Maestro Francoeur discovers the downside of his cabaret success - fans. -- Gallifreya
In a little cabaret
on the hills of Montmartre,
in the city of Paris by the Sienne...
You will find a singing flea
of a massive 7'3"
and you'll find he never has so much to say...
Francoeur hadn't noticed the people. He was more interested in writing his next song. But when he came up for air, there was applause.
From a group of about five young ladies in fashionably abbreviated clothing and the latest of hairstyles. They clutched photographs and box brownies, playbills and notebooks and pens of all kinds. All of them broke out into giggles when he made an inquiring chirp.
"Maestro, you were wonderful!"
"Maestro, I love you!"
"Can you sign this playbill?"
It seemed innocent enough, making his mark on the pages and spelling his name with a few musical notations. He preferred to sing, rather than speak, and interacting with these breathless young ladies required something of a compromise.
An off-the-cuff song. "Thank you, sweet ladies. Of course I can sign. Thank you, pretty girl. I cannot be thine. Thank you, nice miss. Hug me, you may. Thank you, kind child. But you cannot stay."
And there was one who did not get the hint. She hovered. She looked around at everything. She said, "Wow" a lot. She babbled. She asked a lot of seemingly random questions. She edged closer and closer to where Francoeur was trying to work.
"Is that going to be playing tomorrow night?"
Francoeur had run out of words to say, so he shrugged. He took off his gloves so he could better noodle out a phrase with all four hands.
This did not disturb the remaining visitor as much as he'd hoped.
"Wow," she said. "You're amazing. Where does your other thumb go when you wear gloves?"
Francoeur sighed, put down his pen, and showed her.
"Does it hurt to do that for a long time?"
He shook his head.
"Do you like girls?"
Shrug. He was certain she didn't mean what he heard.
"Have you ever been kissed?" she whispered into his ear.
He made the mistake of turning. Her lips met his mouth. Her arms wrapped around his neck. Well, one arm wrapped around his neck. The other drifted downwards along his thorax, determined to find a path under his clothing.
"Take me, Maestro," she cooed as she came up for air. "Take me anywhere you want to go."
Oh good. Francoeur, now that he had her permission, picked her up like she was a sack of flour and carried her to the other side of the stage door. There, he gently set her down outside and shut the door between her and himself. But not without a cheerful, "Au revoir!"
She was only the first of such fans.
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