Les Pauvres Enfants (00/07)
Copyright 1998
By Bonnie Rutledge

Intro: I wrote this story in 1998 for the 'Toujours LaCroix' charity fanzine, which 
contains a lot of stories that are much better and contain less French. Accents have been 
removed from this version to make the posting server happy. The name 'Leplee' should 
have an accent aigu over the next to the last 'e' and the nickname 'la Mome' should have 
a circumflex over the 'o.' Those are the main modifications of the true French.

This is mainly a flashback story featuring LaCroix meeting my favorite chanteuse,
Edith Piaf (1915-1963). Sources used to recreate Edith Piaf's life in 1936 came mainly 
from three biographies: Ma Vie by Edith Piaf(1964), Piaf; A Biography by Simone 
Berteaut(1972), and Piaf by Margaret Crosland(1985). No doubt I missed the bullseye on 
her character, but that is why Edith Piaf is a legend. My minimal hope is that I captured a 
fraction of the passion she imparted with her voice with this writing. 

Thanks go to Cousin Jules for beta-reading and being just as big a fan of 'La Mome Piaf' 
as I am.

A Pam Cross, pour m'enseigner ma premiere chanson de Piaf, merci aussi. Quelques 
lecons laissez la joie pour une vie.

Spoiler: Features Serena from 'Baby, Baby' and slight references to 'A More Permanent 
Hell'

Disclaimer: Forever Knight and its characters are owned by Sony/Tristar and were created 
by James D. Parriott et. al. No copyright infringement is intended.

Les Pauvres Enfants (01/07)
Copyright 1998
By Bonnie Rutledge

Paris, April 1936

     There was laughter, unfettered and lush.

     LaCroix took off his hat as he stepped off la rue Pierre Charron into the corner club. 
Gerny's audience was dimly-lit, shielding the activities of its clientele from close scrutiny, 
but their voices carried the tremolos of pleasure.

      LaCroix thought. It was no great matter which era, century or 
city he chose, this had all been seen before. Every moment in history had its dark corners 
where lovers made soft sounds in a crowded room, treating the feast as their own private 
sanctuary. The shadows hid secrets as well: whispered plans, money slipped between 
sweaty palms, and low, fierce arguments that would mean violence in the light of day. It 
was all well and fine, the stale facade that the club's guests maintained out of the light. It 
could only hide them for a short time. Dawn would reveal all their crimes, from sylvan 
females waking abandoned amidst rumpled sheets, to bodies littered with stab wounds 
blocking alleyways. Promises kept, promises broken.

     LaCroix had not come to Gerny's for an assignation. He came to the cabaret for 
something the wrapped lanterns and smoke concealed - someone, actually - but there was 
no hint of romance in his motives or any extraordinary plans for bloodshed. He supposed, 
if he was in any mood to admit the information, that this visit to the darker end of Paris 
nightlife for the rich and beautiful had no true redeeming purpose. When had LaCroix ever 
asked for redemption?

     Again, the roots of his actions resided with Nicholas. LaCroix kept an eye on 
everything his son did, and this particular bitter fledgling was no exception. She had made 
enough of an impression upon Nicholas that LaCroix felt compelled to investigate, and, 
perhaps, offer some none-too-gentle advice himself.

     He wove casually through the tables, examining each face with a dismissive stare. It 
was not difficult to find the one for whom he searched. Nicholas' blood ran through her, 
his spirit as well. LaCroix had never seen this woman before, but he knew what to expect. 

     Rebellion. It only made sense that Nicholas had sought out someone with the same 
streak of independence that he found so crucial in recent years. Likewise, Nicholas had put 
chains around that independence, and she had responded by leaving, by rejecting him and 
the precious gift that he had bestowed.

     The only hint of expression that betrayed the nature of LaCroix's thoughts was a tiny 
twitch of his left eyebrow. 

     LaCroix had had his fair share of experience with rebellion, and he knew it could be 
one of the most stimulating of emotions. If contained and harnessed properly, a measure 
of defiance could be quite an amusing tonic to while away a decade or so.

      Naturally, the air of rebellion made his quarry obvious. Her table was full, and the 
conversation deferred to her. One man would make a joke, then glance in her direction, 
eager for the approval of 'la maitresse.' The women gazed at her with appreciation. She 
was their idol, and, in their hearts, they had branded her an oddity: one to admire and 
daydream about, but never, ever emulate. They chirped like giddy young girls, apparently 
a reflex sparked by anyone wearing a dinner suit, be it male or female. Another man called 
for a bottle of champagne. It was delivered, and the party rejoiced as they filled their 
glasses. Everyone urged the head of the table to join them, but she demurred, claiming the 
carbonation did not suit her tastes.

     "I, myself, prefer something red," LaCroix murmured, breaking into the table's 
conversation, "something with a bit of bite…that warms your throat on the way down."

     Her demeanor remained casual, but her eyes betrayed a measure of hostility. She had 
recognized him quickly, if not for who he was, but for what he was. He was not a 
welcome addition to the party. The thought made LaCroix's expression fill with 
amusement.

     She responded to his smile by clenching her jaw. "It warms the throat, but not 
everyone can stomach it."

     One man seated at her table raised his voice in protest. "A Frenchman who cannot 
stomach wine? Such a person does not exist!" he declared naively. 

     Her eyes never left LaCroix. "Jacques, I'm out of cigars. Go get me one."

     Emile raised a hand to gesture for a waiter, but she called him to a halt. "Non, I want 
some of the fresh ones. Try Louis' office." She nodded toward the other gentleman in the 
party. "Take Jean with you."

     The men complied, shuffling eagerly away from the table toward the stage of the 
cabaret, so she turned to consider the women with critical eyes. "Where is Maurice 
tonight, Yvonne? Wasn't he supposed to perform the last set? When will he join us?"

     The woman named Yvonne shrugged. "Performers are mad, and Maurice is a 
performer. No doubt there was some uproar in the wings," she said then began to push 
away from the table. LaCroix swiftly intercepted, smoothly and completely pulling back 
the woman's chair. "You've made me curious, Serena. I'll go find my husband so we'll 
both know what he's up to, eh?" She delivered a wink, then offered the man holding her 
chair a soft 'merci' before slipping away.

     "You, too, Simone. Check on your sister," Serena ordered the remaining guest at her 
table.

     The smaller woman had been studying LaCroix with fierce interest, the gestures of a 
gentleman rendering him as fascinating as a maharajah drowning in diamonds. Neither was 
an everyday sight for this particular girl. "Why should I go? Edith doesn't need me. The 
little baggage can take care of herself."

     Serena tilted her head slightly, her expression leaving Simone little doubt of her 
answer. "She's your meal ticket, isn't she? You'd better be attentive before someone 
points out to Papa Leplée that you take up space that could be used by paying customers."

     LaCroix did not suppress his amusement when Simone glanced repeatedly over her 
shoulder, shooting scowls as she followed Yvonne's path backstage. Stifling his laughter, 
he settled in one of the vacated chairs. LaCroix set down his hat before pulling off his 
white gloves, letting them drop carelessly onto the table as he greeted the other vampire.

     "You aren't very gracious with your hospitality." The words came out as a playful 
reproach. "To chase your other guests out of their chairs, then never offer a vacancy to 
me."

     Serena's reply was cold. "I'm not going to offer you anything. You weren't invited."

     "Ah, but I am always invited," LaCroix corrected. "It is one of the amenities of my 
position in the Community, so to speak."

     "The Community…" Serena made a rude, gallic snort. "You treat it as though you 
belong to some exclusive clientele. Like the pays here," she said, gesturing to the well-
dressed diners, "only more inbred."

     LaCroix's nod was subtle. "Not a very flattering analogy, but I suppose I do."

     "But I do not." Serena stared at him frankly, not wasting time on choosing her words 
judiciously. "The Community…they chatter like widowed hausfrau, bored of time, bored 
of themselves, reduced to treating life as an amusement, humanity as chattel. I want no 
part of it. There are plenty of cabarets in Montmartre, monsieur. Choose another to 
occupy your evening."

     "But you are here."

     "And my own departure becomes more appealing by the moment," Serena stated. "I 
have no business with your kind. If you've come here to see me, you've wasted a visit."

     "My kind?" LaCroix found her denial amusing, to a point. "You *are* my kind. You, 
Nicholas, myself: we share a common bond."

     Serena pursed her lower lip as she grasped his meaning. "Ah. Nick." Several moments 
passed, a mixture of distaste and regret shaping her features. "You made him?"

     Again, LaCroix gave a slight nod as he studied her. 

     "Pity." Serena was resigned to being abrasive. "Still, I have no business with you, any 
more than I do with him."

     LaCroix began to toy with the rim of one of the abandoned glasses of champagne that 
littered the table. "Despite how you have avoided the other vampires in Paris," he said 
softly, "you have made no secret of your desire to 'escape immortality,' so to speak. Such 
an unpleasant craving was bound to attract my attention, don't you think?"

     "You are one to speak of unpleasant cravings. I only want an end to this sterile 
existence. My dream was to create life, not destroy it, and now I am cursed. I crave 
nothing but what is my due. It is very simple: I want what I had - what Nick took from 
me."

     "Another lost soul in an endless quest for mortality," LaCroix drawled. "Poor, 
misguided child. Nicholas obviously forgot to mention how difficult unlife will be for you 
if you refuse to forget your mortal life, your mortal wants. It's been more than a decade 
since Nicholas brought you across. Haven't you begun to feel the pull of the years, yet? 
Soon enough, you will have been a vampire longer than anything else. What good will 
your humanity be to you as time runs, stripping away the world you want to cling to?" He 
gestured at the stage, where musicians were tuning up for another performance. "The 
clubs that you consider home will close, then progress will tear them down in the name of 
a new institution. Society will change - already your custom of dressing in men's suits has 
faded in significance. You're seen as a follower of Detriech, not a woman seeking self-
determination. Music will change, literature, the cultures at war, the price of a newspaper, 
language - all of it will leave your little world in the dust. But some things will never sway: 
the mortals will live and die in circles, but you will be above them. You will remain ever 
capable and powerful. There's no threat of senility or feebleness for you. Every age of 
man as it blooms and withers is yours to witness, to devour, to expand your 
consciousness. What good is 'lost mortality'? Humanity serves no purpose as the years 
accumulate. It is a burden."

     "No, it is not a burden." The surrounding tables in the cabaret grew hushed as a 
slender, well-groomed man stepped into the stage's spotlight. He spread his arms out 
fluidly at either side and gave a slight bow. Applause erupted. LaCroix considered it an 
insignificant interruption, so he opened his mouth to issue another point of debate. Serena 
uttered a warning sound, practically telling him to hush outright. His irises flared and she 
shook her head, offering a simple instruction: "Listen."

     "Bon soir, mes amis," the man on stage announced into the microphone. His posture 
was theatrical, his gestures dramatic. "Welcome to my club. Gerny's is honored to have 
you at our tables, especially all the lovely gentlemen," he said coyly, then blew a kiss 
toward a young man seated in the front row of tables. 

     Some audience members began to call out at this repartee, waving their hands and 
shouting cheers of "Louis!"

     "But you did not come to the cabaret to see me, though I am a delight to behold. You 
came because you have heard of a bird, a chanteuse without compare, who sings of life 
and love, who gives you her soul and takes yours in return. You're here for our Edith, our 
child of the streets. You're here to love her, and who am I, Louis Leplée, to keep lovers 
apart?" He covered his heart with a fist, his voice filled with flair, pride, and a soucon of 
awe. "Welcome her completely, as Gerny's welcomes you…La Mome Piaf!"

     The applause, despite Louis' urgings, did not resound as much for the newcomer as it 
had for the club owner. At best, it was polite. It was one thing to appreciate the owner of 
the club, another entirely to let the entertainment actually interrupt their meal. Whatever 
gossip the audience may have heard concerning the coming performer, they waited to be 
impressed by deeds, not words. Meanwhile, with true Parisian cynicism, they proceeded to 
enjoy the next course of dinner while it was hot, listening absently over the rhythm of their 
own chewing.

     When la Mome walked on stage, there was no visual impact at the first sight of her. 
Some performers commanded the boards from the moment they took their first step into 
view. They would glow, burning brightly on the eyes, stunning the senses into attention 
before they sang a single note using sequins and glamour, bright, exotic peacock gowns 
and shining silhouettes. Not so for this chanteuse.

     LaCroix mulled over the appropriateness of the title, 'la Mome Piaf.' 'Kid Sparrow' fit 
the singer perfectly. She looked absurdly tiny, certainly no more than five feet tall, and her 
head appeared overly large when set upon such narrow shoulders, thin arms and legs. This 
disproportion gave her the appearance of a child.

     Her costume was not elegant. It was a simple black dress with a narrow crocheted 
collar. It was common dress. Unremarkable. Fit for a sparrow. 

     LaCroix was not impressed. He was accustomed to the peacock variety, and that suited 
him quite well. This chanteuse looked like a little girl playing pretend, far beyond her 
depth. He turned his attention back to Serena, intending to express as much. Her 
expression silenced the words before they passed his lips. It was such a fantastic 
occurrence to find himself speechless, LaCroix's mind dissected both female creatures, the 
vampire and the sparrow, for a second time to discern the exact cause of any amazement.

     Serena's eyes were focused intently upon the bird onstage. They glittered with 
knowledge, a certainty that something dazzling was on the horizon. Serena had obviously 
seen la Môme perform before, and her expression was one of spectacular expectancy.

     LaCroix's gaze drifted back toward the stage. The accompanists began their music, 
and, suddenly, the sparrow no longer seemed to be quite so drab. She burned with life, her 
voice, her face, brimming with emotion. There was a reason for her demure clothing, her 
hands stubbornly pushed into her pockets: she did not need more. Her voice held 
everything. She began to sing about a stranger with eyes that glittered with a strange light 
and a little bit of madness. It spoke to him.

     LaCroix felt a connection to the little chanteuse as she moved from song to song. He 
was not alone. From the last strains of 'l'Etranger,' the members of the audience had set 
down their champagne glasses and forks, their repast forgotten. Her singing somehow 
made all of these things fade into insignificance. There was something familiar, yet foreign, 
about her, something fascinating - a tiny package on the eye that towered in the mind. 
LaCroix promised himself that he would speak with this sparrow before he left Gerny's, 
the problem of Serena set aside for the moment.

     In the corner of LaCroix's thoughts, he cursed how he had even noticed this singer. 
Performers weeded Paris. Every club, shop or corner had them, and this one wasn't even 
exceptionally glamorous. Janette would have looked straight through this girl, thinking her 
no more than street scenery. It was odd to find himself giving the sparrow a second 
thought. 

     Another song drew to a close. The audience erupted in applause, many springing 
enthusiastically to their feet. LaCroix remained seated. He was never inclined to appear 
eager for any reason. Maintaining his cold facade, he glanced over to Serena to see how 
she responded to Piaf's performance. She was studying him.

     "She reached you," Serena murmured, her low voice breaking through the sounds of 
the crowd. "You want to dismiss her, but you find you can't. You'd rather listen to her 
more. Edith does that to everyone. It's her magic."

     "Her appearance belies her talent," LaCroix acknowledged.

     "Talent? Bah, it's more than that," Serena countered. "She calls to the soul with her 
songs, even to people like me." Her eyes grew challenging. "Or you. It's a strange 
sensation, isn't it? To feel lost and unreachable, then experience such a small mortal 
capable of stirring what you might dare to call a heart? Edith finds our humanity; she pulls 
on it with her music. Her unveiled emotions bring everything hidden to the surface."

     Somewhere deep inside, LaCroix agreed with Serena's conclusion. He refused to voice 
any agreement aloud, for he believed it smacked of weakness. It was a slight tremor of 
yearning for things long past: love, sacrifice, compassion, and so many other words that he 
rarely allowed himself to use in any form other than ridicule. He worked to keep his 
expression bored and his attitude non-committal. "What you call emotional, I call cliched 
sentimentality."

     "She can awaken a soul in the hardest of spirits," Serena continued, ignoring his 
comment. "Does that frighten you?"

     LaCroix didn't answer. Instead, he laughed.

     "You want to meet her, don't you?" Serena said shrewdly. 

     He arched one dark eyebrow at her suggestion. "What maze of logic makes you leap to 
that conclusion?"

     "The cynical always want to talk to her in person," she offered as vindication. "I did."

     LaCroix held up a reproachful finger. "Be careful. You have already vowed that you 
are not of my kind. If you continue to point out these similarities between us, I will have 
to conclude that you are a liar."

     "You are so smug." Her manner became almost brutal, even as the corners of her 
mouth tilted up in a knowing smile. "You try to look cruel. You work at it in an endless 
campaign, covering what you really think. I bet that you are thinking of her even now. 
She's offstage, silenced, but not out of your thoughts. I wonder what you are imagining? 
Will you kill her, just to prove a point? Just to crush my nerve? Ah…you're thinking it, 
but you won't do it. I know. I came into this club to hear her sing for the first time four 
months ago, and I hated her. It was as though she threw everything I mourned about this 
curse in my face. I want my mortality back, and there she is on stage, drowning in passion 
and life, and everything that I don't have anymore. I wanted to make her suffer for that. I 
wanted to shut her up for good. Face to face, though, I realized that she wasn't taunting 
me with my lost humanity. Edith sang to what was buried inside me. For that, I found I 
couldn't kill her."

     "You mean that, as long as she lives, you have a sense of hope." LaCroix's smile was 
unpleasant. "You'll have to do a lot better if you want to inspire me to believe that she is 
worth a heartbeat."

     "You won't be able to kill her," Serena stated with certainty. "Just try."

     "Would you care to make a wager?" LaCroix asked, a self-satisfied smirk twisting his 
mouth.

     "What kind?" Serena knew that she wouldn't like what he had in mind.

     "My kind. *Your* kind," the elder vampire said pointedly. "If I don't fall under this 
spell you believe la Mome will cast, if I kill her, it will prove my point. A vampire's 
humanity dies, and no amount of sweet songs will harken its return. Piaf dies, you'll give 
up longing for your mortality. What's more, you'll visit Nicholas and inform him that he 
was correct in making you one of us."

     Serena shook her head slowly, her eyes flashing at him. She thought he was crazy, 
twisted to dream of capitalizing on her failure in such a way. She was disgusted. "That's 
two forfeits for one wager. Can't you count?"

     "If you're truly confident that you will win," LaCroix countered smoothly, "what does 
it matter?"

     "Rien de rien. If I win, though, you'll leave me to myself. Do we have a deal?" She 
casually extended a hand in order to shake on the terms. LaCroix gripped her fingers 
briefly in agreement. A faint smile remained on his features the whole while, as though he 
was laughing at her. Serena pushed back from the table, eager to pawn him off on an 
unsuspecting street waif. "Then it's settled. Viens…I'll introduce you."   

************************************************************************
End Part One

Les Pauvres Enfants (02/07)
Copyright 1998
By Bonnie Rutledge

     She was drinking Pernod straight, listening to a pal share a dirty joke. She erupted in 
an earthy laugh then yelled for everyone to go to the devil. The girl named Simone noticed 
Serena and LaCroix's approach first. Her face lit with renewed interest in LaCroix, and 
she roughly tugged at her half-sister's sleeve. "Didou…shut up."

     Edith elbowed her sibling right back. "Hush, yourself. I say what I like."

     "It's Serena!" Simone hissed in her ear. "With that fellow I told you about!"

     Edith shut up. Serena had class, and she didn't condescend to poor kids like her. That 
was something in Edith's book (though she didn't care much for reading). The first thing 
that had hit Edith over the head after her successful premiere at Gerny's was how some 
people liked to make fun of her just because she was from Pigalle, even those who should 
have known better, seeing as how they'd scraped their knees on the same rue de Belleville. 
They were no different. They'd just had longer to forget where they'd come from.

     At first, Edith had been hurt, mortified to be the butt of their jokes.  she 
could hear them say, Their whispers had rubbed Edith raw at first, before she 
remembered who she was. She was a survivor, blessed by the saints, and the only people 
who could hurt her were those she let get away with it. After that, Edith didn't care who 
made fun of her. They may have fancy homes and closets full of gowns, but so what? That 
just made them cozy, well-dressed idiots.

     Anyway, Edith didn't give a damn who mocked her (unless she felt like making a real 
drama out of it. Edith liked drama.), but when somebody like Serena treated her fairly, as 
though she was actually *someone* despite her rough edges and raggedy black dress, 
well, Edith thought that was classy.

     Just before Papa Leplee had come to kiss her forehead and ready her for her set, 
Simone had rushed backstage, delivering awed whispers about the interesting things 
happening on the other side of the curtain. A stranger had come to see Serena. Momone 
had gossiped over how quickly Serena had ordered everyone away from the table, even 
Jean. Edith had a soft spot for Jean, so Simone had known this would make an impact on 
her sister.  Edith had exclaimed. Simone just 
thought Serena wanted to keep the stranger to herself.  What girl could 
resist that combination?

     Just for that (and to drive her piano player and Papa nuts), Edith switched her opening 
number to 'l'Etranger' at the last minute. She figured it would score points with someone, 
and, seeing how Serena had brought her friend backstage to share his company, she must 
have guessed right.

     Edith focused her attention on Serena's companion. Initially, she was aware of Simone 
hovering at her side, waiting to exchange hushed impressions about the newcomer. She 
was all for whispers until the stranger looked her straight in the eyes. That was all it took, 
and her surroundings were fading away. The last thing Edith remembered was Momone 
groaning one of her 'Here we go again' sounds. Her sis knew the signs when Edith had 
taken an instant fancy to someone, and she'd moaned just because she'd had a glow for 
the guy herself. Simone never did as well with men as Edith. Too bad for her.

     His eyes struck Edith. They were blue, a rich blue that made her think of fairytales and 
flowers. It wasn't color native to her world, nothing she'd seen before, but an exotic shade 
of secrets. Just hold gems like that up to any poor Parisian girl, and the same thing will 
happen time and again.

     Edith felt her heart jump in her breast. It was that old delicious thrill: to be floored by a 
man, to have him consume you, dizzy your thoughts, add a breathy sigh to your voice, and 
make you feel alive. There was nothing Edith adored more than being in love, yet she 
knew these things had their perils. Love always hurt in the end; that's why she liked the 
first meeting and the fall best of all. That's why she kept falling in love over and again. It 
was the best part.

     This stranger was perfect love fodder for Edith. She understood why Simone had been 
excited. Yes, there were his eyes, but he was tall, as well - so tall! Edith adored a man 
who overwhelmed her in size. She was so petite that the disparity always made her feel 
cared for and protected at the smallest hint of attention. 

     Even better, this guy looked like he knew how to handle himself. Edith didn't care for 
pushovers, men she could dominate. She didn't like to be dominated either. She wanted a 
man she could scream at without alarming him. She wanted to throw a fit and breakables 
without breaking her lover's stride. She wanted to be so awful and out of control that her 
lover would slap her out of it, without feeling any guilt that she deserved it.

     Yes, it was more of the old barbaric style, but Edith's idea of l'amour was part of the 
scene where she was raised, violence and passion all tied up in knots. Nobody, as yet, had 
written her poetry or brought her flowers, so she sure as hell didn't expect such things to 
start.

     Edith studied Serena for a second, wondering at her chances of plucking this guy away 
from the other woman. Serena was a looker and had men trailing after her like puppies, 
despite the fact that she acted like she had a brain, and they'd lost theirs. Edith knew she 
couldn't compete on the grounds of beauty; she just wasn't gorgeous. What Edith saw as 
her average prettiness just made her fight harder. She had personality and nerve to spare, 
and a manner that seemed to draw a fellow into her web. When it came to men, Edith did 
well for herself.

     She decided to bypass Serena altogether, not bothering the woman for an introduction. 
Giving Simone a final shove aside, she stepped forward and asked the stranger directly, 
"Who are you?"

    Heavens above, he didn't just answer her demand! The man took her hand, kissed it just 
slightly so that Edith felt scorched from head to toe, then spoke in a voice that would 
make angels sigh. "I am Lucien LaCroix." 

      Edith was a superstitious sort. She saw signs and miracles all the time, 
usually whenever they suited her purposes. She'd heard tales that she had been blind as a 
child (though it was too long ago for Edith to really remember a speck of the truth), and 
that St. Therese had cured her during a pilgrimage to Lisieux. The story fascinated Edith, 
and she always wore a consecrated medallion to her poor, humble saint because of it. 

     A man named LaCroix, coming to her out of the blue - that was something 
supernatural, and she wasn't going to spit an omen in the face. Edith's child-like fingers 
rubbed at the religious charm concealed under her knit dress even as he kissed her hand. 
Right then, she decided that she was destined to know Lucien LaCroix. It was one of 
those miracles that made her happy, that made her heart glow.

    When she spoke again, her voice was softer, her attitude more approachable. "I'm 
Edith…Edith Piaf."

     He murmured the word 'charmed' in a low voice, making Edith go out of her mind. 
This LaCroix was something else, at least unlike any of the men she was used to hanging 
out with! He arched an eyebrow at her, and Edith immediately recognized a streak of 
unpredictable mischief to the man. She really adored wickedness in a fellow. Rogues were 
simply a more exciting class of people. "What? No 'la Mome'?"  he teased. "You certainly 
dropped your 'kid' status quickly."

      "Ha!" Edith's response was exuberant. "No one in Paris over the age of sixteen is a 
kid if they've been living right!" She cocked one of her own thin brows in imitation. "I'm 
twenty, and I'm living right now!"

     "I noticed," LaCroix said with a mysterious manner. "I enjoyed your performance. 
Would you care to join me?"

     Of course, Edith immediately forgot the names of her sister and any friends who were 
hanging about. Serena - who's that? She took LaCroix's arm - he held it out to escort her 
like a real gentleman! - and prepared to be dazzled.

***********************************************************************

     Simone watched her sister's retreat enviously, then turned spitefully to Serena. "You're 
going to just let him go off with Edith like that?"

     Serena shrugged. Jean and Jacques had finally tracked her down with fresh cigars, and 
she lit one casually while Simone wallowed in some fuming of her own. Her reply was 
simple and dismissive. "He's not mine." A confident glint of anticipation lit her pale face. 
"She's so warm and alive, so human, everything that he is not. Let Didou work him over."

     Simone pouted, scraping one skinny hand through her dark hair. "You're all crazy. 
Every one of you." With that, she turned to the rowdy crew that had made court around 
Edith just minutes before and called, "Which one of you sailors will buy me a whiskey?"

     Serena observed their noisy exit, then moved to glance through the curtains toward the 
audience. LaCroix and Edith were already seated at a new table, a waiter easing a cork 
free from a new bottle of champagne for their pleasure. "Chin-chin," Serena whispered. 
"It's the only drink you'll take."

     Yvonne and her husband arrived, preparing for his set. Serena turned to watch as 
Maurice patiently endured his wife's ministrations. Yvonne was endlessly adjusting his 
straw hat, despairing of capturing just the right jaunty angle. Finally, Maurice cupped her 
jaw within his fingers and kissed her solemnly on the mouth. "You've done perfectly. Now 
hold that kiss for me while I work, non?"

     Serena couldn't help but smile. She touched the couple gently on their shoulders, 
offering words of praise. "Monsieur Chevalier, if only all the knights were like you."

     "Handsome?" Maurice teased.

     "No," Serena said earnestly. "Giving. Most take."

***********************************************************************

     As soon as they had stepped past the curtains, LaCroix made an offer. "Your sister and 
friends can join us, if you'd like." He said the gallant words, all the while expressing how 
unwelcome company would be with his face and stiff shoulders.

     Edith was quick to make her opinion clear. "That crowd? My sister never shuts up - 
who needs that in your ears? The guys, well, they're all pimps and toughs. Pretty rotten, 
but they tell some good jokes." Here eyes sparked at him in a dare. "What do you think of 
that?"

     They reached a vacant table, and LaCroix held out a chair for Edith to use. She stared 
at his long fingers grasping the backrest, dazed by a simple gentlemanly act. Where she 
came from, women grabbed their own chairs, or they ended up on a lap.

      Once she was seated, LaCroix brushed his hand briefly over her shoulders, bowing for 
a moment to make his reply just above her right ear. "A good joke is worth its weight in 
bloodshed," he said with the authority of one-who-knows.

     "Well, there you have it," Edith agreed. She didn't allow her eyes to leave him for a 
moment, studying him intently as he set the table's companion chair close to her side.

     LaCroix, himself, took additional time to study her now that she was at close range. 
He'd thought her drab, eminently sparrow-like at first glance, but now that he had 
witnessed her performance on stage and experienced a taste of her in person, LaCroix 
found his impression shifting. At a distance, she did appear to be a child, and the bulk of 
her knit dress seemed to accentuate how thin her arms were. Her dark stockings made her 
legs look feeble. Yes, from afar, there was room for improvement. Proximity, however, 
allowed him to concentrate on her face, and this was her essence. 

     She had a broad forehead, an admirable trait, depending on the culture. To soften it, 
her auburn hair had been cut with bangs that formed a blunt boundary about an inch above 
her eyebrows. Her brows were delicate things, adding femininity, frailty to her 
expressions. They performed acrobatics with her mood and soared when she laughed. 
Those active brows only accented the power of her eyes.

     They were dark, a deep violet, but the brilliance of Edith's eyes struck LaCroix like a 
flash of sunlight. From the way her lids tilted as she contemplated an answer, how they 
could transmit hopeful honesty when she asked a question, to the blaze that shone out of 
each iris when she encountered something she didn't like, Edith had passionate eyes. Edith 
had passion, an all-or-nothing-what-do-I-care-for-the-damned energy that he found caught 
him off guard. Her nose was perfect: slender, with just a hint of tilt. Her teeth were 
crowded and somewhat crooked, but that didn't make a difference. Her mouth wrapped 
into an enviable bow when closed, begging for something to pull on her lips and set them 
in motion. When she smiled, her entire face smiled. It was as though her very soul beamed 
forth, throwing anyone in her path into the spotlight. LaCroix began to realize that there 
was something unwise about spending time with Edith Piaf, something Serena already 
knew or guessed at, and for the first time in a stretch of centuries, he had second thoughts 
about killing a mortal.

************************************************************************
End Of Part Two

Les Pauvres Enfants (03/07)
Copyright 1998
By Bonnie Rutledge

      "Do you know many pimps?" LaCroix asked casually. It was about four in the 
morning, and, after watching her down two bottles of champagne while they talked, he 
had lured Edith out of Gerny's and into the night. They were simply walking. Edith leaned 
against his side, the top of her head barely reaching the crook of his arm. Her feet wove 
unsteadily with each step, her flat shoes landing soft kisses against the pavement.

     "Pimps? We're getting into questions of virtue, now, are we?" Edith retorted. "Well, 
save your breath. I don't have any."

     "I wasn't speaking of virtue, but the identity of your friends. Earlier, you called them 
pimps."

     Edith stopped walking and glanced up at him, a soulful cast to her eyes before she 
looked away. "Sure, I know lots. Isn't everyone a pimp in some way? Poor guys graft 
money off of a few pretty, poor girls. Rich men just use more people and call the 
pandering something more elegant like 'employment.' Either way, people use people to 
take care of themselves."

     "You sound so democratic. All whores are created equal," LaCroix pronounced, a 
mocking rip to his voice.

     "Ah, non, Lucien!" Edith pushed at him in a flare of annoyance, but he didn't move 
away. She remained tucked in at his side. "You make me sound stupid when you put it 
that way. I'm right, though, and you know it. Say I'm right!" she ordered, her chin tough.

     "You are right," LaCroix said softly. "You're quite a little general, Edith, issuing 
commands to me."

     She broke into a hearty laugh, submersing herself in inanity at the thought. "No way! 
Generals are out of my league!"

     "I was a general once," LaCroix informed her. He wasn't sure why he volunteered the 
information, whether he intended to impress her or prove her wrong.

     "Now you've got me worried." Edith's smile was wicked. "Either you're crazy, 
thinking yourself a general, or you're crazy, wasting your time on a foot soldier like me." 
She peered up at him through the corners of her eyes, as though she was peeking over 
some tilted halo. "For your information, I have a lot of experience with the military," she 
said proudly.

     LaCroix chose to play along. "Combat experience?"

     "Of a sort…I've done my share of hand-to-hand entertainment of troops," she quipped, 
then began ticking off her fingers as she listed varieties. "Privates, sailors, and I love 
legionnaires, especially the spahis in their flowing capes. They'd take me in their arms, and 
the fabric would swirl around me in shelter until I felt as though I'd come home." Edith 
gave LaCroix a saucy wink. "Oui, there's nothing wrong with a cape. Don't see many on 
generals, though." She giggled as he made an indecipherable grunt, then squeezed the 
arms she had wrapped about his waist. "Don't worry, Lucien. I still like you, even if 
you're too rich for my blood."

     LaCroix enveloped the fingers of her free right hand with his own, dwarfing them. He 
lifted her arm until her palm was practically higher than her head, then brushed a kiss 
along the inside of her wrist. "I'll be the judge of that. I'm what you'd call a blood 
connoisseur."

     As he allowed her hand to fall back to her side, Edith protested. "That's all?"

     He almost smiled, then answered enigmatically, "That's everything."

     "Hmph. Well, I'm a blood connoisseur, too. I've seen enough of it in my past." She 
broke away suddenly, then turned to face Lacroix as she walked backward. "I'll show you, 
if you can handle griming your shoes in Pigalle."

     "I can handle anything," LaCroix stated. "The question is, can you hold my interest?"

     Edith broke into uproarious laughter at his dare. "You're a cool one, Lucien. That ice 
in your eyes, that stiff chin," She feigned a shiver. "I need a coat or a man with a cape," 
she teased, then reached her arms around his neck, pulling him close for a kiss. When she 
drew back, her pupils were wide and hungry, her voice hushed. "Funny how I'm burning 
up despite the chill."

     LaCroix kept his face impassive, but he'd taken firm possession of her hand again. 
"Take me on your tour. I'll hail a cab."

     Edith shook her head. "Oh, no. You don't go to Pigalle by cab. Everybody walks." She 
set a pace, swinging her hand in his grip. "We generals - we march!"

     Just as Edith commanded, they proceeded to rue de la Belleville on foot. Edith pointed 
to various corners and clubs along the way, identifying all the places that were memorable, 
or where she'd gotten into scrapes. "I was singing here when Papa Leplee first heard me. 
He gave me a business card, set up a real audition, and everything!" 

     "That place was a dive, but it fed us. I sang, while my sis stripped. Yes, Simone! She 
wasn't quite fifteen. Some of the louts there were into the whole juvenile bit. Are you 
shocked?" LaCroix wasn't shocked by anything, so they moved along. 

     "That's where the police first carted me off! Yes, I'm a thug!" "There! I got in a war 
there once! A group of gypsies had roughed up one of my friends, so we gathered a crowd 
and attacked them. There were knives and blood was everywhere. Looking back, I don't 
think I did it out of loyalty. I just wanted trouble."

     Finally, they came to a bar. Edith didn't want to go inside. Instead, she simply stared at 
the doorway, her face stern. "I was here the first time someone tried to kill me."

     That statement caught LaCroix off-guard. His eyes narrowed as he studied Edith's 
demeanor. Did she have some sense that she was in danger? Did her instincts tell her that 
he could kill her easily?

     "I haven't just kept pimps as friends. They've been lovers, too. Some of these guys will 
hound their girlfriends into selling their bodies just so they can keep a fine suit or two. 
Have you ever known anybody like that?" she asked casually.

     LaCroix's thoughts flashed momentarily to Seline, a memory best forgotten. "Yes," he 
said abruptly.

     Edith simply nodded and continued her tale. "I'd never do it, though this one guy 
named Albert had trouble letting the idea go. I was mad for him, but I didn't let his 
affection sway me for a second. There's plenty of things that I don't respect, but I've 
always taken love seriously. Only once have I ever been willing to lower love to a matter 
of money. Eventually, Albert gave up, deciding to take a share of my singing profits 
instead. Like I said before: there are all kinds of pimps. One day, he went too far, killing 
any love I had for him. There was this sweet girl I knew, she was so naive. Albert and one 
of his pals were hounding her. They really wanted her to prostitute for them. She cried to 
me about it, so I told her 'Go, fight and don't be a victim!'" Edith held up a fierce fist, as 
though she was still in the past, urging her friend on to freedom. "She did it, and I was so 
proud! I triumphed too soon. The next day, the police dragged the girl's body from the 
Seine. It disgusted me. I couldn't bear the thought of Albert after that."

     "Because he killed the girl?" LaCroix let his voice turn slightly cruel. "Don't tell me 
your idea of morality draws the line at murder…it's perfectly acceptable to attack a camp 
of gypsies for a lark, but actual crime begins with death?"

     "It's not the murder, itself," Edith insisted as she pressed LaCroix's hand against her 
heart. "If it was an act of passion or survival, I could understand that and carry on. Albert 
killed her just because he had lost. It's a petty, small thing to destroy something just 
because you can't have it."

     Edith let LaCroix's fingers drop from her grasp. She turned hard eyes back to the 
entrance of the club while she spoke. "I left Albert over that, but he wouldn't leave me 
alone. He would have me followed. He even had me kidnapped once. I always kept 
running away." Excitement lit Edith's face as she set the scene. "Finally, I came to this 
club one night because I knew he was waiting for me. I wanted to tell him off, to lash out 
at him. He had a gun and threatened to shoot me if I wouldn't come back to him. I should 
have been scared, but I dived into the bravado and dared Albert to do it. He pulled the 
trigger." She quirked her lips and shrugged. "Lucky for me, someone grabbed his arm. 
The bullet barely scratched my neck." Edith stood on tiptoe as she tilted her head to the 
side and tugged at her collar, then presented the pale skin for LaCroix's inspection. "See 
the scar? It's very faint."

     LaCroix caught his breath. There it was, the delicate expanse of her throat, mere inches 
away from his lips. He could see the vessels beneath her thin skin, hear her pulse chanting 
an invitation over the insignificant cleft of night air that separated his hunger from 
satisfaction. It would be so easy - she would offer herself to him without a qualm, LaCroix 
knew. Hadn't she lectured him all evening regarding how little virtue she had? She would 
be soft and yielding, virtually a whore minus the financial dividends. Isn't that that how 
she had described herself? It would be so easy to take her…to feed…to destroy her…to 
win…

     LaCroix slid his hands over her slender back as his mouth met her sweet flesh. Just as 
he expected, Edith welcomed his embrace, pressing closer to him with a sigh. He raised 
his head to tease her lips, then dropped gentle caresses above each of her expressive 
eyebrows. Her features spoke of passion and acceptance, and something that absurdly 
gave him pause: trust.

     He closed his eyes, cursing inwardly at the thought. 

     LaCroix froze.

     

     Suddenly, Edith's words were ringing in his ears.  LaCroix found himself gently withdrawing 
from her embrace. 

     Edith's eyelashes fluttered wide. "Lucien? What is it?"

     He ran a fingertip over her lower lip and glanced a brief kiss off of her waiting mouth. 
"It's getting late."

     She gestured to the sky. It had already swirled from night's black into a rich navy 
signaling the arrival of twilight. "Dawn's just coming!" Edith protested. "That's not so 
late. I usually last a couple more hours!"

     "And I make a habit of being in bed by sunrise," LaCroix said in a tone that brooked no 
argument.

     Edith's face lit with the devil. "Bed, eh? I could live with that."

     LaCroix gave her an amused smile. "It seems that you have a gift for living, ma petite."

     La Mome Piaf's joyous chain of laughter signified her agreement. She tucked up 
against his side once more, her head nestled in the crook of his arm. This time when 
LaCroix suggested hailing a taxi, she had no objections.

     As the vampire settled beside her in the back of the cab, LaCroix appeared distant as he 
gave instructions to his hotel. His thoughts were no longer on killing, but something more.

     LaCroix had decided there was more than one way to win a wager.

************************************************************************
End Of Part Three

Les Pauvres Enfants (04/07)
Copyright 1998
By Bonnie Rutledge

     Serena had a few anxious moments when Simone sourly informed her that she hadn't 
seen her sister since Edith had left on Lucien LaCroix's arm the night before. Hindsight 
told her that she should have kept a closer eye on the pair.

     She went outside the stage door of Gerny's, where dozens of men would hang out, 
waiting for Edith to arrive or leave. They were all pals from Pigalle. Now that the kid 
sparrow was singing in a cabaret and making records, she was an easy touch for a round 
of drinks. That's where all her money went. In the middle of the crowd, Serena spotted 
her next best source of information after Simone: Louis Leplee. The club owner could 
often be found chatting up these toughs, some said for business reasons, but Serena 
thought his interest was mostly personal.

     She saw Louis slip a wad of bills into one handsome young man's trouser pocket, then 
whistled to attract his attention. Louis glanced around, breaking into a winning smile at 
the sight of her. "Serena! That's a relief! Every time I hear a whistle, I think of the police!"

     She stepped forward, brushing light kisses of greeting on either of the mortal's cheeks. 
"Do you have a reason to worry about the police, Louis?"

     The club proprietor gave her a wink. "We all have secrets, cherie."

     "Maybe, but keep in mind my personal motto for the past decade or so: if you see 
something too good to be true, run for your life." Serena clapped Louis on the shoulder, 
then searched the faces of the crowd again for good measure. "Have you heard from la 
Mome, yet?"

     To her relief, Leplee nodded. "It's her night to do Radio-Cite. She won't be in until 
late, and when she gets here, I guarantee the kid will be a rocket. When I spoke to her on 
the phone, she was screaming to high heaven about her latest guy standing her up. Is this 
any fellow I'd be interested in?" he asked, a lascivious tint in his eyes.

     "No, Louis," Serena said wryly. "You're not his type."

      "Pity," he shrugged. "So many of Edith's pals either are or can find my type." His 
gaze lit upon a dark man in a felt hat. "Speaking of…there goes one now. Don't wait up 
for me."

     Serena watched Louis walk away with a faint smile, gave a sailor standing too close a 
warning glare, then went in search of the proper broadcast station to rendezvous with la 
Mome.

************************************************************************

     By the time LaCroix arrived at the station, Edith had already finished her performance 
in the radio show. She sat off to the side in a chair, nursing a bottle of beer while she 
waited to wish the listeners 'au revoir' in the closing salutes. Unfortunately for the show's 
producers, Edith spotted LaCroix out of the corner of her eye when he slipped into the 
large studio.

     "Chien batard! Sangsue! You left me high and dry!" she shrieked, then threw her beer 
bottle at him.

      Naturally, LaCroix caught it. The glass made a hollow sound as his fingers made 
contact, so LaCroix upended the bottle. It was empty. He appeared unmoved as he 
replied, "And you seem to be stocking up like a camel." He crooked a finger at her, then 
stepped back through the studio doorway.

     Edith bellowed her outrage. Several people encouraged her to chase after LaCroix, 
chase him right out of the station. After all, every word of her outburst was being relayed 
to homes across Paris. It was a bad scene.

     Edith didn't disappoint them. She ran out of the room on the warpath. She searched 
from side to side, cursing again when she found LaCroix leaning against the wall behind 
her, without a care in the world. "You were gone when I woke up! How dare you?" Edith 
threw up her hands when he didn't immediately reply, then looked around rapidly for 
something new to throw. "I hate being left alone…and without a word!"

     "You should thank me. I've given you a reason to stretch your lungs," Lacroix said as 
he flicked an invisible piece of lint from his sleeve. "Consider it a professional courtesy."
His mouth softened, then he gestured toward a box waiting atop a nearby table. "Of 
course, I did waste time buying you a gift while I was out. I can always take it back if 
you'd rather call me a mongrel again."

     "Ah!" Edith leapt forward, placing her hands protectively on the box. "That won't be 
necessary." A gift! This was news to her; she was usually the one left picking up the tab. 
Her fingers curled around the glossy cardboard lid, and she sent LaCroix a curious look 
before ripping it off. Amid a sea of silver tissue paper, she found a dress and matching 
shoes, but not just any dress: it was coûturier. The floor-length gown was cut from heavy 
velvet with tapered sleeves, a neckline to the collarbone, and a dip in the back. The 
material was jet black, suffused in delicate beading that captured the light overhead, 
reflecting it in a million shadowed prisms. 

     For one marveling moment, Edith was struck speechless. LaCroix had taken her hand-
knit rags and transformed them into something magical. She was overwhelmed. Edith 
hugged the gown to her chest with one arm as she rushed across the room, grabbing a 
stool with a rotary seat as she went. She dived into the chair, spinning around with a joyful 
laugh as she held the dress up to the lamplight. Edith touched a foot to the floor for 
brakes, then took LaCroix's ringed hand to press against her cheek. "It is wonderful, 
Lucien. Never have I been granted such a lovely gift. Merci."

     LaCroix brushed her jaw with his thumb in a soft caress. "De rien."

     A hint of Edith's fire returned. "But it is something! A kindness! The saints will reward 
you," she promised openly, "if not now, in the afterlife."

     LaCroix, of course, dismissed that notion. "If there is a god, he wouldn't reward me."

     "If?" Edith exclaimed. "Certainly there's a god and his servants. There are miracles!" 
She pulled her medallion free of her sweater and held it up, causing LaCroix to grimace.  
"How can I not believe? St. Therese healed my blindness as a girl!"

     "How do you know it was a saint? Perhaps you just needed a good knock in the head." 

     Edith's response to that was to snort and stick her tongue out.

     "I suppose you're superstitious enough to believe in devils as well as angels," LaCroix 
mused with an air of boredom.

     "Mmm," she sighed, trailing the fingers of one hand up the vampire's shirtfront. "You 
know that I, at the very least, believe in deviltry. It's my second occupation!" she laughed, 
before setting her chair off in a fresh spin. "It all evens out."

     The door opened to the studio, and that evening's participants in the Radio-Cite 
broadcast began to file past. Several performers and the producer gave Edith and LaCroix 
annoyed and curious looks. That only served to make Edith laugh louder. She smiled 
coyly up at LaCroix. "I guess I was noisy, eh? Well, they hired me so Paris could hear my 
voice!" She swung her chair merrily from side to side. "You know, you have a good 
voice. People would listen to you on the radio."

     LaCroix leaned over, stilling the stool's movement with a hand on each of her 
shoulders. "And what would I talk about?"

     "Any old thing." Edith shrugged. "Love, money, family, sorrow…me! Who cares? If 
it's your show, you do what you want."

     "Ah. Excellent point." LaCroix gave her a brief kiss then turned the stool so her back 
was to him. He gave her a gentle push into a stand. "Shouldn't you be changing if you 
want to wear your new gown tonight?"

     "Oh!" Edith was out of the chair like a ray of light, placing the dress back inside the 
box and gathering up all her accoutrements. As she was replacing the lid, Serena arrived at 
the station. Edith's face immediately filled with suspicious jealousy. After all, LaCroix had 
first appeared at Serena's side. "What are you doing here?" she said sharply.

     "Bird-watching," Serena replied succinctly.

     "Hmph." Edith held the couturier box close to her chest and gave both vampires a 
warning look. "I'll be right back."

     Serena nodded after Edith's retreating back as she asked LaCroix, "Where is she 
going?"

     "To change," LaCroix replied with a satisfied smile. He took a seat on the stool 
recently vacated by la Môme, tapping his fingers together with amusement. "I decided that 
she was due for…a transformation."

     Serena lifted her chin in triumph. "So you couldn't kill her. I win."

     "No, no. There's more than one way to stop living," LaCroix countered.

     A chill settled over Serena, and her face twisted into revulsion. "You're planning to 
bring her across."

     "I like her. You like her. What's to stop us from keeping her around indefinitely?" he 
said absently.

     "Us? There is no us, and I certainly don't agree on making her into a vampire! It would 
destroy what is most vibrant about her: the pure humanity in everything she does."

     "Au contraire. There is nothing pure about Edith," LaCroix drawled.

     "You know what I mean," Serena snapped. "It's in everything she does, how she 
reacts, how she feels, and how she lives. She is impeccably mortal. Edith doesn't have a 
complex like so many of the young. She doesn't believe that she will live forever. She 
knows that she isn't powerful, that she is very small compared to the stretch of eternity. 
Making her a vampire would destroy all of that."

     "I don't agree. Those who seek fame don't consider themselves small. They want 
eternity. They struggle to have their names leave a lasting impact on the world out of fear 
of death." LaCroix considered the other vampire sternly. "I find it intriguing that you have 
set up Edith as an icon to your lost mortality. Consider all her wretched habits: she drinks 
too much, she enjoys the criminal element, is a criminal herself. She vows that she has no 
virtue and doesn't want any. She's a violent, rude and dirty girl, who just happens to be 
gifted with a unique singing talent and an engaging sense of humor. Could it be you've 
placed la Mome up on a pedestal?"

     Serena drew her lips into a thin line. "I never said that mortals were perfect."

     "Good for you," LaCroix congratulated. "You believe vampires are imperfect as well, 
however. We are killers, criminally greedy, but isn't that the nature of Edith's 
acquaintances. 'We treat life as an amusement, humanity as chattel.' I believe those were 
the words you used. What is Edith's life, I ask you, other than a quest for amusement? 
Humanity as chattel? What distinction is that from a mortal girl who sees the world as 
filled with pimps and whores?" LaCroix's words were laced with challenge and derision. 
"The problem with you and Nicholas is that you are lost in a tangle of words like 'create' 
and 'destroy,' every one with an old-fashioned definition. The sterility is your own, not the 
vampire's. We can create life, new members of our breed just like any other. Nor are we 
the only black shade of death waiting in the dark. Your precious mortals kill each other 
every day, sometimes just for a lark. Where is this great nobility of the human condition? 
You expected me to find it in Edith, but all I see is a mirror of my own kind. Where is it, 
Serena?"

     "I once knew a woman who would spend every Sunday strolling through le Jardin de 
Tulleries. She was always very quiet, simply walking. It was up to anyone who came along 
to make conversation. Every now and then, she would stop and point any weeds that the 
caretakers missed in their duties. The beautiful expanses of lawn, the meticulous 
shrubbery, the fine statues, all the flowers - she never saw any of it. She was too busy 
looking for weeds," Serena said with disdain. "I don't think you've really looked at Edith. 
I don't believe that you look at anyone, LaCroix. You're too busy hunting for weeds, 
yourself." 

     Serena's thoughts moved to the holy medallion Edith wore around her neck, and all her 
stories of miracles and the saints. "Will you ask her consent? Would you even give Edith a 
choice?"

     "We do still have a wager," LaCroix offered. "The winner will depend on her choice. I 
will allow that."

     "I believe that she'll refuse."

     "I don't."

     They heard brisk footfalls, and Edith stepped into the room, dressed in her new gown. 
She no longer appeared pedestrian, but exotic. When she took the stage at Gerny's 
tonight, she would be a peacock, not a sparrow. Edith sniffed smugly at Serena, then 
turned glowing eyes toward LaCroix. "I'm ready."

     "I can see," he said smoothly as he stood. He moved to pick up a swath of black fabric 
that had been carefully folded and set aside across another chair. LaCroix shook it free so 
that the material hung in swirls lined with dark red satin, then slung it over his shoulders. 

     Edith was ecstatic. All thoughts of Serena and jealousy were swept out of her mind as 
she trailed an appreciative hand over LaCroix's chest. "Lucien," she murmured, as though 
his name was a dream come true. "You remembered to wear a cape."

************************************************************************
End Of Part Four

Les Pauvres Enfants (05/07)
Copyright 1998
By Bonnie Rutledge

     Louis hugged Edith close, brushing her hair. "You're the best, kiddie, but you know 
you've got a way to go yet, right?"

     "I know, Papa." It was nearing time for her to go on stage, and Louis was giving her 
the nightly close talk. LaCroix wasn't there, but out front, waiting to hear her sing.

     "You're changing, getting all fancy, but I still worry about you," Leplee said. "Even 
with that trip to Cannes coming up in a couple weeks, your career isn't assured, especially 
with little stunts like you pulled at Radio-Cite tonight."

     "That was just fun, Papa," Edith laughed. "You got a hoot out of it, too, so don't 
pretend to be stern. Besides, as long as I have you to look up to, I'll be okay. I'll be a 
successful singer."

     "I had a bad scare last night," Louis confided. "A rotten dream." Papa tended to be just 
as superstitious as Edith. "My dead mother came to my bedside and said I would join her 
soon. It gave me the shivers."

     Edith frowned. "Dreams can be confusing. They don't have to mean anything," she 
said weakly.

     "Even if it's nothing, something like that makes me think, la Mome. What would 
happen to the kids like you if I wasn't around to help you out?"

     "You shouldn't worry about that. Keep your chin up," Edith urged.

     "I'll try, kiddie. You know, I saw that luscious new friend of yours. Before you go out 
doing anything wild after the show, remember you have that recording session tomorrow 
morning at nine. Promise me you'll be on time."

     Edith scrunched up her nose at the thought of such an early hour, but she made the 
promise since Papa was in such a fret that night. "Okay. I'll be there."

    "And be sober," Louis warned, before he fell into a smile. He kissed Edith softly on the 
forehead and chuckled. "Don't mind me. I'm just brooding, trying to protect your 
professional reputation." He consulted his watch. "I think it's about time. Let me go 
introduce you."

     Edith nodded and watched Louis disappear behind the curtain, trying to not muse 
about the portents of dreams.

**********************************************************************

     LaCroix was becoming increasingly annoyed at Edith's lack of attention. "No, I do not 
see him."

     "The club is closing soon. Where is Papa?" Edith had managed to make a production 
of the disturbing dream Louis Leplee had confided to her earlier. She didn't tell anyone 
why she was so worried. When LaCroix asked her why the club owner had suddenly 
turned into her lost lamb, Edith shrugged him off. "It's nothing, Lucien. Pour me another 
glass of champagne, will you?" After another five minutes, however, she would be back to 
asking about Louis. "Why can't you see him?"

     "Perhaps because he is not here," LaCroix replied stiffly.

     "Fat lot of help you are." Edith was practically kneeling in her chair, searching the 
faces of the few remaining club patrons. "What if he's gotten into trouble? He hangs 
around a lot of pimps and toughs, you know. It's a bad element."

     "You associate with a bad element," LaCroix reminded her. "How many of these 
worrisome pimps did you introduce to Leplee?"

     Edith plopped back into her seat wearing a frown. "Two or three. A dozen." She 
squinted in annoyance. "I don't know!" she said in an exasperated tone. Then, Edith's face 
turned petulant. "Besides, not all of my element is bad. I associate with you, don't I?"

     LaCroix declined to comment.

     Edith bobbed up in her chair again. "Where *is* he?"

     "He is just your employer. Soon enough, you'll move beyond him. Why ruin your 
evening consumed with him? If your roles were reversed, I promise you, Leplee wouldn't 
give you a second thought."

     "You're wrong there. Why do you think I call him 'Papa'? No one's changed my life 
so much since my daughter was born."

     LaCroix stilled. This was an unwelcome piece of news. "You have a daughter?"

     A little bit of the lost child slipped over Edith's features. "Not anymore. Marcelle died 
of meningitis when she was still a baby." She frowned accusingly at LaCroix. "I know 
what you're thinking: what's she doing with a kid? I'm not exactly the mothering type. I 
spend most of my time looking out for myself. I loved my Marcelle, though. I worked for 
her while she was around. She was my pimp. I would sing on the street for her clothes and 
food, not mine. Do you remember when I said there was only one time I ever reduced love 
to a matter of money? It was for Marcelle. I didn't have the money to bury her. I would 
have made myself a prostitute for her, too, only the guy I picked up just gave me the 
francs when I told him my story. Do you know what crazy lengths a person will go to for 
their kid?"

     "I've lost a child, myself," LaCroix said stiffly.

     "So you should know," Edith concluded. "I was sunk after I lost Marcelle. It just about 
kicked all the hope out from under me. I was still singing on the streets, but it had lost 
some of its purpose. I wasn't singing for my daughter anymore, so I didn't care. That's 
when Papa heard me. He gave me an audition, he started me out, he got me some new 
songs and outside contracts, and, most of all, he taught me how to sing for an audience 
and myself again. I owe him, so I sure as hell am going to keep an eye on him if I can."

     "Then why are you sitting here?" LaCroix was annoyed by his reaction. He wanted 
Edith's attention centered on him, not simply because he compelled it, but because she 
was consumed with him. Her distraction was disturbing his envy. "Go look for him. Come 
back when you're ready to concentrate on me. I might still be available."

     Fire filled Edith's eyes. She leaned over the table, jabbing at the lacquer surface with 
her index finger. "Don't you play cold and unfeeling with me! Lording your presence over 
me like you're some kind of prince, trying to make me stay with threats - I do what I 
want!" In one of her typical dramatic spurts, Edith grabbed her half-filled glass of 
champagne and threw its contents at LaCroix, then stormed away.

     Her luck held out. For a second time in as many days, LaCroix chose to not kill her.

************************************************************************

     "Maurice! Have you seen Papa? Have you, Jacques?" Edith fluttered backstage, 
prompting information from any performer she saw. No one could give her a positive 
answer.

     She stepped out the stage door, ready to barrage her buddies from Pigalle with 
questions next. Edith paused for some early morning traffic, then caught sight of Simone 
breaking off from the crowd and starting toward her. 

     "Didou!"

     Edith clutched at her sister's arms as she stepped up on the curb. "Something is wrong 
- what is it?"

     "I heard some talk about Louis. You know that sometimes he gets in on some of the 
rackets. He's not totally clean, our Papa," Simone started.

     "Compared to us, Momone, he sparkles," Edith snapped. "Get on with it!"

     "I heard Henri saying that Papa had a big wad of francs earlier tonight. He was 
showing it off, handing handfuls to some of the guys. I've heard some greedy talk and 
some rumors that Papa was holding out money. Some of them are talking about going to 
his place and beating more money out of him."

     "Damn, Simone! Those guys are usually crawling on their knees this time of night! 
Who's to say any of it's true? Every word could just be the whiskey working their 
tongues!" Edith wrung her hands for a moment, then slipped her evening bag off her wrist. 
She pressed the beaded bag into her sister's hands, instructing, "Take this. There's at least 
a hundred francs inside. Round up everyone you can and take them on a tour of the bars. 
Get them blind drunk, drunk enough that they don't care about Papa's money. Even 
better, when they start looking really poached, I want you to talk to me. Pretend I'm 
there. Do this for me, Momone. Tell me you'll do this."

     "Get drunk? Act delirious? We practically do that every night anyhow, Edith," Simone 
said succinctly. "It's not exactly a stretch."

     "Just make them think I was there when they sober up," Edith insisted. "If there's 
trouble, I may need an alibi." She kissed her sister on the cheek, then ran off into the night, 
her beaded skirts swirling in a dizzy shadow.

     Simone watched her go and turned around to cross the street and join her home crowd. 
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flick of ash and pale tendrils of smoke. She glanced 
that way and found Serena leaning against the stage door.

     "Where is la Mome headed at this hour?" she asked.

     Simone indulged in a bit of belligerence. "None of your business. Get lost."

     A confident smile spread over Serena's features, and she took another drag on her 
cigar. She blew the smoke to the side, before focusing her attention intently upon Simone. 
"But you want to tell me where Edith went."
 
     Simone felt light-headed, as though the tobacco fumes had entered eyes, clouding 
them, before working their way into her head. She couldn't concentrate, couldn't put 
together the words she wanted to say. Instead of telling Serena to go to hell again, Simone 
wheezed a deep breath then sighed, "What?"

     "Tell me where Edith went," Serena said firmly, her voice seeming to pulse through the 
air, the sounds punching in Simone's head like her own heartbeat.

     Simone threw her hands over her ears and shook her head to make the sound go away, 
but it didn't work. "She…she…Didou went to Leplee's," she finally confessed.

     "Good girl," Serena said, smiling as she dropped her cigar and crushed it into the 
sidewalk.

     Simone blinked, shivered, then looked at her surroundings. Serena wasn't there, and 
she was alone on her side of the street. She glanced over to where her pals waited, 
arguing, laughing and jostling, then spared a glimpse for the handbag gripped tightly in her 
hand. Simone checked for traffic, then crossed the street, intent of following Edith's 
instructions to drink with their pals until oblivion came knocking on their eyelids.

************************************************************************
End of Part Five

Les Pauvres Enfants (06/07)
Copyright 1998
By Bonnie Rutledge


     When Edith arrived at Papa's rooms at 83 avenue de la Grande-Armee, his 
housekeeper didn't respond to her knock.  "Madame Secci? Papa? It's me, Edith!" She 
pressed her head against the door, but the apartment seemed poignantly still. All Edith 
could hear was the sound of blood rushing in her ears because her heart had begun to race.

     She jiggled the knob, and the door clicked open without hesitation. Edith stepped 
inside, her nerves twisted into tight threads. She didn't call out to Louis now. Her throat 
felt tight and breathless, almost as though she was choking. Edith didn't make a sound, 
because she was afraid of who might answer. 

     She padded past the kitchen and peered inside. Edith found the rounded body of 
Madame Secci curled up on the floor, her mouth gagged and her hands tied behind her 
back. Edith rushed forward and fell to her knees as she reached to free the housekeeper's 
mouth. The woman immediately began to pant hysterically, completely prepared to scream 
and raise a racket. Edith paused to drop a low-voiced flea in her ear. "Are you crazy? 
Don't you think they're still here? Do you want a knock upside the head?" Madame Secci 
didn't look prepared to calm down. In fact, her eyes bulged wider, and she began to flail 
about within the confines of her bonds. Edith was tempted to land the housekeeper a good 
punch herself.

     All at once, she felt someone grab her arms and twist them behind her back until her 
elbows almost touched. "Aaah!" Caught, Edith's natural instinct was to kick like mad, a 
force to be decked with. Her heels flicked like a propeller. She screeched a string of curses 
while her hands balled into useless fists. A swift prayer to the saints flashed through her 
thoughts. What she wouldn't give for a piece of broken glass at that moment, to give her 
attacker something to be remembered. Edith felt bad about the situation. This wasn't just a 
casual visit, one where you rough up a person who's stepped on your toes just to teach 
them a lesson. It wasn't usual to tie up the hired help when all you wanted to give the boss 
was a black eye.

     Edith felt a desperate malevolence in the way the tough clutching her arms wouldn't let 
go, though she did him harm. His shins had to smart, and she knew he was dying to sock 
her. To do that, he would have to let go of her arms for a second. Was he dumb enough to 
risk that?

     Apparently, he was. Edith sensed when the pressure lightened around her wrists and 
immediately ducked to the floor. Sure enough, her attacker launched a swing, but she 
wasn't around for any landing. The guy had a good ten inches on her in height, a 
disadvantage when a fellow's used to punching other men around his own size. She didn't 
have to crouch much to be safe. What's more, her attacker had been drinking heavily, just 
as Simone had told her. His clothes reeked of pastis and whiskey. All it took to throw him 
off his balance was missing the blow to Edith's head. He stumbled over his own feet and 
tumbled to the floor. Edith indulged in a swift kick to the tough's forehead, then she raced 
out of the room.

     She could have spared herself a bit of grief if she had aimed for the front door and 
gotten the hell out of the apartment. Edith found herself running for Papa Leplee's 
bedroom instead, a fury just looking for trouble. She found it one step over the threshold, 
when someone tripped her up and sent her sprawling to the floor.

     Edith tried to scramble to her feet, but she already felt the pressure of a shoe on her 
back. Someone stood on her to keep her in check. It was hard to breathe from the weight, 
but dwelling on it didn't do much good. Edith bellowed like a good sailor in response to 
her imprisonment, while her eyes focused onto the floor. The remains of a brandy snifter 
littered the carpet. The glass wasn't heartily shattered, as though it had hit stone or wood, 
but split daintily in two. She could picture Papa readying for a casual drink, swarmed by 
the intruders, then letting the drink fall to the rug in surprise. It would have hit with a dull 
thunk, then simply cracked and flushed out its contents as if it was a type of crystal egg.

     Edith knew she could get her hands on that glass. Its appearance was a miracle, her 
prayer answered by St. Therese. What kind of shoddy blessing would just dangle before 
her eyes, unreachable? 

     The pressure lifted from her back, and strong arms grabbed her around the waist to 
drag her to her feet. Edith stretched out her short arms and plucked the largest piece of 
broken glass from the floor a second before her attacker yanked her upward. As she was 
lifted, Edith saw Louis cowering on the bed, his face pale, his eyes deathly afraid. She felt 
a twinge of disappointment that Papa wasn't roughed up a bit more. If someone was in the 
mood to kill him, the least he could do was put up a fuss. At the moment, Edith was 
acting more like a man. If she didn't care for him, didn't feel a measure of gratitude to 
Louis for giving her a start as a chanteuse, Edith would have washed her hands of him. As 
it was, the thugs behind her back prepared to smack her around made up Edith's mind to 
stand her ground.

     She held the shard of brandy snifter by its knobby stem, the base flat against her palm. 
When she twisted around, Edith aimed for the face. She wanted to leave permanent scars 
that couldn't be hidden so that everyone would know that she'd been there. Edith did a 
fair amount of damage to one guy she knew that was named Georges. He was a spahi, 
rough and a bit cruel, but he cried like a baby as she cut his face into a bloody mess. 
Georges immediately let go of her in favor of cradling his wounds. 

     The other guy holding her, Henri the pimp, had no injuries to hold him back. "Bitch!" 
He slapped her wrist, the pain causing Edith to lose grip of the glass, the cold-cocked her 
across the jaw.

     Edith felt as though her chin had exploded. She fell backward, her shoulders hitting the 
foot of the bed. As she climbed groggily to her feet, she saw a third man - his name 
escaped her in the frenzy of the moment - raise a pistol directly aimed at her. Edith didn't 
know what to do. One of her hands flew instinctively to the sacred medallion hidden 
beneath the neckline of her gown. 

     The next second, Edith wondered if she had gone blind again. Her vision seemed 
blurred, unreal, not to be trusted. The scene flashed, and there was a gunshot, but Edith 
experienced no pain. Her lids fluttered for a moment, but when she opened her eyes wide 
once more, her surroundings had cleared. 

     LaCroix had appeared out of nowhere, and he had his hands around the gunman's 
wrist.  LaCroix snapped the man's wrist 
effortlessly, causing a scream and the revolver to tumble to the floor. For a moment, Edith 
was ecstatic, grateful, and in awe of this turn of events, then LaCroix turned around, 
pulling his prisoner's body in front of him.

     Edith caught her breath.

     He looked like a demon. 

     LaCroix's eyes were no longer the blue of dreams and fairytales, but a burning gold 
that scorched her heart like the fires of hell. He snarled, deadly looking fangs looming 
from his jaws, then ducked his head to the tough's throat.  Edith fell back onto the bed 
once more, instinctively craving distance. She couldn't believe it.  

     Edith saw LaCroix toss the first tough aside as though he was a piece of garbage. The 
man looked dead. Henri and Georges had overcome their shock and come to the same 
conclusions as Edith. In a heartbeat, they snapped into motion and ran for the door. 
LaCroix went after them.

     Edith shuddered as she witnessed her former lovers ravaged and drained. She edged 
backward on the counterpane, reaching out for Papa Leplee. She wanted a father's warm 
comfort and reassurance. She found a hand, lifeless and growing cold.

     It would have been easy for Edith to cry and scream. Both came to he very naturally. It 
was much harder to turn her head and look. Louis hung slightly off the bed, his mouth 
slightly open as though he had been caught by surprise.  
Edith's thoughts screamed. His left eye was wide, staring blankly into space. The right eye 
had been replaced by a socket filled with blood. Papa Leplee had been shot through the 
brain.

     "Oh, Papa!" Edith sobbed. She tore her gaze away, biting the knuckles of her right 
hand to keep herself from crying out. Edith glanced at the gun, now lying peacefully on 
the rug as though it was just another corpse. She climbed off the mattress, sorrow for 
Papa Leplee scorching her heart, and walked slowly toward the weapon. Mechanically, 
she picked it up and fired another shot.

     LaCroix jerked when the bullet tore through his heart. The sensation was unpleasant, 
highly irritating, but hardly threatening. He had already caught up with the spahi and taken 
his life. He had just begun feeding from the pimp named Henri when he felt the shot. 
Already well-fed and furious, LaCroix cut his gorging short and broke his victim's neck 
with a sharp twist. He turned in a swift, hawk-like movement to confront the fool who 
would dare to attack him.

     He found Edith staring at him with wild, dark eyes that glittered like the beading on her 
gown, her hand shaking as she pointed the gun in his direction.  LaCroix chuckled to himself for a moment. Then Edith decided to empty the 
remaining rounds of the revolver into his chest. LaCroix felt his patience wearing thin.

     Edith stood before him, hysterically pulling the trigger though the gun no longer 
produced anything but sterile clicks. "Are you quite finished?" LaCroix asked coldly.

     "You killed Papa!" Edith screamed, giving her lungs a solid workout.

     LaCroix glanced dispassionately at the deceased club owner, commenting as casually 
as if he had bought flowers or forgotten his hat, "So it appears."

     Edith threw the empty revolver at LaCroix's head then fell into heavy sobs. "He takes 
care of me! Oh, Papa!"

     "No," LaCroix corrected. "He used to take care of you, la Mome. He made you into a 
small-time songstress, keeping the wolf one step from the door. But look," he said 
gesturing to the fallen bodies on the floor. "It doesn't take much to give the wolves an 
advantage. The distance between cabaret singer and street waif is shorter than you 
thought. Don't you think that you are worth more than this?"

     "Of course I do!" Edith snapped.

     "You could be above such mortal concerns of survival," LaCroix said hypnotically. 
"You could escape Pigalle forever. All you have to do is come with me. I'll take care of 
everything."

     "Pigalle is my roots! It's part of who I am!" Edith screamed as she thumped her chest. 
"To make a pact with a handsome devil…Is that what all your charm is for? You don't 
care about me. Love has nothing to do with it. You just want to be my new pimp, like 
every other man in Paris, only I don't pay you off with money. You want a share in my 
soul! Well, kill me if that's what you want! Kill me and throw me aside like another piece 
of trash, because my soul belongs to no one but myself and the saints!"

     "You're hysterical," LaCroix sneered. "A crazy, stupid little girl. Think for a minute! 
You are one rung above nothing, standing in the middle of a room full of dead bodies. Do 
you really think that you can walk out of this place and go back to your insignificant 
musical career unscathed? You don't sing in a club anymore; the owner's dead. You're 
not just a petty criminal who will be arrested for a bar brawl; your employer was shot, and 
your fingerprints are on the trigger. Edith, your choices are slim: you could become a 
vampire, live in luxury for all eternity and never be subject to mortal laws again, or you 
can slink away like a bit of vermin, hoping that you can stay out of sight and the custody 
of the police for the remainder of your pathetic life."

     Edith stared at him as though he spoke in tongues. After a moment, she began to shake 
her head and give a panicked laugh. "My choices are slim…God! That must make you 
happy! Don't you feel strong? Don't you feel powerful that my only choice is no choice at 
all? You make me want to spit!" Not short on bravado, she did it, uncaring what 
happened. If she believed him, she didn't have much of a life left to lose. "What about my 
singing? You want to tempt me with luxuries so that I don't struggle so much as I give in, 
but you haven't said a word about my singing!"

     LaCroix appeared unmoved. "You could still sing."

     "For you?" Edith began to pace furiously across a small bare stretch of the carpet. 
"What will that matter without my soul, without my audience?"

     "Your audience? Your audience is a pack of sheep. What saddens you? The thought 
that you might not become famous? That millions might not sigh as you croon everyday 
words of love? The quest for fame is just an attempt to gain immortality. It is an illusion, 
at best. Any audience can be swayed. Any audience can forsake you when a younger, 
prettier chanteuse comes along. Don't be persuaded that their applause is anything but a 
short-term panacea. I am offering you the real thing. You speak of the saints. I can make 
you a god." LaCroix held out a hand to Edith as he spoke in a simple, urging voice. "Give 
yourself to me. Say 'yes.'"

     Edith wasn't used to saying 'no' to men. Usually, all it took was a smile and a whisper, 
and she was theirs. Edith surprised herself that she felt so strongly about his offer. She 
knew that whatever her fate was meant to be, she wasn't destined to become a vampire. 
"You're wrong, Lucien. Your kind of immortality is not what I'm after. Yes, I want to be 
famous and rich. That's not a sin. What you are, LaCroix, is a sin. If I choose to live off of 
the blood of others, then I will become the worst kind of pimp: a forsaken one. I believe in 
heaven and hell. I believe in an afterlife. I want to be with my daughter some day, after this 
imperfect body withers and fades. I can never have that if I become a vampire. All I can 
have is an endless stretch of lifetimes that need filling." Edith found herself shaking her 
head. "I'll be lucky if I have enough energy for one that's worthwhile. Laugh if you want, 
Lucien. Destroy me. Mock me and call me a fool, but somehow I have faith that people 
will be crying to the sound of my songs for generations after I am dead. They will 
remember me and speak my name with affection. Who remembered your name, General, 
after you became a vampire? What is your immortality really worth? Silence?"

     LaCroix finally found the desire to kill her. He wanted to choke the holy illusions right 
out of Edith and make a mockery of her faith. Honor held him back. He restrained the 
urge because of the promise he'd granted Serena: if la Mome stupidly chose to turn him 
down, he would allow her to live as part of the wager.  LaCroix's thoughts 
snarled. 

     "I won't destroy you," LaCroix said smoothly. "The mortals will do that soon enough. 
I'm leaving you alone in a room with four dead bodies, your fingerprints on a murder 
weapon, plus an unconscious man and a housekeeper in the next room who can testify that 
you were here. Your life is already over, Edith Piaf." He took her face in his hands, then 
gently kissed her on the lips. She stood frozen as he whispered in her ear, "Remember me 
with regret." Then he was gone.

     The quiet of the room felt like a harsh rebuke to Edith. She felt alone and abandoned, a 
poor little child unable to find her way home. Lucien had been right about the scene of the 
crime. Everything was incriminating. She would look terribly guilty to the police, and they 
would lock her up without a second thought. Her life would be over. Edith knew there 
had to be some way to escape this fate, but she was drowning from the weight of her 
thoughts. She didn't know what to do!

     Edith wanted to get blindingly drunk. She stumbled, stepping awkwardly over 
Georges' body toward the bar. She poured four fingers of brandy into a new sifter and 
drank it without noting the taste. Edith refilled the glass as she wiped her mouth with the 
back of her hand. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.  she 
realized. 

     At first, Edith believed that LaCroix had returned. It was a reflex to be pleased, she 
supposed. She loathed the thought of anyone walking out on her. Edith was the one who 
left. She was the one who left people hanging, not the gal who ended up hung. She set her 
sifter down with a clatter and spun around. It wasn't LaCroix.

     Serena stood in the doorway, calmly surveying the bloodshed. She met Edith's tearful 
gaze and promptly held out both hands. "I'm sorry, Didou."

     In that moment, Edith realized what Serena was.  

    

     The problem was that her ego was bruised and her spirit was crushed. LaCroix 
represented one of the rare times she had won against the vicious hold of the vampire, and 
Serena desperately wanted to recapture a shred of that victory. What's more, she was 
curious. More than half a century had passed since they last met. What did he think of 
those events in Paris now?

     LaCroix had obviously been expecting her. He was already watching the entrance to 
the sound booth when Serena stepped through the doorway, and he immediately sneered. 
He found both her jeans and her reason for being in Toronto revolting.

     "I take it your interlude beneath the full moon was unsuccessful?" he said smugly. 
"How accommodating of you to stop by so that I may bask in your failure."

     Serena stiffened. She hadn't been thinking of that. "That makes us even." 

     "At the risk of being overly sentimental, tonight's 'Nightwatch with the Nightcrawler' 
is dedicated to our old acquaintance. I'm honoring requests." 

     Serena noticed a stack of old Edith Piaf records pushed off to one side of the console. 
"May I?" she asked.

     LaCroix made an elegant gesture toward the recordings. "Be my guest."

     Serena commandeered an extra chair and pulled it up to the side of the desk. She began 
to study the notes on the 45's and albums. After a moment, Serena asked nonchalantly, 
"Did you ever see Edith again?"

     "I attended a few concerts," LaCroix admitted. "I was simply another face in the 
crowd. I never approached her for a more personal audience, if that's what you're 
inquiring."

     "I always believed Edith thought her performing audiences were more important than 
her personal ones," Serena commented. Her slender hands came to rest upon one of the 
newer singles. Its title, 'Mon Vieux Lucien,' stood out in bold letters. "Then again, 
sometimes her songs seemed directed at a person, not an audience."

     LaCroix glanced at the sleeve Serena was holding and raised an eyebrow. "That one? A 
song about an old friend who saves a man from killing himself? Hardly."

     "Ah, but Edith never considered this living. She thought that vampires were dead. I 
always imagined she sang this song to mock you." Serena tilted her nose up defiantly.

     "Really," LaCroix said dismissively. "How imaginative." He lifted his index finger 
thoughtfully. "I must admit, one of her songs always spoke to me. 'Je t'ai dans la peau.' If 
I hadn't known better, I would have almost thought Edith understood what it meant to 
experience another being's essence running through her veins."

      "She was singing about obsession and addiction," Serena said dryly as she continued 
to peruse record titles.

     "You say po-ta-to, I say po-tah-to. Who's to say she remembered anything about us?"

     "I am," Serena informed him succinctly. "Who do you think kept her out of jail?"

     LaCroix shrugged. "I suspected as much. Logic would suggest that you wiped her 
memory clean."

     "Logic? Logic would suggest that you would have manipulated Edith's memory the 
night of Leplee's death before you left. Weren't you worried that she would speak of you? 
La Mome's lips weren't exactly tight."

     "But she was already on a sinking ship. Why should I have worried about her loose 
lips? Who would have believed a street urchin accused of murder?" LaCroix drawled. "I'm 
curious as to why you weren't afraid of Edith saying something out of turn."

     "Oh, I was." Suddenly, Serena broke into a grin as she stopped at another album cover. 
"Any tales Edith might have spread made you look much worse than myself. The thought 
kept me warm at night." She tossed the record sleeve in front of LaCroix's microphone. 
"Play this. That title was the first line of Edith's autobiography," she quoted emphatically.  
"'I have no regrets.'" 

     "Very well," LaCroix allowed. "To send you off with a smile."

     He turned on the microphone as he watched Serena slip away. "Here's a song, gentle 
listeners, one for all the poor children of the night, those who struggle to eke something 
eternal out of this brutal, fleeting beast that we call mankind. How will you achieve your 
immortality? Will you find it in your children, shifting your burden until the yoke is lodged 
safely upon their shoulders? Will you find a way to conquer death, defying the odds of 
natural law, your payment measured in time and blood? Or, perhaps, you will make your 
mark: build a pyramid, assassinate a leader, or sing a song so loudly that even this deaf 
carcass called Earth hears the sound of your voice over the wars and revolutions - until the 
world remembers your name. You are not human anymore; you are history. Touche."

     The triumphant opening bars of the song flowed into the night, followed by a rich voice 
that could touch the most inhuman of souls.

     Non, rien de rien…
     Non, je ne regrette rien…
   
     Somewhere in Toronto, a college student glanced up from her drink. "Who's that 
singing?" she called to her friends at the bar.

     Her friends shrugged. "Never heard it before."

     "It's Piaf," the bartender offered. "Edith Piaf."

     "Wow. I've gotta get me a copy of that."

************************************************************************
Fin

    Source: geocities.com/~br1035/fk