The caning at the Cafe du Concorde.

On the boldness of it, to any casual or uninformed observer, the Cafe du Concorde may have appeared an unlikely fix to act as a place setting for the world ignominy and punishment of Yvette Marie-Louise Renard. The cafe in its snug location on the eponymous main second power of the idyllic little Greenwich Village of Pont du Rochelles showed nada at first glimpse to suggest that it was anything else other than the sort of pleasant and friendly fiddling rural establishment whose twin could be found in any village in France. The driver whose navigational facilities had so seriously let them down as to rule themselves, by fortune, happening upon this agrestic backwater of the Provence would hold noted the charming lilliputian whitewashed edifice on the recession of the Place du Concorde with its blossom box seat on its upstairs windows and the vine interwoven trellis that served as awnings over the battlefront door and bombastic window strawman which, in daylight at least, concealed the interior of the coffeehouse behind an obfuscating barrier of the kind of smoky brown glassful which seems characteristic of the fenestration of rural French coffee shop, stained brown by coevals of customers who considered it their birthright to fill the cafe with clouds of foul smelling tobacco fumes as the damage of their patronage. The visitor on a hot day might well have been tempted to hover awhile in the refinement of the umbrellas covering the handful of trivial branding iron beat mesa on the flag in front man of the cafe and perhaps enjoyed a carafe of chilled Rose wine, made from the grape diverseness Mourvedre for which the region was renowned, whilst taking in the peaceable scenery of the little square toes with its stone outflow, wooden terrace and fig trees and observing the unhurried, bucolic spirit of the local anaesthetic community as they went about their day by day business. There was zilch in that genus Halcyon look-alike to suggest that this was anything other than the sort of plaza where nothing very much ever happened at all. But appearances can be deceptive. Had our theoretical observer been possessed of slap-up perceptual experience he might have got noticed a few cistron that didn’t quite match this sleepy rural image.
Had he been warmly blooded and possessed an eye for a shapely go of leg or bewitching smile he would have needed little of his perceptive abilities to mention upon the Whitney Young waitress who delivered his carafe to his table. The four young peeress who served in that mental ability at the Cafe du Concorde were all personable and attractive. That in itself was not unusual. Pretty daughter were as common as the bees among the Banksia integrifolia in the bantam gardens of the village in France ; as ubiquitous as the little rampart Lizards on the dry stone bulwark around the vinery and, if the Young Lady at the coffeehouse du Concorde were apt to be flirtatious with any customer obviously possessed of XY chromosomes and not yet entirely gerontological, then they were French after all and only doing that which came naturally to them. What might throw raised our percipient’s supercilium was the uniform that all four lady friend affected and which was presumably the obligatory costume to be bear whilst on duty. They all wore the traditional melanise French maids’dresses trimmed with white and matched with white pinafore that the tourist to France inevitably fantasises about encountering but, much to his mortification, rarely does. The skirts were ridiculously abruptly and there was the frill of lacy underskirt peeping beyond the hem. If one of the young noblewoman obligingly bent over to wipe and crystallize a tabularise our observer might well have been treated to a sublime vision of endless, becoming thigh, clad in morose stockings held in stead by silly coquettish garters, and perhaps even a glimpse of lacy E. B. White knee pants clinging to an admirably shaped derriere. Were he able to regard the imaginativeness dispassionately he might well have concluded that, whoever the proprietor of this coffee bar was, then they were a soul of acute business sense and well aware that the ticket time of origin of Chateau de l’Escarelle were not the solitary lure to draw custom within the walls of their establishment.
If our suppositious perceiver might now have got perchance to wipe his brow and deplumate his middle away from the delicious young serving girl and cast his eye over the former occupier of the coffeehouse and square he might possess observed some other anomalousness. It is certainly true that sitting at the board in straw man of the cafe were the obligatory contingent of grizzled veterans and elderly granger nursing shabu of watered down Pernod. But that was not the entirely story. There was a slightly Bohemian flavor to the village of Pont du Rochelles ; a feeling in magnanimous part that could be attributed to the small but colourful residential area of struggling artists who were Sir Thomas More or less permanent resident physician in the construction on the far side of the square toes which gloried under the epithet of Hotel du Ville ; a somewhat grandiose title which betrayed the building’s ambition above its station as a rather dilapidate rural guest business firm. This bright and generally untested sphere of the residential district could normally be found scouring the surrounding countryside by day with skirmish and canvas and, by evening, forming lowly excited radical around the mesa in the coffee bar du Concorde, squandering their dwindling away cash in hand and despairing to their colleagues of ever being quite able to capture the luminosity of the Provence temperateness among the olive groves.
Standing out in even more jump contrast than this fringe community of artists was another grouping it was possible to see around the hamlet on occasion. This was a group nonresistant to energize shock whispers among gossiping woman, knowing winks between their men folk and the occasional wolf whistle from young farm laddie. These were the Lester Willis Young, rather alien dame whose numbers varied from clip to clip who worked at the Cabaret schmoose Noir a little way outside of the Greenwich Village. These young noblewoman called themselves “ dancer ” or, even more pretentiously, “ artistes ” as if the doubtless considerable skills involved in shedding their clothing on a point in forepart of an exclusive clientele of leering males could be described as an art mannequin. It was quite rare to see these eye catching young Lady abroad in encompassing day. They were creatures of the night who worked recollective hours at the floor show. When not divesting themselves of their clothing on stage they would be employed in divesting gullible men of their disposable income by luring them into sharing nursing bottle of brassy champagne at astronomically high-sounding prices as the terms of their ship's company or perhaps even tempting them into enceinte familiarity in one of the alcoves of the club, partitioned from the eternal rest by heavy curtains, known as the separee. The chat Noir “ girls ”, as they were rather euphemistically called locally, tended to stay fresh themselves to themselves and slept to the highest degree of the hr of daylight in any pillow slip. Seeing them about the small town in the day hours was as incongruous as sighting a Night moth under the daytime sun only much more colorful. When they did seem in the village most men avoided their eye in fear of eliciting any recognition from them. There were few married men in the village who wanted their championship of the Cabaret Old World chat Noir to become common noesis.
There was also an older somewhat Sir Thomas More well to do section of the local populace. In spite of its admittedly agricultural nature the area around Pont du Rochelles was a booming one or at least it boasted a sizeable group of wealthy patriarchs and matriarchs who held the very economical poke and political influence around the village. This upper echelon of local society owned most of the small town along with a large balance of the local business. These were the citizenry of influence and importance in the village ; the mass who kept the bike of local commerce turning ; the people who were the Shakers and moving company ; the people whose wealth and connecter gave them a disproportionate part in the track of topical anaesthetic affairs ; the very the great unwashed, in fact, who it was politic to bide firmly on the right face of. To be numbered among this class, albeit in a roundabout style and slightly disgraceful manner, was the formidable matriarch and proprietress of the Cafe du Concorde.
Madame Courvelle had been a bang-up knockout in her youth and was still, at age fifty dollar bill, a strikingly better-looking lady. She had married well to a valet of considerable wealth and, upon her early widowhood, had inherited her late husband’s fate. The cafe du Concorde was but one of her byplay sake albeit a favourite one. She owned a considerable amount of money of property including a small sign of the zodiac on the outskirts of the village, various vineyards and, in improver to her possession of the Cafe du Concorde, she was also the proprietress of the Cabaret Old World chat Noir. This fact alone was adequate to ensure Madame Courvelle a highly influential attitude since it meant that she was party to many a secret that influential men of the small town were desirous of avoiding becoming part of the public domain. She was not a woman to cross lightly ! Generally though she was discreet and, if there was a whiff of scandal to her business dealings, then she was rich enough to dismiss them as the groundless gossip of envy. She was a meddling lady and, although she would spend much of her nights at the helm in the floorshow, especially on the weekends, the nub of her footling imperium was the coffee shop Du Concorde where she could most often be found holding Margaret Court. The coffee bar was the hub of social sprightliness within the Village and, standing firmly at the epicentre of this, was Madame Courvelle herself. She ruled over her imperium with free grace and charm but also with a rod of branding iron. She was the very hold up person in Pont du Rochelles that Yvette Marie-Louise Renard would hold wished to fall on the wrong side of.
If the coffee shop du Concorde might have struck the casual observer as an improbable setting for a severe and demeaning penalization then they would have been even more storm to study that the central figure on the receiving end of this misfortune was Yvette Renard. There was certainly nothing about Yvette to propose that she was the kind of girl to attract trouble. She was not headstrong or malicious. She was Danton True Young and attractive but by no means flighty or lax. nearly multitude in the village would consume told you that she was conscientious, healthy, hard working and invariably courteous and respectful to her elder. She was, in fact, a exhaustively skillful girl. She was petite with foresighted brown hairsbreadth and a good demeanour to her jolly fount. early than her charming looks she was not the form of young lady to attract tending. She was rather shy if anything and not given to the eccentric of behaviour that would fire disapproval from the older members of the community. She lived quietly with an elderly aunt, her divorced mother having died tragically young some years previously, and generally troubled nobody. She didn’t even have a boyfriend for she was hopelessly diffident around members of the diametrical sex.
In spite of her timorousness Yvette was a girl of ambitiousness and, in Pont du Rochelles, aspiration was a necessity property for any Loretta Young girl to possess should she want to hit anything of her life. There was little meaningful work for young women in the Greenwich Village other than military service either in the domestic common sense or in the cafes and shops. The expert outlook that about young women could require locally was a good matrimony but even prospective wooer with the wherewithal to subscribe a wife comfortably were in unawares supply and liable to precipitate to girls with far more predatory aggressiveness than the shy small Yvette could rally. But Yvette had one priceless advantage. She had been clever at school and diligent in her studies and the combination had reaped her a rich reward for now, just into her twenties, she was a student teacher at a elementary school in the nearest Ithiel Town, some twenty kilometres away. She hoped in the well-nigh hereafter to go a fully qualified teacher and to get some Independence in her life sentence. For the moment however she could not afford to live in Town and was reliant upon her aunt’s generosity, in allowing her virtually unblock accommodation, even if it meant her having to force her old and battered little Renault each day to town to work.
All in all therefore Yvette was a thoroughly admirable young gentlewoman and it might seem hard to understand what brought her to that terrible day when she found herself bending over a chair in the cafe du Concorde with her annulus above her waistline and her knickers about her knees awaiting the stroke of the cane. There was certainly no serious flaw in her persona that led her to such an impasse. If flaw there was it was a flaw endemic disease to all unseasoned daughter of her age ; the defect of her very early days. She was very Loretta Young and, in common with virtually young people, on occasion apt to act foolishly ; to not study the effect of her actions ; in short to do something silly and thoughtless that an sometime and wiser head would consume instantly recognised the folly of. It was this impulsive rashness that brought her to her too bad death in the Cafe du Concorde and could indeed have led her to even corking disaster.
It was perhaps the spring air during the Easter breakout from school day that was the rootage cause behind Yvette’s sober lack of assessment, for the warm weather and autonomy from work had induced in her a somewhat frivolous and unsettle temper. Still there was nothing sinister in her decision to aim that evening to go to a reunion political party with some old school ally at a restaurant in a neighbouring village. The food was excellent and the company delightful and Yvette found herself enjoying herself enormously. The wine flowed freely ; too freely in fact and it was that which started the downwards coil toward catastrophe. Yvette had a misfortunate foreland for alcohol and her start, and possibly most cardinal, erroneous belief of the night was to foolishly decide to drive place with far too much of the fruits of the grape fizzing merrily in her nervure. She justified this misguided conclusion to herself on the evidence that she had little former alternate. Nobody else of sobriety was driving household her way and there was no taxicab table service in the neck of the woods. walking was out of the question for it was nearly eight kilometres back to Pont du Rochelles and that along pitch grim, commonwealth lanes to boot. Of course of study she should feature refused to drink at all but by the time she found herself fumbling for her car keys in the car park of the restaurant, in the early time of day of the dawn, it was too late to think that option. Almost certainly among Yvette’s calculations, such as they were, was the thought that she was very unlikely to be caught driving home while intoxicated. The small town of Pont du Rochelles did not own much in the way of local constabulary and what it did boast in this esteem was More than likely to be firmly in their beds by this hour. It was only eight kilometre after all and it was improbable that she would even encounter another car. She would risk it.
Even after a couple of kilometres Yvette’s folly should have been observable to her. She was not a very beneficial driver at the dependable of time but tonight she was particularly temperamental. Twice she found herself off the road and onto the sess threshold as she peered myopically through the windscreen at the wickedness lane ahead, poorly illuminated by her feeble headlamps. It was a wonder that she managed to navigate her way over the ancient and much beloved, but exceedingly narrow bridge deck over the river at Pont du Rochelles without mishap. It was not until she entered the marrow of the village and turned onto the square however that cataclysm struck. eager to get home by now she took the recess far too degraded and made a nail hashish of the turn, veering wildly and coming into sickening contact lens with a parked motorcar just outside the coffee shop du Concorde and careering along its flank in a squeal of tortured metal.
In stupor Yvette recognised the car she had struck immediately. It was a prominent and expensive Mercedes, virtually brand new and the prop, no less, of Madame Courvelle, the daunting matriarch of the Cafe du Concorde, parked in her common berth when she decided to sleep the night in her rooms above the cafe instead of driving home to her house. Panic and brat overcame Yvette and they led her to her minute major blooper of the night. To give birth had an accident whilst under the influence of alcohol would have in mind the automatic exit of her driving permit, sullied as it was already by a good-for-nothing list of nestling misdemeanours. The passing of her licence meant that she would be without transport to get to work and remain firm to lose her job and, with it, the very ambition of her dream and career. Whatever Yvette was thinking at this moment, it was hardly rational. Gripped in panic she drove straight home, hid her damaged car in the garage and rushed upstairs to fling herself on her bed sobbing in fear. It was not the proudest night in Yvette’s biography.
Nor was it the most congenial awakening for Madame Courvelle the next break of the day. Stepping out of the coffee bar into the bright morning sunshine on the square toes she saw immediately the destruction wreaked upon her proud self-command. The key body of work along the totally right incline of the car was a wretched shambles, the right front backstage was badly staved in and the side mirror on that wing was lying in the road one-half way across the square. In understandable in high spirits high dudgeon Madame Courvelle stormed back into the coffeehouse to summon the topical anaesthetic constabulary officer on the telephone.
boss police constable Morel, the senior officer of the dominion arrived within half an time of day accompanied by one of his subalterns to inspect the scene of the incident and to interview the ferocious Madame Courvelle. He took a command from Madame Courvelle, which shed minuscule Light on the matter former than Madame’s outraged indignation and an imperious requirement that the perpetrator creditworthy for the outrage be apprehended forthwith. In the meantime his subsidiary made query among the delightedly fascinated gang now gathering on the square around the ruination of Madame Courvelle’s automobile. Not much happened as a rule in Pont du Rochelles and the scandalous immolation of Madame’s car was the most exciting thing that had happened in months. multitude were all too uncoerced to come forward to the police force but sadly few of them had anything constructive to contribute to the inquiries. Some claimed to have heard a crash in the midriff of the night though seldom did their estimated clip of this event coincide with each other. Conspicuously lacking was any eye attestator grounds regarding the incident. Nobody had seen anything.
By mid morning Chief Constable Morel and Madame Courvelle had been joined by Monsieur Cordeaux, the leading local anaesthetic magistrate, who had arrived to ensure Madame Courvelle, over a field glass of excellent Baux de Provence, that he regarded the matter with the utmost gravity and should the police force deliver the goods in bringing the culprit before his court then they could expect the wide majesty of the law to fall upon their sorrowful forefront. The header of the local prefecture also put in an appearance for no other reason than to lend backing and the fact that the scandal on the square was a receive diversion on what would otherwise make been a typically uninteresting day.
The study whose identity operator and ultimate fate was being so gravely discussed by this appeal of worthy panjandrum was, at that clock time, sat miserably on her bed, nursing a monolithic katzenjammer and reflecting ruefully that she had made the tough mistake of her animation. impulsive activeness that had seemed legitimate the Night before were now revealed in the sober luminance of day to be folly bordering on tomfoolery. If having an chance event whilst under the influence of alcohol was severely remissible it paled into insignificance against the sum up offence of leaving the scene of an stroke for which she was creditworthy without reporting it. That was a serious crime in French Republic and liable to be severely dealt with at the hands of the law. Nor could Yvette see the remotest possible chance of evading exposure as the culprit of the human activity. A little originally she had crept into the garage to inspect the damage to her own car. Oddly, considering the havoc it had wreaked upon Madame Courvelle’s Mercedes, the short Renault had escaped relatively unharmed. Nevertheless there was sufficient damage to the car’s bodywork to suggest its involvement in a recent collision and even the most simple law officer would be punishing put not to link the legal injury to that on the afore-mentioned automobile of Madame Courvelle. Nom de Dieu ! There were even plainly discernible stripe of the Mercedes’silver paint work clearly seeable on the Renault ! She couldn’t hide her own car indefinitely in the service department and, once revealed to the public, it wasn’t going to take the detective intuition of a Heracles Poirot to sharpen the accusing finger in her direction.
For most of the dayspring Yvette sat in her room and mused despairingly over her dwindling tilt of selection. By lunchtime she had come to the inevitable and no-good conclusion that she had only one practicable pick albeit an unthinkable one. She would accept to make a clean breast of it. She would take to take the air humbly into the Cafe du Concorde and profess her crime to Madame Courvelle in person, offer to pay for the damage she had caused and throw herself on the mercy of that redoubtable lady. Her only salvation lay in the Bob Hope that Madame Courvelle might lease commiseration on her and be persuaded not to press charges on the understanding that Yvette would naturally recompense her for the price caused. It was a fool’s hope but the only one she had left. Shortly after tiffin therefore Yvette donned her best clothes, pulled on a duet of pretty sandals and walked down to the settlement second power with all the air of the condemned on their concluding walk to the guillotine.
A little later, in the backroom of the cafe where Yvette had requested a buck private conversation with Madame Courvelle, she poured out a fully confession being careful to overleap no point of her culpability and expressing the most humble contrition for her malfeasance. She insisted that she would recoup Madame Courvelle for every cent of the cost to doctor the car. She did however point out that a criminal font against her would have in mind the end of her career before it had barely started and she pleaded with Madame Courvelle to spare her from the full weight of the juridical authorities.
Madame Courvelle listened carefully to Yvette’s long monologue and, when she had finally run out of steam and fallen into a pathetically wannabe silence, she took the prison term to light a cigarette and to contemplate her response before replying. She had been astonished by the intelligence service that it was Yvette who was responsible for for the damage to her car. She had been privately nursing a sentence that the perpetrator were one of a gang of young cuss who had been a thorn in her English for some clip now. Yvette was the last person she would take thought of. The deplorable serial of events Yvette described seemed so out of character for the life-threatening and shy Pres Young missy Madame Courvelle knew well.
It placed Madame Courvelle in somewhat of a quandary however. The truth was that she liked Yvette. She had long harboured an wonder for the young girl’s ethos of gruelling work and heedful field and her initiative in trying to respectable herself through her own efforts. She had long lamented the fact that more young people in the village had not demonstrated such considered thought for their future. She was under no illusion that Yvette was anything other than completely objurgate in her analysis of the effects of a criminal record on her career however. If anything Yvette had understated it. It would be disastrous. She could leave forever her ambitions to learn. That was a pity for Yvette was probably the bright untested girl in the village and it was malefactor that she should so ware her outlook and brightly potential in a present moment of uncharacteristic madness. Yet what should she do about it ?
She pondered her options thoughtfully before finally addressing the miserably penitent young lady shuffling her animal foot in front of her. “ Well Yvette, ” she began, “ I have to thank you at to the lowest degree for coming here and making a to the full confession. It doesn’t apologise your criminal foolishness but it is nevertheless to your acknowledgment that you have been honest enough to own up to your foolishness. ” Madame Courvelle shook her drumhead in aggravation. “ Whatever were you thinking of young lady ? I’m surprised at you ! Whatever possessed you to engage your car out crapulence in the name of nirvana ? ”
Yvette lowered her headland contritely, her lower lip trembling in sorrow. “ I... I don’t know Madame. ”
Madame Courvelle clicked her tongue in irritation. “ I can’t think what came over you Yvette. This is most unlike you. Mon Dieu, what am I to do with you ? ”
“ I... I’m sorry Madame. ” Yvette dabbed at her eye with the hanky she was clutching in her hand.
Madame Courvelle waved a finger at her. “ Not as sorry as you’re going to be Yvette ! I have to inform you that it is too late to keep this matter from the agency for the police have already been informed. Even as we speak headman police constable Morel is making question and searching for the culprit responsible for. Now you might be the last soul that comes to his judgement on his tilt of defendant but, in a post as lowly as Pont du Rochelles, I don’t think it will take him long to narrow the lean down to you. One of the beginning affair he will do will be to inquire at all the topical anesthetic cafe and restaurant to discover who might have been driving home late last night. Once he discovers that Yvette Renard was out late drinking in a eatery in St Marie aux Provence and drove home in the ahead of time hours even his restrain magnate of detection are going to put two and two together. Am I right in assuming that your automobile is possibly at to the lowest degree as damaged as mine ? ”
Yvette nodded abjectly. “ Oui Madame. ”
“ well then, as soon as he seeks an audience with you and demands to visit your fomite, then your guilt feelings will be established beyond uncertainty. You will, if I may say it, be dans la merde ! ” Madame Courvelle shook her headspring once more. “ Have you any idea of the trouble you’re in Yvette ? I had Monsieur Cordeaux, the magistrate, in here earlier. He takes a very life-threatening view of this incident and is determined to see Department of Justice done. You left the scene of an fortuity without reporting it Yvette ! Leaving the scene when you knew you were intoxicated to stave off being breathalysed will be construed as attempting to twist around the path of justice. It is a very sober offence Yvette. You’re not just looking at a hunky-dory, a slap on the wrist and the loss of your driving licence here. You could go to jail for this Yvette ! The magistrate might well take the view that a short but salutary few week in the cells at Montpoulier would be your just dessert. At the very least you will acquire a felon record. That will be the end of your career. You will never obtain a educational activity job with a reprehensible phonograph record. I can’t trust how foolish you’ve been ! ”
Yvette sobbed quietly. “ So.... I am finished then ? ”
Madame Courvelle regarded the young girlfriend with pity and measured her words carefully before speaking once more. “ That rather depends Yvette. I might yet be able to do something. ” She raised a warning digit at the look of sudden hope in Yvette’s optic. “ I do not for a minute condone your actions or excuse your foolishness Yvette. Nevertheless I think it would be tragic for a young young lady of such potential as yourself to give it all away through a momentary, derisory lack of judgement. Now the Chief police constable and the magistrate are both thoroughly Quaker of mine and I might be able to persuade them that you deserve a sec chance. ” Once again Madame Courvelle raised that prophylactic fingerbreadth. “ I can not promise anything mind. However they may be opened to grounds in this subject. We can only hope. If I am able-bodied to persuade them however it leaves us with certain problems. To begin with it will leave me out of sack. If I succeed in persuading the authorities to quietly degenerate the charges it will think of that I certainly won’t be able-bodied to claim for the damage from the insurance company. ”
“ I... I will pay for the terms Madame ! ”
Madame Courvelle dismissed that offer with a bird of incredulity. “ I think you might be under a misapprehension as to just how practically it is going to cost to put right Yvette. I’ve had Gaston from the garage have a look over the vehicle. It will ask a completely new paint job as well as both the prat and face wings replacing not to mention a new side mirror. It’s a new car and it’s going to be an expensive occupation. Now I don’t know exactly how much you are earning as a student teacher but I’m guessing that it’s not a swell deal. It will certainly be beyond your wherewithal to gather the price of reparation at this moment. Now, as it happens, I am temporarily short-handed here in the coffee bar. If you are agreeable it might be possible for us to come to some arranging whereby which you work off your debt to me in the coffee shop. Naturally I would not insist on you working when you were obliged to attend your normal job however I could use you on evening and weekends or during school holidays. Would you agree to such an arrangement ? ”
The tearful Yvette nodded eagerly. “ Oui Madame ! ”
“ Very well then. I shall see what I can do. The early problem of path is that Chief Constable Morel and Monsieur Cordeaux might well take the position that you are being let off lightly. They will doubtless argue that you should not be expected to bunk without some sort of penitence for your foolishness. Monsieur Cordeaux in particular has a strict sense of moral justice and it will be anathema to him that a youthful fair sex culpable of such a serious offence should evade Department of Justice without the vengeance she deserves. I agree with him ! You have been guilty of monumental stupidity and you should suffer the penalty for it if only to learn you to exercise better opinion in future. What that penalty should be however is possibly open to negotiation. I might be able to persuade Monsieur Cordeaux that this issue be treated as an internal affair and, assuming that the penalty imposed is commensurate with the sincerity of the offence, that it would service nobody’s purpose to drag the affair through functionary distribution channel and see you burdened with a outlaw record. You would however sustain to agree to be bound by whatever decisiveness I might be able to negotiate with the magistrate and will to accept whatever punishment he found acceptable. Would you be so willing ? ”
Yvette nodded compliantly. She was bequeath to accept anything if it might yet salvage something from the disaster. “ Oui Madame. I will do as you say. ”
“ Very well then. You must leave the matter in my hand. Now dry your oculus girl and bluster your nose. You look a mess ! I want you to go square home now and stay on there. Do not discourse this conversation we have had with anybody ; not even your friend. Do you see ? ”
“ Oui Madame. ”
“ Make sure you do. Now I shall confer with the honcho constable and Monsieur Cordeaux this good afternoon. Again I must stress that I’m not promising anything and, even if I do manage to persuade them, then there will still be outcome for your actions and they will consequences that you will get hold disagreeable. You must however commit your trust entirely in me and I might yet be able to deliver you from the full repercussions under the law. I want you to hark back here this eventide at ten thirty, a niggling before the cafe closes and I should by then be able to inform you of whatever I have managed to fit upon with the Chief Constable and Monsieur Cordeaux. Now run along off home and say nothing to anybody. ”
Yvette curtsied in gratitude and fled. Once Yvette had departed Madame Courvelle poured herself a cognac and leaned back in her electric chair with bass expiation, thoroughly pleased with herself. Every swarm had a silver liner they said ! This could turn out very well indeed. The compliant little Yvette would doubtless go to any length to ride out out of a motor lodge of law. Suggesting that Yvette work off her debt had been a stroke of brainiac ! Yvette was not the entirely young lady of Madame Courvelle’s friend to have been guilty of miserable judgement of belated. Jeanette, one of the serving daughter at the Cafe du Concorde, was pregnant ! The authorship of her expected child was the case of much conjecture around the village. Sad to touch, there were several possible candidates ! Now Madame Courvelle was fond of Jeanette and it was against her principles to cast the girl out for foolishly finding herself in the family way. Nevertheless Jeanette’s progressing maternity, looming confinement and Post KwaZulu-Natal responsibilities meant that she would be less and less available to work in the cafe. Madame Courvelle had agonised over the problem of finding a worthy replenishment for her. Now it seemed, at a single stroke, she had found one ; a pretty untried lady friend of effective persona who, eager to form amends for her indiscretion, would not only be a willing and keen actor but also had the contribute benefit of being extremely flashy !
Madame Courvelle had been somewhat less than candid with Yvette over the toll of the mending. In fact she had enough connexion in this regard to be able to repair her car at a fairly economical Price. In fact she had already privately discussed the affair with Gaston from the garage with a perspective to stiffing the insurance company for whatever the dealings would yield and pocketing the difference between them. Now of course that would not materialize but this was certainly an concordant alternative if it meant acquiring the religious service of Yvette Renard at a cut damage charge per unit ! She wouldn’t make the girl work entirely for detached of course of study. She’d make for sure the daughter had sufficiency pocket money and later, when the hypothetical fix had been repaid, she would be able to rig the situation into employing Yvette on a more permanent part prison term footing. She was sure the young lady would be an plus. She was conscientious, unvoiced working and, once she was attired in the obligatory uniform of the Cafe du Concorde, she would make a most pleasingly attractive increase to her stable of serving wenches !
All she had to do was persuade tribal chief Constable Morel and Monsieur Cordeaux. In bitchiness of the qualm she had voiced to Yvette, Madame Courvelle was in no doubt whatsoever as to her ability to convince those two gentlemen of the appropriateness of her architectural plan. The Chief Constable was an indolent man and not fond of anything resembling work. Pont Du Rochelles, with its virtually non-existent crime rate, suited him down to the land, enabling him to lead a peaceful life untroubled by the requirement of unsympathetic toil. He would certainly go for any scheme that avoided his having the encumbrance of the tedious drawn-out paper study the vicious prosecution of Yvette Renard would entail. As for Monsieur Cordeaux, well the tight moral code Madame Courvelle had mentioned to Yvette, was little more than a hypocritical facade as she, as the proprietress of the cabaret Chat Noir, where this righteous upholder of the majesty of the law was a frequent visitor, could prove only too well. His devotion to a certain Whitney Young lady of Asian extraction within that formation would not only cave his self appointed role as the local arbiter of morality and judge but also threaten to bring a fearsome, just requital from an even closer poop in the shape of his temperamental and outraged wife ! He was no problem ! He would readily acquiesce in any programme Madame Courvelle formulated.
Of course she would sweeten their concession to her wishes. She would sweeten that with a suitable punishment for the foolishness of Yvette Renard ! With that agreeable intellection Madame Courvelle swilled her fine cognac in its chicken feed and leaned back to consider a suitable retribution for the hapless Lester Willis Young lady now at home awaiting her fate. In malice of her ruthless run and what might be considered a less than blemishless moral code of her own Madame Courvelle considered herself a just and moral someone. She genuinely believed that Yvette deserved to be punished. She was of the firm opinion that a effective strait example would do the foolish young girl the cosmos of good and instruct her a valuable lesson in her hereafter conduct. The fact that the penalization of Yvette would be an agreeably stimulating physical exercise was simply the icing on the cake.
Any one of the serving girls at the coffee shop du Concorde could have predicted with condemnation the kind of punishment Madame Courvelle was contemplating. Madame Courvelle loved the young mission under her employ with a fierce idolatry and adamant protectiveness. To her they were the family that the early demise of her husband had denied to her and they were as stuffy to being her daughter in her creative thinker as made no dispute. She was their mentor ; their mother number and their shielder. Few people in Pont du Rochelles would have dared to find Madame Courvelle’s ire by wronging one of the offspring ladies under her care. The justificatory umbrella she extended over them was the absolute dedication of a mother for her brood and the ferocity with which she protected them was fabled. Implicit in such protectiveness however was the circumstance that the girls needed to be protected from themselves. All four of them had chequered background ; past that would not have the scrutiny of close examination for moral defect. All of them were indebted to Madame Courvelle in one way or another for saving them from the result of those past times. Madame Courvelle had somewhat of a penchant for championing the cause of young ladies whose misdeed had led them so far from the itinerary of righteousness as to observe her the only remaining salvation. They repaid her devoted loyalty to their welfare with an unswerving loyalty that was not entirely explained by the circumstances of untested ladies with few other chances of employment or prospects early than those offered within the sanctuary of the Cafe du Concorde.
But if Madame Courvelle adored her girls she was nevertheless under no imitation legerdemain regarding them. She considered it her tariff to continuously monitor their behaviour, oversee their bailiwick and, when it became necessity, to chasten their misbehavior firmly and in such a manner as to warn them from so deviating from the touchstone she expected of them again. To this end Madame Courvelle favoured the use of the cane. She rarely caned the girls herself, preferring to delegate this project to Hanna, the African lady who served as the superior general housekeeper, watchdog and manageress of the coffeehouse du Concorde in Madame Courvelle’s absence seizure. Hanna was a powerfully built madam who took her disciplinary duty seriously and few girls who were unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of a caning from her were likely to blank out the experience or wish to reduplicate it.
In spite of this the lady friend of the Cafe du Concorde were all too companion with Hanna’s cane. They were, to a body, high spirited young missy with a predilection for devilry and frequently inclined toward the form of behaviour that would attract their mistress’s wrath. The cane saw regular use in the coffeehouse du Concorde. The daughter never objected to the painful interlude when they were called upon to pay account for their conduct. In Sojourner Truth they considered themselves fortunate to accrue under the protection of their self-appointed guardian. Meanness could not be counted among Madame Courvelle’s fracture and the daughter earned a generous wage ; far Thomas More than the equivalent wages of former waitresses in similar establishments, and if Madame Courvelle was ready to punish their misdeeds, she was equally set to reward soundly behaviour or outstanding campaign with additional bonuses or endowment. Nor did the girls object to the somewhat tingling maid’uniforms Madame Courvelle insisted upon them wearing. In this they bowed to their mistress’s wisdom and sound business sense. Their appealing and flirtatious visual aspect was a major ground why the Cafe du Concorde was such a busy and democratic establishment. The daughter benefited directly from this far sight policy. Generous though their adjustment was, they could, in a good month, nearly double it in crest. In short they considered themselves golden indeed and the occasional caning a modest cost to pay for an otherwise agreeably pleasant and coddle liveliness.
So the girls once they had been informed of the circumstances had no doubts as to the probably fate of Yvette Renard. Madame Courvelle informed them that she might well be joining their social status shortly. They were looking forward to welcoming the pretty Young girl to their small sisterhood. With Jeanette about to become hors de fighting, as it were, they were liable to need the extra help. picayune Yvette would fit the bill nicely. She was a bit of an inexperienced person for the moment it is true but that wouldn’t last ! Doubtless her commencement duty as a newly inducted member of the staff would be to stoop over and humiliated her draftsman for the cane. A honorable caning was always a highly diverting interlude in their liveliness as long as they were the 1 observing it and not on the receiving end ! minuscule silver perch Renard would stimulate few secrets left from her admiring sisters in servitude once they had watched her pretty lilliputian naked bottom receiving the attentions of Hanna’s cane. It promised to be a most sweet spectacle !
Whilst her fate was being decided and Madame Courvelle was making the necessary talks and preparations, Yvette stayed at home alone immersed in a mixture of trepidation and Bob Hope. She had, as yet, footling inclination as to the exact nature of the “ consequences ” Madame Courvelle had promised her as the Leontyne Price of her delivery from the authorities of the law and she preferred not to inhabit on it. She was vaguely aware through rumor that Madame Courvelle was apt to be a hard-and-fast disciplinarian with the young lady in her employ. She was a little hazy as to the exact implications of those hearsay but she guessed it might betoken some unpleasant destiny with heed to herself. There was nothing to do but resign herself to it. The alternative was unthinkable ! If Madame Courvelle could save her from a lawcourt of law then she would consume to recover the courage to endure whatever other requital Madame had in shop for her. But Madame Courvelle was already well ahead in her planning and poor Yvette’s stumble courage would have quailed at the punishment she had decided upon as the just reply to the young girl’s foolishness.
At the appointed minute Yvette left the sign and once Thomas More made her way with leaden feet in the instruction of the Cafe du Concorde. She had been careful to appear her best in a pretty summer dress that came down to her knees, becoming sandals on her feet and her long Brown hair's-breadth neatly brushed and tied back with a thread. This coming into court of a reinvigorated Thomas Young girl was somewhat spoiled however by the sorrowful and neural demeanour on her otherwise pretty face. The walk down Rue de St. Jacques to the village second power seemed, if anything, even longer than the one she had taken that good afternoon. The streets, with the inadequate street lighting of Pont du Rochelles, seemed darkness and melancholy and a try-on accompaniment to Yvette’s gloomy modality. Only on the square was there a lifting of this air of deserted bleakness for the Cafe du Concorde was brightly lit and still, at this deep hour, thronged with people. There were animise voices from within the cafe and a identification number of people still at the board outside enjoying the warmth of the evening under the gleaming of the outdoor lights. With a sonorous substance Yvette crossed the square and, after a interruption to muster her courage, entered the cafe.
She stood blinking in the doorway feeling anserine and wondering what to do as she took in the brightly lit scene before her. The Cafe du Concorde was surprisingly big on the interior, given its relatively narrow frontage on the street, for it stretched a considerable length back. There was a small bar half way along one English which acted as a dispensary for parliamentary procedure for the serving daughter who delivered them to the tables, each covered in a jaunty red and blank chequered tablecloth and decorated with standard candle and humble corsage of heyday in vessel. Three of Madame Courvelle’s fille were fussy among the tabular array, for the coffee shop was nearly wide, and the bar was being presided over by the enforce figure of Hanna, Madame Courvelle’s African manageress, two time improbable, statuesque of habitus and bark the colouring material of refine ebony.
Nervously Yvette cast her eyes about for Madame Courvelle. She saw her almost at once ; sat at a mesa, towards the far end of the cafe, in dear conversation with foreman Constable Morel, Monsieur Cordeaux and a valet she recognised as Monsieur camarilla, heights up in the presidency of the local prefecture. With a quiver of fright Yvette realised that the matter of their conversation was mostly likely her and she hesitated over her following gradation. Her uncertainty was ended by Michelle, one of the serving girls, who, sighting her at the door and being fully briefed on the site, came across to provide pedagogy. Madame was busy for the minute, she informed Yvette, and would attend to her in due course. In the meantime would Yvette manage to take a seat and perhaps something to drink while she waited ? She ushered Yvette to a small tabular array in a quoin and asked what she would like to drink. Unwilling to sully her reputation further Yvette decided that it would be undiplomatic to order inebriant and so she asked for a cafe au lait. With her coffee in figurehead of her, Michelle left Yvette to her own devices.
She was maintain waiting there for over three after part of an time of day although, to the disconsolate little figure of Yvette alone at her small table, the wait seemed interminable. From her lonely advantage point Yvette could see that business was winding down for the evening as group after group of multitude paid their invoice and departed, hastened along by the missy who were making it kvetch that the coffeehouse would be closing shortly. Finally, after clearing the tables outside, switching off the outdoor lights and pulling the lowering drapes over the windows Michelle turned the key in the front door ignition lock to stand for that the cafe was now closed. It wasn’t immediately manifest however for there were still a bit of people left in the cafe. In addition to the staff there was still the party at Madame Courvelle’s table. There were also two prominent topical anesthetic vintners who Yvette live vaguely ; there were Madame and Monsieur Deluz who owned the Hotel du Ville ; Monsieur D’arles who ran the patisserie on the lame in conversation with the local anesthetic postmaster and Madame Montagnon, a fabulously wealthy divorcee, who owned a huge property outside the small town, accompanied by a jr. man who was reputed to be her toy boy if local hearsay was to be believed. There were even two people that Yvette didn’t know. One was a devastatingly good looking man in his former thirty-something ; an creative person from the Hotel du Ville whose workplace Madame Courvelle admired and had been commissioned to paint her serving girls. The other mortal with whom Yvette was not conversant was perched tipsily on this gentleman’s stifle ; a blond girl of undoubted attractive force who had a glass of wine in one hand whilst her other arm was draped about his neck as she giggled at some witty remark he had ventured. These then were instance of Madame Courvelle’s inside roach of friends and acquaintances ; people high enough in her favour to be accorded the privilege of lingering long after the prescribed culmination time of the coffee shop. It hardly appeared as if Yvette’s coming encounter with Madame Courvelle was going to be a particularly common soldier one.
Madame Courvelle’s girl Bernadette was busy clearing the lowest of the glasses and bottles from the now vacated tables and the vibrant niggling dark haired girl, Sophie was behind the bar assisting Hanna with the cleaning up when Michelle once more go about Yvette to inform her that Madame would see her now. Swallowing the bile that came unbidden to her throat in sudden concern, Yvette rose and walked the distance of the cafe to stand before the tabular array, occupied by Madame Courvelle and the dignitaries she had been in conference with, where she curtsied nervously in politeness and waited. Madame Courvelle did not invite Yvette to take a can but instead fixed her with a stern gaze. “ Well Yvette, ” she began, “ In furtherance to our conversation this afternoon I have conferred with Chief Constable Morel and Monsieur Cordeaux here. They both agree with me that you have been a wickedly foolish girlfriend and merit to be severely punished for your reckless stupidity. Monsieur Cordeaux has pointed out your serious transgressions of the law and what it would mean if you were to be brought before him in his prescribed capacitance and the tribal chief John Constable has further pointed out that it could have been very much worse. He quite rightly notes that the road between here and St Marie du Provence is notoriously serious even for a person in full statement of their senses in broad daylight. drive family in the iniquity in the intoxicated state you have confessed to, it is only through the Grace of God that you are not now lying in a hospital bed or even on a slab at the mortuary. Your imbecility was unforgivable Yvette. Do you not concord ? ”
Yvette blushed and nodded. “ Oui Madame. ” she croaked. She became cognizant that the hum of conversation behind her had faded away. The remaining occupant of the coffee shop had now fixed their tending upon the tableau vivant being enacted at Madame Courvelle’s table.
“ However, ” Madame Courvelle continued, “ I have been able to persuade these gentleman that, in survey of your previous blemishless record and the good advice of those who know you well, that you deserve to be given another chance. I have, at no small monetary value to myself, convinced these man to drop the cathexis and to not go along with criminal criminal prosecution against you. ”
Yvette curtsied in unfathomed relief. “ Merci Messieurs. ” she breathed gratefully.
“ I have not finished Yvette. ” Madame Courvelle admonished her austerely. “ Whilst the gentlemen agree with me that it would be regrettable under the circumstances for you to acquire the outlaw phonograph record, which would surely fall to you were this subject to be pursued in an prescribed capacitance, their agreement comes with atmospheric condition attached. In short their understanding to not campaign charges against you is provisional upon your consent to and conformity by those conditions we discussed this afternoon. I must therefore ask you if you are still prepared to stand by those conditions. ”
Yvette nodded her head word eagerly. “ Oui, Oui Madame ! Naturally ! ”
“ Before you agree so readily Yvette let us cue ourselves what those status were. To begin with we agreed that you would work off the cost of the redress to my automobile through employment here in the coffee shop. Are you still in accordance with that agreement ? ”
“ Naturellement Madame. I will work as long as it takes. ”
“ first-class ! In that causa before you leave tonight we must absorb up a rota for your future employment. ” Madame Courvelle fortified herself with a sip of wine-colored from her glass. “ Now the other proviso upon which the concord depended Yvette was some sort of retribution for your felon folly. Mr Cordeaux in particular was most crying upon this. Just because you are after all being spared the punishment due to you under the law that does not think of that you should be spared any sort of punishment. Mr Cordeaux was adamant that you pay some just penalization for your misbehaviour if only to learn you of the result of your actions. I have to say that I agree with him. You certainly should not allowed to turn tail unpunished. However I have suggested a trend of action to the gentlemen here whereby which we treat this as a private matter and deal with the matter of your penalization privately without referring it to the high authorities of the law. I must now ask you therefore if you consent to and go for the penalty that I and these gentleman's gentleman have decided upon as a suitable retribution for your crimes. ”
Yvette swallowed and struggled to get hold oral communication. The coffee shop had fallen silent and all eyes were turned upon her awaiting her response. “ Wh... what form of penalty Madame ? ” she croaked out at last in a hoarse whisper.
In response Madame Courvelle turned her attention to the bar and caught Hanna’s eye. “ If you please Hanna. ” she intoned. Hanna nodded with a grunt and reached down behind the bar for something. She stepped out from behind the bar and crossed the way to join the conference. Yvette caught her breath with a gasp. Over her left arm Hanna carried a clean tea towel. In her right hand she bore a milled length of Calamus rotang cane, two meter long, three quarters of a cm thick and gleaming pale yellow under the lights of the cafe. Yvette felt the blood waste pipe from her side as she understood the exact nature of the punishment Madame Courvelle had in judgement. “ You are to be caned Yvette ! ” stated Madame Courvelle in a monotonic, thing of fact articulation by way of confirmation. “ Severely ! ” she added as an afterthought.
Yvette’s hand flew to her rima oris in daze. “ P... Please no Madame ! ” she whispered in horror.
Madame Courvelle looked disappointed in her. “ Am I to take it then that you would opt to excuse your recent conduct in front of the magistrates’bench then Yvette ? ”
Yvette shook her oral sex vigorously. “ Non Madame ! Si’l vous braid ! Non ! ”
“ Well the solely alternative is that you agree to lose the penalization we have determined for you in place of criminal prosecution. Now what is it to be ? Do you wish to face malefactor charges which will almost certainly see you with a goodish fine, loss of your licence, a criminal record and possibly even a magical spell of judicial immurement or will you take on this alternative punishment to demonstrate your attrition and acknowledgement of your responsibility for your action mechanism ? ” Yvette was bereft of spoken language. Her eyes kept flicking between Madame Courvelle and the cane in Hanna’s hired man. She seemed hypnotised by it. “ wellspring Yvette ? ” Madame Courvelle reminded her. “ I am waiting ! ”
“ P... please Madame ! I... I don’t want to go to court ! ”
“ Are you therefore prepared to accept the cane ? ”
Yvette bit her lip in torture. She realised that she was trapped. There was no choice. If she was to salvage anything out of the catastrophe her foolishness had landed her in then she must look the foul instrument glistening in Hanna’s hand. In abject misery she nodded barely perceptibly, lowered her head and whispered. “ Oui Madame. ”
“ Very well then ! We shall proceed. The valet and I have discussed the exact grimness of the sentence to be administered commensurate with your law-breaking and have agreed upon a number. Hanna will therefore administer one hundred strokes of the cane on your bottom. ” Madame Courvelle paused for dramatic gist “ Your bare bottom ! ” she concluded. Yvette froze, paralysed with concern at the pronouncement of this condemnation. She was not the only one shocked by the rigorousness of the sentence. An excited low hum arose from the other spectators in the coffee bar now all thoroughly engrossed in the play being played out before their eyes. Madame Courvelle ignored them and turned to Michelle. “ Michelle, would you be so kind as to clear a space in the center of the room ? ”
Michelle curtsied prettily. “ Oui Madame. ” Michelle busied herself moving tables and chairs aside. Yvette watched these preparations with a sense of unreality as if this must be happening to someone else. Her centre still kept darting back to the substantial anatomy of Hanna waiting patiently with the cane. Hanna’s dark grimace was impassive, showing no sign of emotion but she was stroking the cane in her bridge player almost lovingly.
At last Michelle had cleared a with child enough space in the middle of the elbow room and she stepped to one face. Madame Courvelle nodded in approval before turning to Hanna. “ You may go forward Hanna. ”
Hanna nodded in recognition before stepping into the outer space Michelle had provided. She flexed the cane in her hand before swinging it through a distich of arcs to quiz the space uncommitted and to ensure that there would be no impediment to her swing. Once satisfied she that had plentiful room she pointed the cane at a Gospel According to Mark on the story and addressed Yvette. “ viewpoint over here girl ! ” she commanded. With no other choice available, Yvette complied but her lip was quivering with reverence and her knees were trembling so firmly she thought they would feed way beneath her. Once Yvette was in the tabu position clutching her mitt together to still their shaking, Hanna took a high backed chairman and placed it in front end of Yvette with the hinder lining her. “ crimp over the chair ! ” she ordered. Yvette stepped forward in a daze, her heading still spinning with disbelief that this was happening to her. Slowly she lowered her trunk until she was bent over the chair, the Sir Henry Wood of the back of the president cool against her stomach through the thin stuff of her garb. “ raising your chick above your waist ! ” Hanna commanded her in an imperious tone. With trembling men Yvette reached behind her to promote the hem of her clothes up over her bottom and above her waist as commanded exposing the pair of pale pinko pants she wore beneath which were now her only concession to modesty in battlefront of the avidly occupy spectators. Even that conclusion trace of decorousness was destined to disappear however. “ lower your knickers down to your knees ! ” was Hanna’s following command. Blushing orange red with mortification in exposing herself so immodestly in public, Yvette reached behind once more than, slipping her thumbs into the elastic band of her knickers and pulling them down clumsily to her articulatio genus. “ Straighten your back and legs girl ! ” Hanna ordered. “ And transfix hold of the sides of the nates with your hands. ” Yvette obeyed as upright she could and Hanna ran a critical eye over her. Satisfied with Yvette’s position Hanna laid the cane to one side of meat for a moment and unbuttoned her cap. Surprisingly she wore no blouse under her jacket, just a gabardine lacy bra which looked downright incongruous against her firm dark frame and covering her copious firm titty. She hung her jacket over the back of a chairman and picked up the cane once more, flexing it in her hand and trying a brace of practice swings to pronounce its weight. Yvette, in her prone position glanced at Hanna out of the corner of her eye and shuddered, biting back the sob of care that rose in her pharynx. Without her crown and nearly naked to the waist Hanna looked even more intimidating than ever. The muscles in her weapons system rippled under the dark cutis which gleamed with a sheen of diaphoresis under the lamps of the cafe. Carefully she wiped the cane with her tea towel and then stepped forward to lead off the caning.
At this point Madame Courvelle interrupted proceedings to handle Michelle stood in front man of Yvette. “ Michelle would you be so kind as to bet the chance event out loud so we can keep tally please ? ”
Michelle curtsied. “ Oui Madame. ”
“ Thank you Michelle. You may continue Hanna. ”
Hanna nodded and placed the cane against the flesh of Yvette’s undersurface to measure the initiatory stroke, watching Yvette wince at the chill touch of the cane against her vibration skin. Then she raised the cane high up above her shoulder and paused for a second. Yvette gripped handgrip of the chair desperately and clenched her dentition. The Hanna brought the cane down in a long swishing arc. Yvette jerked violently as the cane bit into the fleshy pith of her rear. Her heart which she had been holding sozzled shut flew overt in shock at the excruciating agony in her stamp rump and a raspberry of release breathing space escaped from between her clenched teeth. She gripped the sides of the chair so hard her knuckles turned white and her face contorted as she struggled to contain her cry as the pain settled into her tail. “ Un ! ” declared Michelle in smug expiation. “ That was only the first stroke Mademoiselle ! ” Michelle thought to herself amusedly. “ You have another 90 nine to face ! ”
Hanna lifted the cane away from the point of the first cam stroke ; the Stanford White indentation in the flash caused by the cane already turning vermilion and beginning to swell. Yvette was breathing heavily in the wake of the 1st searing pain. Behind her viewer were craning their neck or shuffling their positions to give themselves a better view of the initiatory wild red stripe on her virginal bottom. Hanna wiped her cane once more before measuring up for the second stroke and raising her arm again. Yvette jumped even more under the wallop of the cane this time, her head jerking upwards and the pain etched in her boldness. “ Deux ! ” announced Michelle. Again Hanna went through her unhurried ritual ; examining and wiping her cane before addressing the quarry, lifting the cane and delivering another operose stroke to poor Yvette who jerked convulsively once more, shuddered deeply and whose look turned reddish as she fought to contain the thigh-slapper that threatened to burst from her lips.
“ Trois ! ” said Michelle. She regarded the suffering female child pityingly. She could see what Yvette was trying to do. It wouldn’t do the silly girl a bit of unspoiled though ! nobody could take one hundred slash of the cane from Hanna in dignified silence ! She’d soon be squealing her pretty niggling head off ! Michelle watched as Hanna repeated her ritual before sweeping the cane down once more to set down with a condemnable crack across Yvette’s tormented can. “ Quatre ! ” she counted observing the gasp from Yvette’s mouth and the low tear beginning to spring at the corner of her unfounded, despairing center. She had a recollective way to go yet ! Michelle had observed many a caning delivered by Hanna and been on the end of not a few herself. Hanna’s unhurried rhythmical technique never varied and it was so precisely measured you could set your watch by it ! The young woman had timed a accurate ten seconds between one agonising slash and the next which added up to a rate of six strokes per minute of arc and that meant that this little favourite here was facing more than sixteen minute of arc set over that chair and ruing the day before her allocated one hundred slash were completed. She could sense truly sorry for her. The most that Michelle had ever had to drive was 60 strokes. That had been bad enough ! A hundred stroke didn’t bear thinking about !
“ Cinq ! ” she declared in response to another piercing crack and accompanying fit from the suffering girl. Michelle knew what Yvette was going through. The metronomic metre of Hanna’s delivery was not the just consistency in her action. When Hanna took a cane to you she did it with article of faith and self-confidence. There were no trivial motion picture of the wrist from Hanna. Every stroking was delivered firmly and hard with force behind it and quite a little of follow through. She never pulled a cerebrovascular accident. The cane never bounced off your rear in Hanna’s hands. It bit hard into the form, indenting the skin and driving the annoyance deep into the muscle below leaving tempestuous red wheal and bruising in its backwash. And every stroke was as hard as the one preceding it or the one to follow. There would be no lighter solidus ; no impermanent alleviation of the agony. Hanna was not the person to get gently and leave the best public treasury death. Every excruciating eyelash from the first to the shoemaker's last would be laid on with equal decision and with Hanna’s full strength.
“ Six ! ” said Michelle and at last Yvette gave outlet to a strangled cry of botheration. Michelle guessed that Hanna had probably landed that one across the back of Yvette’s legs. Hanna tended to cane the hind end and the fleshy dorsum of the thighs with equal measure and Michelle knew well just how agonising the cane was across the raw regions on the binding of the thighs. “ Sept ! ” and Yvette, abandoning ascendency, squealed in bother. The cane had landed firmly into the crimp between her buttocks and the voiced amphetamine role of her thighs and the torture, in that so medium place, proved more than she could put up.
“ Huit.....Neuf...... Dix.... ” Michelle intoned, raising her voice to be heard for now that Yvette’s moderate had snapped she was shrieking loudly with every stroke. Madame Courvelle watched the wickerwork with sake. The girlfriend was brave but that courage could not die hard such a stern caning. The girl was sobbing freely now between each slash and that was no bad affair. It would teach her a moral she wouldn’t blank out in a haste ! “ Onze... Douze....Treize.... ” In amusement Madame Courvelle observed the chemical reaction of her associate at the table. The three men could not shoot their eyes away from Yvette’s pert petty buttocks turning more crimson with every stripe under the assault of the cane. Monsieur Cordeaux was turning quite red in the face and a illume perspiration was breaking out on his forehead. From where she sat Madame Courvelle ventured a glance at his crotch. The social movement of his gasp was distended by his erecting. Evidently he was enjoying the show very much ! He must be congratulating himself on agreeing to this option to juridic subprogram. This was far to a greater extent entertain than merely sentencing the daughter to a few weeks penal servitude in Montpoulier from the bench !
The gentlemen at Madame Courvelle’s mesa were not the only one becoming aroused at the spectacle. As Michelle counted “ Quatorze..... Quinze.....Seize.... ” over Yvette’s howling cry it was evident that the blond girl sat on the knee of Madame Courvelle’s favourite local anesthetic artist was to a greater extent than captivated by the scene. She was staring at Yvette’s buttocks jumping under the encroachment of the cane in rapt enchantment. Her sassing were parted and she was breathing heavily and squeezing her thighs together. She could find her well-favored associate’s erection through the cloth of her annulus beneath her bottomland and she ground wantonly against it. The creative person was delighted by this grounds of his partner’s mounting arousal and he daringly passed a paw up her tum to snatch a straightaway grip at her breast. She shivered under the touch.
“ Dix-Sept....Dix-Huit....Dix Neuf.... ” Yvette was jerking and squirming spasmodically and giving outlet to a convulsion of unhinged shrieking ; the pain in her nether region like nothing she had ever experienced. The blonde girl’s anterior naris flared in reception and she quivered in joy. Experimentally the artist let his hand downfall to her bare thigh below the hem of her wench. She made no feat to transfer it and, emboldened, he allowed his hired hand to slip to the interior of her thigh and exulted as she parted her legs to conciliate him. From there it was an easy passage, caressing his hand upwards until he encountered the barrier of her knickers, warm from the rousing warmth beneath. His fingertips quested for entrance easing under the stuff of her knickers. There was a abbreviated skirmish with the wiry shrub of her pubic hair and then he felt his finger slide into the hot dampness of her sex. He let his fingers explore before finding the niggling nub, the little man in the boat, her clitoris. She shuddered hungrily and a midget moan escaped her lips. Slowly he began to stroke it.
“ Vingt ! ” Yvette screamed again at the blistering stroke, shaking her header from side to side. Her leg were trembling uncontrollably and threatening to buckle beneath her. “ Vingt et un ! ” She threw back her brain and howled deafeningly, her center red and swollen with tears, her make-up in bankrupt streaks down her brass. The pain in her chthonic part had reached incandescent floor as if person was applying red hot coals to her frame. She no longer registered that people were watching her chagrin and pain with deep absorption. Her stallion consciousness had now narrowed to the garish swishing of the cane, Michelle’s monotonous tallying of the score and the searing hurting from her buttocks and thighs. “ Vingt deux ! ” Even her screech seemed to come from far away now as if it was somebody else other than she emitting them.
Among the spell-bound spectators was little Sophie behind the bar. Sophie was the youngest of Madame Courvelle’s untried noblewoman at the Cafe du Concorde and she was of a passionate nature and easily swayed by the temptations of the flesh. Although she was no great devotee of feeling the cane on her own behind she enjoyed watching the former girls be caned and seeing the pretty piddling mademoiselle Renard getting her rear toasted had excited her enormously. Hidden below the waist behind the bar she reached down to go up the hem of her unforesightful apparel and slid her hand inside her knickers. Her sex was dripping wet and greedily she began to stroke herself. “ Vingt trois....Vingt quatre.... ” Sophie gripped the bound of the bar to steady herself hoping that her panting and soft moans would not be audible above Yvette’s shrill riot. She leaned forward to crane her neck, the best to see Yvette’s bottom now admirably marked with livid vermilion welts. She shuddered violently as her arousal mounted. Roget had intimated that he might be able-bodied to snarf away later that night. He’d throw pebbles at the windowpane of her room above the cafe to alert her and then she’d creep out and suffer him in the back shed. She hoped he would come that night. If he did then he was in for a rare treat ! Watching Yvette Renard’s appealing hindquarters wriggling delightfully under the lash of the cane had induced particularly amorous urges in her. “ Vingt cinq ! ” Sophie clamped her mouth shut fifty her own Passion betray her over Yvette’s wailing belly laugh. She forced herself to still the urgent caresses of her finger knowing that she was very close to orgasm. She fervently hoped Roget would come that nighttime. If not well.... Sophie allowed herself a mental shrug. If he didn’t hail then there was always an obvious and conformable alternative. She would creep down the hallway to Michelle’s room. In mutual with all the girls at the coffeehouse du Concorde Sophie had a hefty libido and it mattered little to any of them whether they exercised it with a boy or a member of their own sex. Michelle was highly live and delightfully innovative in bed. Madame Courvelle was generally lenient about the girls playing with each other although she would have them caned once in a while for it just to keep them on their toes and cue them who was gaffer. Madame had told them that the diminutive mademoiselle Renard might well be joining their ranks soon. Sophie hoped so. She couldn’t wait to get her mitt on her !
“ Vingt six....vingt phratry.....vingt huit.... ” The drubbing was relentless ; the waving of agony unbearable. Yvette was near to prostration. She had performed heroically in maintaining her spot over the chair so far but she knew despairingly that it could not last. Sooner or later her legs would give beneath her. “ Vingt neuf... trente... trente et un.... ” It was the thirty first stroke that broke her. It was, even among the high standards established by every stroke that preceded it, a particularly torturous blow, lancing into the already tenderised flesh of her upper thighs. With a loud keening wail Yvette’s legs turned to jelly and she collapsed to her articulatio genus and remained there sobbing copiously.
Throughout the beating Hanna’s expression had barely flickered. She had gone about her undertaking with unmovable, dispassionate efficiency heedless of the howling screams of her dupe. In examining it and wiping it between each stroke, it seemed almost as if she were more concerned about the welfare of her cane than the piteous weeping poor devil she was inflicting it upon. Now however she glared at Yvette in irritation, annoyed that her carefully paced rhythm had been so disrupted by Yvette’s unfitness to follow instructions. “ Get up girl ! ” she commanded severely.
Yvette knelt abjectly on the floor crying piteously. “ Please no ! I... I can’t take any more ! It... it hurts ! ”
“ It is meant to hurt you foolish miss ! Now get up this illustration and take up your position ! ”
“ No please ! I beg you ! It hurts too a great deal ! ”
Hanna waved the cane at her. “ Get up and take up your attitude now or I shall give you extra for disobedience ! ”
Madame Courvelle interposed at this juncture. “ Do as you are told Yvette or Hanna will certainly award you extra strokes for not following her orders. ”
Yvette glanced miserably at Madame Courvelle but saw no mercifulness there. Sorrowfully she rose unsteadily to her feet, lifted her skirt back over her waist and bent once more back over the chair. Her knickers had slipped from her knees by now and now reposed in an untidy heap about her ankles. Hanna grunted in satisfaction, gave her cane a last wipe and raised it. With a savage swing lash the wicker commenced once more. “ Trente deux ! ” remarked Michelle.
Leaning against the rampart near the window with her arms folded, Bernadette watched the spectacle in deep gratification and shared similar mentation to those of her colleague Sophie. “ Welcome to the sistership Mademoiselle ! ” she murmured under her breath. You could hardly exact to be a fully paid up extremity of the sorority of the coffeehouse du Concorde without having been on the end of one of Hanna’s canings ! Well this little sweetheart was paying her dues right enough ! She’d not sit down for a week after this thrashing !
“ Trente trois....trente quatre.... trente cinq.... ” Yvette’s screams had reached an ear piercing mass by now. Bernadette wondered idly in amusement if anybody outside was pausing on their way home to listen to the blare of manic shriek emanating from the interior of the cafe. God knows they could hardly miss it ! She was only a minuscule thing this Yvette but she had a mulct duet of lungs on her ! She was probably keeping people awake on the far side of the square toes with her demented screeching ! For all Bernadette knew there was quite possibly a bunch gathered outside the cafe and applauding each howling wail ! Whatever the trueness, it was certain that it would be all over the settlement tomorrow that Whitney Young mademoiselle Renard had had her backside beaten good and phone in the Cafe du Concorde last night. If anyone was incertain of the identity of the dupe involved then as soon as Madame had this pretty niggling affair dressed up in the obligatory uniform to ferment in the cafe then all doubts would be removed ! She’d be carrying those stigma for calendar week to total and as soon as she leant over a mesa to attend to her chores in her short dress then she’d be displaying the wale on her legs for all the humanity to see !
“ Trente six.... trente Sept.... trente huit.... trente neuf... ” Michelle was nearly having to shout now so that her tally of the solidus was audible over Yvette’s shriek. Bernadette admired Yvette’s shapely branch. They were pretty or at least they would be pretty once the bruise from the cane had healed. Like Sophie Bernadette anticipated the arrival of Yvette among their figure with relish. Her current harvest of love sisters was wonderful but there was a lot to be said for having saucy talent about the plaza. It was a shame Jeanette wasn’t here to find this. She’d have enjoyed it. “ Quarante....quarante et un.....quarante deux.... ” Bernadette grinned to herself. When this girl started working here, she and the other missy would have to get her alone in one of the back up larder one day. They’d have her knickers down for a different aim then and construct her squeal to a different tune !
“ Quarante trois.... quarante quatre.... quarante cinq.... ” The tally of fortuity mounted inexorably. The fire in Yvette’s rear burned brighter with every lash. Yvette had a fairly face but, Michelle noted, it was not an attractive wad at the moment. It was red and distorted with pain and hurt. Her cheeks were streaked mordant with mascara and eyeliner. Her center were red and egotistic and her backtalk gaped receptive almost comically as she screamed aloud with every stroke. Her human face was wet with tears and there was a dip of mucous on the end of her nose. The ribbon in her hair had come adrift and her fuzz was a tangled pot as she threw her headspring about from side to side in the throes of her pain. “ Quarante six....quarante sept....quarante huit.... quarante neuf.... ” Michelle continued. “ Never mind little one. ” she thought to herself. “ We girls at the Cafe du Concorde know lots of ways to soothe poor little wash up affair like you ! ”
“ Cinqante ! ” declared Michelle firmly, announcing this milepost in the Thomas Young miss caning. To the anguished Yvette squealing under its impact there was lilliputian if anything to severalise this solidus from any other of the forty nine that had left their suggestion of torment across her scorched rear. Yet in the role of her brain that still retained some trace of rational thought she heard Michelle name out the number with something approaching disbelief. Caned already to the edge of endurance and beyond it seemed hardly credible that she had only reached the half way breaker point in her punishment. In desperation she closed her eye as Hanna raised the cane once more. “ Cinquante et un ! ” announced Michelle. The moment half of Yvette’s caning had begun.
Enjoying the tantrum with enormous pleasure was Madame Montagnon. She was experiencing the most tickling satisfaction with every stroke that coursed into the welted waste of Yvette’s tormented butt. She was delighted that the girl, after a dauntless starting, was taking the trouncing so badly. Yvette’s loud screams were euphony to her ears. Madame Montagnon enjoyed the sight of young missy suffering. “ Cinquante deux....cinquante trois....cinquante quatre.... ” Madame Montagnon would induce been happy to see the wretched fille take two hundred strokes let alone one hundred ! Her only ruefulness was that she wasn’t wielding the cane herself. She yearned to feel the cane in her deal biting into that squirming bottom. Sometimes when she held a soiree at her mansion Madame Courvelle would lend her the use of some of her girls to aid with the catering. She wondered if Madame would loan her this one some time, once the lady friend was working here. She shivered deliciously at the thought. “ Cinquante cinq....cinquante six....cinquante kinsfolk.... ” Madame Montagnon glanced at her offspring male fellow traveller. His eye were riveted on the convulsing consistency of the young girl shrieking as the cane accident sliced into her rump. His exhilaration was plain to see ; the bulge in his pant enormous. Madame Montagnon allowed herself an indulgent grin. Many citizenry thought the man her gigolo but, while it was true that she used him for pleasure from metre to metre, he was mostly there for camouflage. Her substantial tastes lay elsewhere. She would certainly have to indulge them tonight after this aperitif ! Her two servant young woman would be in bed asleep by the prison term she got home. Well she would rouse them ! She’d shake them out of bed the example she got home, strip them of their nightclothes and direct the birch out of the cupboard ! They were due for a good whipping ! It must be months since the last meter she’d taken the birch rod to them. If they petulantly asked why they were being birched she’d say them to blame it all on Yvette Renard ! When she’d finished birching them she’d lie back naked on the sofa with her legs out-of-doors and they’d creep across the carpeting to nuzzle at her sex with their tongue until she was satisfied. She had her girls well trained. They knew what their schoolmarm expected of them !
“ Cinquante huit.... cinquante neuf....soixante..... ” Inevitably now Hanna was running out of spot of unblemished skin on which to shore her solidus. As a moment therefore more and more of her coke were landing atop the welts left behind by previous strokes, doubling their torment. Perhaps it was this aggregation that caused Yvette to break under the relentless pain for a second clock time. Whatever the cause she buckled again and slipped to her human knee. Hanna glared at her in outrage. “ What do you think you are doing ? ” she demanded angrily.
“ Pardonnez moi madame ! ” bleated Yvette pathetically. “ I... I’m sorry. ”
“ Get back into side this example ! ” Hanna ordered her.
“ Oui Madame. ” snivelled the weeping female child. “ Pardonnez moi. ” Painfully Yvette climbed back to her feet to drape herself back over the chair, her breast heaving with her sobs as she lifted her chick to display her egotistic rump for the cane once more.
Hanna was dissatisfied with Yvette’s apology. She shook the cane at her indignantly. “ You have been warned already. ” she told Yvette, “ Five extra strokes ! ” She addressed Michelle curtly. “ Do not count these separatrix Michelle. ”
“ Non madame. ”
For the five strokes Hanna abandoned her common measured cadence and delivered the five chance event in a rapid tattoo, the cane blurring as she brought one stroke down in rapid succession after the early, giving Yvette no clip to fix herself for the next. Yvette arched her back and let out one long, ululating shrieking, ugly in its anguish despair. “ Let that be a lesson. ” Hanna told her. “ If I have to interrupt this penalty another time you’ll get an extra ten ! Do you understand ? ” Yvette moaned pitiably and could only nod her head feebly. “ Very well, ” declared Hanna wiping her cane. “ Where were we Michelle ? ”
“ Soixante madame. ”
“ Then we shall continue from there. ”
She raised the cane again. “ Soixante et un ! ” Michelle noted to the co-occurrence of Yvette’s scream.
The blonde girl on the artist’s articulatio genus was becoming more and more aroused at the spectacle of Yvette’s wickerwork and the stroking of her fellow traveller between her legs. She was squirming alarmingly on his genu and panting audibly as his fingers rubbed her clit in little circles. Her increasing exhilaration was becoming evident to the early occupant of the coffee shop and respective masses tore their eyes away from Yvette’s caning to glance in her counseling and elicit amused eyebrows as she laid her head back and half closed her center, very near to climax. “ Soixante deux....soixante trois.... soixante quatre....soixante cinq....soixante six.... ” The young lady was moaning loudly now and the former guests exchanged amused glances with each early. She was shaking violently and petty war cry were emerging from her throat. “ Soixante sept....soixante huit....soixante neuf.... soixante dix.... ” Suddenly the girl stiffened rigidly and opened her mouth wide to give out a meretricious wail. Everybody in the way turned to gaze at her and, as her sexual climax climaxed, the artist felt a sudden flood of hot melted gush from her privates soaking her pants and skirt and seeping through to soften the artist’s trousers. A pool of clear liquid state appeared on the level beneath her. The little girl’s mussy orgasm grabbed the attending of everybody in the elbow room and there were amused chuckle all cycle. Even Hanna’s rhythm was interrupted and she turned to stare at the female child in surprise. The lonesome individual in the room that didn’t cross-file the young woman’s orgasm was Yvette but she was hardly fully about her sensory faculty by this time. The solely reality in her universe was the gravid throbbing misery from her rear portions which in her fevered imagination she pictured as some huge swollen scarlet mass of lancing painfulness dwarfing the relaxation of her body. She barely even registered that the caning had halted temporarily. She just hung limply over her chair and keened softly in bother. The artist glanced around at the other guests as his companion buried her face in his berm, her chest heave. He shrugged at the other Guest and smiled, holding up a decoration in a gesture of surrender. The guests laughed with him good humouredly. Hanna just shook her head disgustedly and turned back to the matter in hand. “ Soixante et onze ! ” declared the smirking Michelle.
Sophie had seen the blond girl come all over her friend’s pant and leave a mess on the floor and it whipped her own excitement into a new urgency. Her handwriting had been in her breeches for several arcminute now fingering at her sex and she was craving relief. poor Yvette’s tush was swollen terribly now with raised wale. Sophie longed to be able-bodied to fondle it and soothe the girl’s pain with subdued kisses. As she thought about it her fingerbreadth quickened at her sex. “ Soixante douze....soixante treize.... soixante quatorze.... ” Sophie herself was very near to orgasm now but she caught Madame Courvelle glancing in her steering and she dared not disgrace herself unless she longed to be the succeeding person bending over that chair ! “ Soixante quinze....soixante seize... soixante dix-sept.... ” The accumulative effect of chance event landing on top of each early was showing the inevitable consequences by now. There were small pinpoint of scarlet moisture appearing on Yvette’s bottom where the skin had broken under the impact of the cane and a little trickle of blood was seeping down her the right way thigh from the collect strokes to the book binding of her legs. For some grounds this excited Sophie very much indeed. She was not by nature as cruel girl but now she wanted to see Yvette shed blood ! “ Soixante dix-huit.... soixante dix-neuf.... ” There was another dribble of ancestry ; from the centre of her butt this time and Sophie’s stroking at her crutch became more manic.
Yvette seemed to have lost the strength to wriggle any Thomas More. She just lay limply over the chairman twitching each time the cane smote her swollen flesh. Even her screams had lost their earlier piercing character and had given way to one, more or less continuous, wailing moan. Hanna was wiping her cane more diligently now as if to cleanse it of the contaminant of Yvette’s line of descent on its pristine Earth's surface. “ Quatre vingt ! ” said Michelle and Sophie could remove it no longer. Hoping that no one would notice her she ducked down behind the bar and, clamping a hand across her back talk to stifle her cry, she rubbed herself to orgasm. It was the second messy sexual climax of that dark but that was device characteristic of Sophie and she was well known for it. The early little girl called her their “ little squirt ” and it wasn’t just a reference to her size. She pulled her dress out of the way hastily as she came but her knickerbockers were drenched and a second puddle of scandalous origin was added to the trading floor of the cafe du Concorde that Night. Quickly she tried to dry the puddle with a tissue before adjusting her dress and standing back up into aspect as nonchalantly as she could care. Her try were futile for the world-class affair she saw as she looked around was Madame Courvelle looking straight at her in strong disapproval. Sophie swallowed guiltily. A swish of the cane, a crack against Yvette’s buttocks and another manic moaning cry was punctuated by Michelle. “ Quatre vingt un ! ” Madame Courvelle was frowning at Sophie. Sophie felt the parentage rush to her cheeks and her pharynx become dry, knowing that the side by side person to be singing a line to Hanna’s cane would certainly be herself.
“ Quatre vingt deux ! ” If Yvette’s hind end had attracted Sophie it was another part of her anatomy that Michelle was finding appealing. She couldn’t actually see Yvette’s tush from her position in front end of the suffering girl although she could well envisage what sort of a State it was in by now. It was Yvette’s breasts that held her attending though. Somehow during her ordeal the top buttons of Yvette’s dress had come undone or possibly even fallen off and in her bent over position she was affording Michelle a terrific view down her front at her ripe young tit. For such a small young woman Yvette had quite large boob and they wobbled most enticingly every time her body jerked under the encroachment of the cane. Her compensate boob even seemed to have fallen partly out of her bra. Michelle could see the nipple quite clearly. Oddly it was erect. Michelle smiled to herself. In spite of the suffering of the cane it was not at all strange to see signs of arousal in a female child being beaten. It was a dear than eve bet that if you pushed a helping hand between Mademoiselle Renard’s legs right now you would find her sex swollen and moist ! Michelle wondered about the psychology of that. She didn’t hump. What she did know was that although she hated being caned and the pain of it she was always like a squawk on oestrus afterwards and inflamed with lust. She rather hoped the same was true of Mademoiselle Renard here. There must be some way to get her lonely afterwards and get that dress off her. “ Quatre vingt trois....quatre vingt quatre....quatre vingt cinq.... ”
Yvette endured the end game of her wicker in a barely conscious daze. A red mist had descended before her eyes. She was hallucinating too. She was staring fixated at the pattern on the cover of the hot seat beneath her eyes. The design seemed to be moving, organising itself into SHAPE that resembled throbbing tail end. “ Quatre vingt six....quatre vingt family....qutre vingt huit.... ” Yvette no longer had the force to scream. Her throat was sore and swollen from her screaming anyway. She felt limp and sodden like a piece of tenderised meat. Her buttocks and her legs were just one satisfying wall of aching torment by now and the cane just stirred it up a little more but it had lost its earlier excruciating sting as if her body had reached a threshold of pain sensation beyond which it could go no further. “ Quatre vingt neuf....quatre vingt dix... qeutre vingt onze.... ” The numbers were meaningless to her now. Time seemed to give birth stopped still as if all there had ever been in her existence was the relentless pain in her hind quartern punctuated and inflamed by the rhythmical periodical plosion of the cane against her flesh. “ Quatre vingt douze....quatre vingt treize... quatre vingt quatorze... ” The way was deathly still now as if everybody was holding their breather and wishing her through these final stroke. “ Quatre vingt quinze... quatre vingt seize... quatre vingt dix-sept.... ” Through the bottomless agony of her behind Yvette could feel dampness on her legs. The significance of it never registered on her brain ; she never realised that she was bleeding from her caning or that the cane now was raising a little pink befog each time it sliced into her damaged hide. “ Quatre vingt dix-huit.... quatre vingt dix neuf.... ” For the last meter Hanna raised her cane. The stroke was just as hard as every other had been. “ penny ! ” declared Michelle in exulting finality.
Hanna stood back displaying as much emotion as she had managed throughout the caning. She looked disappoint ! At the end of the caning there was a corporate exhalation from the guest who had held their breath over the net chance event of Yvette’s ordeal. A muttering of vocalisation began and then, extraordinarily, a ripple of hand clapping although whether that was in grasp of Hanna’s performance with the cane or Yvette’s endurance of it was difficult to discern. Yvette lay like a rag doll over the back of the chair weeping softly and not understanding that her ordeal was over. “ You may brook up now Yvette. ” Madame Courvelle told her. “ Your penalization is over. ” Through the mist of her pain Yvette registered the words and slowly in machinelike fashion began to straighten up. Madame Courvelle addressed Hanna. “ I think a few minutes to let the lesson sink in don’t you agree Hanna ? ”
“ Oui Madame. ” Hanna turned to Yvette. “ Hold your chick up young lady ! You’ll get it dirty otherwise. ” Yvette’s buttocks was still streaming with line of descent. Hanna stepped over to aid her and for one horrifying import it seemed as if Yvette would fall as she tried to stand, so shaky was she on her legs. “ Here tuck your skirt into your belt like this. ” Hanna told her, helping her to comply. Hanna turned the hot seat around that Yvette had spent the undecomposed section of the last twenty dollar bill minutes bent over. “ Kneel on the chair miss ! No allow for your knickers where they are ! Kneel up straight now and put your hands behind your head. ” Numbly Yvette obeyed, without the will left in her to dissent ; her humiliation completed by her slavish position on the chair displaying her defenseless beaten rear for the protract interrogatory of all present. “ Now stay there without moving until Madame gives you leave to do otherwise. ”
Madame Courvelle picked the empty bottle off her board. “ I think another bottle of this if you please Michelle. You other girls, see to our invitee. They must be thirsty by now. ” The hum of conversation returned to the room only more reanimate now as the Edgar Albert Guest began to talk about the noteworthy spectacle they had been privileged to see. It would be a long tale in the telling. Yvette Renard’s caning in the Cafe du Concorde would be the public lecture of the village for months to come and still retold years later. Some people even got out of their seats on a stalking-horse the advantageously to approach Yvette for a closer looking at the swell up mass that had once been the unsullied pristine anatomy of her rear end and thighs. Through it all Yvette remained motionless on her chair, crying silently now and more wretched and low-down than she had ever been in her little and uneventful life.
Madame Courvelle left Yvette kneeling on the stool for xv minutes while her girls replenished her guests’drinks. Finally she relented. “ You may get down now Yvette. ” she said, at last, not unkindly. “ Come over here girl. No don’t bother pulling your knickers up. I want to take a look at your bottom of the inning. In fact take your knee pants off altogether. You’ll trip over them otherwise. ” Clumsily Yvette pulled her knickers off and, carrying them in her hand, stepped over obediently to Madame Courvelle. “ Turn around Yvette and let me see your seat. You can put your breeches on the table ” Mechanically Yvette turned to afford Madame Courvelle the survey of her aching tender rear. Madame Courvelle examined the damage with concern. Hanna had certainly done a exhaustive job on this young Lady ! Yvette’s behind was a well lattice of contusions from the meridian of her buttocks nearly down to the tendon above her knees. She’d be carrying these cross around with her for a good spell to come ! She wouldn’t be sitting down too comfortably for a few days either. fountainhead that was no bad thing if it reminded her of her deterrent example ! well she’d have plenty to maintain her thinker off it and little time for sitting anyway. There was no reason at all why she couldn’t embark on body of work tomorrow. She’d be busy enough learning the ropes of her new job to hold back her mind off her woefulness. Madame Courvelle frowned, wondering if she had a maids’garb to fit her. Perhaps one of Sophie’s would fit her. They were both small young lady. It would do at least perhaps until she could have a duad or two made to fit her.
She reached out to palpate the swollen flesh of Yvette’s underside. Yvette flinched at the touch, so tender was that region now. At least she had stopped bleeding now Madame Courvelle noted with rest. Her skin hadn’t carve up that badly. She very much doubted that there would any permanent scarring. All the Saami perhaps it would be punter to have one of the girls take her upstairs to bathe her wale and put some cream on them. In fact, come up to that, it was no bad thought for the girls to make a bed up for her for the night. She was in no fit state to walk menage alone. Madame Courvelle had no magic trick about the young peeress in her employ and doubtless they’d be sniffing around the pretty young fille like truffle pigs on a hot scent once they had her to themselves in their rooms upstairs ! Well that was no bad matter either. They would be sort to her and she could use a little bonk forgivingness tonight. It would be better for her not to have to sleep alone and populate upon her regret. In fact thought Madame Courvelle, a new idea occurring to her, it would be better all rhythm if they made her residence here more or less perm. There were respective empty way they were not using they could convert into a bedroom for her. She didn’t consider it levelheaded for a young girl of Yvette’s years to be living alone with an aging auntie. She was isolated up that end of the village and had hardly any friends at all locally. She’d be far better off with Thomas Young people her own age and, if she lived here at the cafe, it would be far light for Madame Courvelle to keep an eye on her and make sure she didn’t go off the rails again. In her own judgment Madame Courvelle had already adopted Yvette. Well they could talk about all this in the morning.
“ bend around Yvette. ” After she had obeyed Madame Courvelle handed her a tissue. “ Now be a salutary girl and wipe your face. ” As Yvette tried to doctor the equipment casualty to her visual aspect Madame Courvelle looked her in the eye. “ Now I hope you’ve learned your example Yvette. ” Yvette nodded dumbly. “ Good girl ! Now I’m sorry that this has had to bump to you Yvette but I want you to remember that I only had you caned because I care about you. I think we both know what the alternative was. Well a sore bottom will disappear a lot faster than a crook record on your file will and when the swelling atomic number 66 down you’ll thank me for this. ”
Yvette nodded bleakly and whispered, “ Oui Madame. Merci Madame. ”
“ That’s alright Yvette. You’re a unspoilt girl and I have every promise for you. Now I want you to stay here for the nighttime. I don’t want you going home on your own. One of the miss will make up a bed for you and perhaps put something on your rear to relieve the pain. Is that alright with you ? ”
“ Oui Madame. ” repeated Yvette, in a small voice.
“ Excellent. That’s settled then. We can jump to discourse your hereafter in the morning. ” Madame Courvelle looked around. Now who would be best to see to Yvette ? Her gimlet eye caught sight of Sophie. Well not that little lady for one ! She was in far too frisky a mood tonight and making an expo of herself behind the bar ! well she was one more than problem to deal with in the aurora ! She and Yvette could compare the bruise on their posterior after Hanna had finished with her ! She caught sight of Michelle. perfective ! She beckoned her over. “ Michelle dear you are excused for the rest of the Nox. Yvette will be staying the night with us and I want you to run a bathroom and create up the fifth wheel bed in your elbow room for her. ”
“ But of course Madame. ” Michelle assured her, measured to keep the triumph out of her voice.
“ Good. And put some ointment on her rear before you put her to bed Michelle. ”
“ Oui Madame. ” Michelle kept her face indifferent but she was delighted with the way things were going. No doubt the other girls would be wanting to pussyfoot in and plowshare the delights of Whitney Young Mademoiselle Renard. well she would lock the door and they could expect their turn ! This short one was all hers tonight !
“ Good. ” said Madame Courvelle. “ Now pull your dress down and run along with Michelle Yvette. We’ll talk at more length in the morning. ”
Michelle smiled and took Yvette’s hand. “ Come along Yvette. You’ll feel proficient for a hot bath and a good Nox’s sleep. I’ve got a box of chocolate cordial in my way we can share as well. ” Docilely Yvette allowed herself to be led away by the mitt. Madame Courvelle watched them go with enormous satisfaction. Oh yes they would talk in the dawn alright ! The girlfriend hadn’t even blinked when she’d told her that they’d discuss her future in the morning as if she already tacitly acknowledged the fact that Madame Courvelle was her futurity now ! And of course she was ! Madame Courvelle had expectant plans for the precious trivial Yvette Renard. There was a neat next ahead of her !
Madame Courvelle caught sight of Yvette’s knickerbockers still lying on the table. The silly girl had completely forgotten to take them with her ! wellspring no matter. She wouldn’t need them tonight in any case. Madame Courvelle picked up the simple cotton garment and regarded it with distaste. well these would never do ! She liked to dress out her girls in the fine silk or satin intimate apparel. She’d have a rummage about in the morn to see if she could notice something more suitable for Yvette to rive on over her languish arse. Then she’d see about buying her some more frivolous and feminine underwear. Madame Courvelle sat back with a smiling. At least then the adjacent clip she was obliged to bend over the chair with her skirts hitched up she’d have something more becoming to pull down ! For of one fact Madame Courvelle was certain. She was sure that the other little girl were certain of it as well and most probably everybody else in this cafe tonight. In fact, possibly the only person it hadn’t occurred to yet was Yvette herself since the implications of tonight’s performance would be yet to go down in. The fact was this ; Yvette Renard might have just endured her low caning at the Cafe du Concorde but it would certainly not be her last !