Marie And Other Women by Lajos Biró

The hotel was recommended by my friends, it was a kind of modest little hotel – maison meublée – on Rue Victor Massé, not far from the boulevard and very close to all the mansions of Montmartre. When my car stopped in front of me, a suitman in brown cotton blues took down my suitcase. At the gate was greeted by a handsome, laughing, fat gentleman: monsieur Bodouin, the farmer, the hotel owner. He knew my income, he spoke my name well, my friends also wrote which room I wanted, Mr. Bodouin treated me kindly, guided me to the bureau, introduced him to his wife, showed her ten-year-old daughter, then took me by the arm and took me up to the first floor.
I was delighted with the room, staring respectfully at the velvet ceiling of the bed, and the fireplace was downright enchanting, because then I had no idea how much more than such an romantic room decoration was worth an ordinary, banal but zealous iron stove. And Mr Bodouin said more and more:
– Marie brings things up… Marie keeps the room tidy… Marie takes care of breakfast…