The New Pierre

We currently reside in the 20th century, an age of excelling modernisation and affluent economies booming to the roof, exploding and destroying the proletariat's habitat. England is a prime portrayal of exploitative affluence-- I live in the Black Country, you see. From the comfortable position of my train seat, I could see the scruffy young Jack skip off the train (he was patently a few carriages down from I), with a helmet in his adolescent hand, and he would prance with purpose, black smears left on his smug face. In his ambience, the common boy will echo the perceived "dutifulness" he likely sees his father unwillingly demonstrate, at the start of every dreaded workday. If you keep your stare, you will see the boy fail pitifully, to change from his outdoor jacket to his mining jacket, simultaneously whilst walking. This predictable scene was a humorous anticipation I experience almost every morning commute.


Today, I am on my way to visit Colonel Pierre Dubois, a licentious Frenchman who migrated to Great Britain in 1907 with a greater affluent upbringing than I. He came as a child... a more conventional child. I know this because, shortly after his arrival in '07, we became acquainted, through mutual friends. We were both 11 at the time. Pierre and I progressed to common, private conversations, and consequently our bond grew.
You would think a froggy would go mad if he had to stay with us brits. Verily, he had confided to me about his opinion of the English, on one summer afternoon of '09. We were looking for odd coins on the ground of his pale gravel front yard.
"Non Cordelia! Your country is not friendly at all. You, you are an exception, but the rest, I don't know. They are mean, Cordelia- Mr. Bennis a good example. When we get a note wrong on au piano he stares at me like I am un caca! But not you, Cordelia. He sees a futile difference, and favors his own race. He gives you grace, and not I-- it's not fair, at all."
I jumped in at his amusing annoyance.
"Well first of all, his name is Mr. Ben-NET-- and no, he does not, 'favor' me. It is you who is being so paranoid, if I must be honest."
A sudden white shimmer had caught my eye--enveloped by the gravel. I brung my eyes closer to the ground and found my suspicion to be true. "Look Pierre-- a shilling! Let's forget about that rant and go ask Mamma if we can go to Windsor's and get..." With uncontainable glee, I beckoned, "...10 bonbons!"
I remember returning inside the house, laughing and grinning, being intoxicated by endless visions of scoffing as much confectionery I could buy into my mouth, whilst my cutely miniature Pierre, sauntered behind with a stubborn effort to abandon his grumpiness..


Goodness knows what occurred during that wretched War, but Pierre Dubois reappeared as a man four years older, and four times worse with no regard for conventionality. He returned as a different man, indeed. Some days, I speculate whether he traded his winsome fireiness with Lucy in exchange for promotion in life.


Even Annabelle, a bubbly but fickle socialite, (whom Pierre is more acquainted with than I) informed me about his recent behaviors upon his return to Great Britain. She had invited me to a luncheon at the Velvet Room. Seated now at table 12, she looked at me with disbelief, her gloved hand covered her mouth lightly.


"Yes, yes I saw him." She said to me.
"Saw him at that degenerate place?"
"Yes, you wouldn't dare think that Pierr--" Annabelle stopped and looked around and restarted, more wearily. "You wouldn't think he would go to such a place."
"How can you be so sure that he wasn't subject to perverted gossip? Do you really think our boy has adopted this way?"
"Cordelia, my love. You clearly doubt me. Well, let me explain to you now the whole... ordeal." She scoffed amusedly; I now imagine her scoff reflected the astonishing claims she would later share with me, rather than my own distrust in her, which I admittedly had assumed at the time. She held my hand across the table, looking at me worryingly seriously, whilst peeping at other passer-bys in the restaurant when they portrayed 'suspected interest' towards our table.


"The Madame who runs that... peculiar gathering, recalled me from a time ago. She went on to say that she had seen the man I had first met her with--in her place of business. She described him to me. You know, his face and his hair... all that. It's obviously Pierre. So then, she goes on to tell me that he came to her in an arrogant manner, demanding a fine doll for a--"
"Are you sure this was Pierre?"
"Oh Cordelia! Yes I am sure, now listen. Madame went to go get this girl, her name was Perla... Poppy... whatever it was-- apparently her prowess is very 'notorious' in Birmingham-- anyway, she fetches the girl and, Pierre just, kisses her brutely in the lobby room!"
"Heavens, no!"
"Yes what I thought, surely that could not be our Pierre. Apparently, there were at least a dozen other men there to witness this degeneracy. Goodness knows who they were and who they were affiliated to. I could faint, honestly. The Madame said Pierre had booked a private suite with the girl, he squandered over 20 shillings on the tawdry and they unapologetically made devillish noise in that room and it all came to halt with a loud thud. Pierre ran out semi-dressed, and Madame rushed to the suite only to find the girl sprawled out like deceased wildlife, her nose was bleeding and it looked like she had been hit."


Forming audible speech was impossible after hearing Annabelle's statement. Denial raised as my understanding and hearing diminished, whilst Annabelle began to describe the aftermath of this dreadful catastrophe.


I thought to myself: well, I must confront the man.


And that is why I am traveling to him now; he ought to explain this treacherous deviation.