It was the talk of Montmartre. Paul Watson takes a woman to Gavarnni’s every night for dinner. He comes to the Flea Pit less frequently, thus giving the other musicians plenty of opportunity to discuss him.
“How times do change. Paul, the woman-hater, has a Jane now.”
“You ain’t said nothing, fella. That ain’t all. She’s white and an ’merican, too.”
“That’s the way with these spades. They beat up all the white men they can lay their hands on but as soon as a gang of golden hair with blue eyes rubs up close to them they forget all they ever said about hatin’ white folks.”
“Guess he thinks that skirt’s gone on him. Dumb fool!”
“Don’ be no chineeman. That old gag don’ fit for Paul. He cain’t understand it no more’n we can. Says he jess can’t help himself, everytime she looks up into his eyes and asks him does he love her. They sure are happy together. Paul’s goin’ to marry her, too. At first she kept saying that she didn’t want to get married cause she wasn’t the marrying kind and all that talk. Paul jus’ laid down the law to her and told her he never would live with no woman without being married to her. Then she began to tell him all about her past life. He told her he didn’t care nothing about what she used to be jus’ so long as they loved each other now. Guess they’ll make it.”
“Yeah, Paul told me the same tale last night. He’s sure gone on her all right.”
“They’re gettin’ tied up next Sunday. So glad it’s not me. Don’t trust these American dames. Me for the Frenchies.”
“She ain’t so worse for looks, Bud. Now that he’s been furnishing the green for the rags.”
“Yeah, but I don’t see no reason for the wedding bells. She was right—she ain’t the marrying kind.”