"May I kiss you then?" he asks and surprise flickers in her eyes but she recovers like he recovers over and over again whenever he slips up and wants her, which is not allowed, which has never been allowed until now, "Oh, I suppo-” and he pulls her to him immediately, startling a little at the shock of her flesh fully against his, but only a little, and his lips come crashing down upon hers before she can speak further.
He is clumsy. Too clumsy because these offers do not come often, nay, they do not come at all, and he thinks now she will know that all his bluster, his braggadacio is just playacting of his own…
They break apart with a gasp, her hair a dark tumble about her shoulders, the cap having been lost in his exuberance and he quickly steps back, steps away.
“What is the matter?”
It is the first time she has ever asked him outright.
But he will not talk in circles about this.
He will not talk about this at all.
“Grantaire…”
She comes to him and he steps back again until his legs strike the bed and he can move no further.
“I shall help you dress,” he says hurriedly. “You do not need to do this. I am fine. Humor restored. You have made me laugh as you promised you would. Well don-”
“Have you never had anyone?”
She takes in his silence, takes it for the answer it is.
“Will you let me teach you?” she whispers, reaching for him again, “I should like to teach you…”
“I have always been a poor student,” he chokes. “You will find the proof of that in the alley beside the Rue d-”
She places a finger upon his lips and then replaces it with hers. She kisses him softly, gently, and he holds himself in check determined not to embarrass himself again but does so anyway when he whimpers into her mouth once she invites him inside of it.
He is grasping her too hard, he feels he is grasping her too hard but when he loosens his hold she presses herself more firmly against him and guides them both back onto the bed, still kissing kisses that go from sweet and slow to desperate and thorough though her fingers still stroke through his hair at the same soothing pace.
She crawls atop him, her knees on either side of his hips and he strains against her belly, gasping as she takes him gently in hand.
She looks down at him, her chest heaving with breath like his is heaving with breath, and he does not feel like laughing at the painted mustache now, he does not feel like laughing at all when she whispers, “We can not fall in love with each other…” and sinks down upon him. All he can do is tremble and say her name and she touches his face when he breathes it again and again and again and again.
---
In the morning she is gone.
The empty space beside him is still warm and his body aches from her lessons, fingerprints on his hips and ribs echoing ones left on hers. When he looks in the mirror he will find remnants of her kisses on his collarbone that will match the ones he left on her breasts but he rises and goes to the canvas instead still standing sentry beside the bed.
She has captured the idiosyncrasies of his face in only a handful of bold lines but has somehow made them seem interesting instead of malformed. His body appears to melt away into the white of the unpainted canvas like he had melted away beneath her last night and he hears her voice, hears, “We can not fall in love with each other…”, hears her repeating it over and over again as she rocked against him, a chant, we can’t we can’t we can’t… and he hears his own voice, hears himself whisper and moan and whimper, "Sophie Sophie Sophie…” in time with it and somehow he knows he will never call her that again.
"But look a little what becomes of the etymologies and grisettes! The grisette is not even wearing gray. Her dress is summer pink, blue winter. The summer is the perkaline; winter merino.”
“She works from home, lodge shop or going into town. In burnishing, folding newspapers, buffing, brocading, laundress, glover, lace dealer, dyer, upholsterer, haberdasher, vest maker, seamstress, florist; she makes hats, sews caps, colors the wafers and water merchant labels of Cologne; embroiders in gold, silver, silk, borders shoes, shoulder straps, trims... unwinds cotton, rounds it in balls, cuts ribbons, shapes wax or whale bouquets, continues the beading on silky fabric, polishes silver sheen fabrics; she handles the needle, scissors, punch, lime, beater, the graver, brush, red chalk, and a host of obscure work that people of the world do not even know the name of.
The poor Whitethroat painfully wears away her youth to gain thirty sous a day, 547 fr. 50 cents per year...
Her rent ..................... 90 fr.
Maintenance, including candles,
coal, fagots, water, ointments,
interest Mont-de-piety,
Waxing ....................... 400
Beer, coconut and other ....... 15
Shows ................. 00
Total expenditure ............ 752 fr. 50 c.
Recipes ..................... 547 50
Deficit ...................... 205 fr. 00 c.
The grisette has a fixed age. That is to say, a grisette can have no less than sixteen years, nor more than thirty. Sixteen years before, she is a little girl; after thirty years is a woman... No matter that she wants to stay the same girl? Her reign is over. Farewell Whitethroat!
“Quite often, in Paris, two grisettes stay together. One room is enough for them: there is always enough room for their furniture, and they both pay the rent; it is economic, and grisettes need to be efficient; do not confuse them with the kept women. Among their furniture, a walnut table with a drawer that does not close, but where one sticks a comb covered with tin, writing paper, pens, salt and pepper, ribbons, old gloves, knives, ointment, toothpicks, shoe brushes, corsages, patterns, the English polish and pralines.” - Paul de Kock
