On Thursday a missive arrived to inform me that the manager of La Marguerite (the lovely little cabaret in Montmartre I chose to invest in) got himself killed in a duel over one of his female...entertainers. Great bloody fool, now I've got to find someone to take his place. At first I was worried that his death (it was on the premises) would discourage customers, but then I realized it's Paris.
They'll pay to see the bloodstains on the floor if you let them. Perhaps Shaun does have something behind his disgust with les Francais.
And speaking of which...
Well, of course the situation with Shaun hasn't helped my blood pressure one bit.
All right, perhaps that was what started the stressful week. If you must know. But certainly no one likes to be...at odds...with his oldest friend, and it does put one so out of sorts.
Presumably we will work things out, for good or for ill, on Wednesday when he comes to luncheon. I am not quite decided yet as to whether I look forward to it.
At any rate, I believe I am quite overdue for a bit of fun. I think I'll spend an evening at the Rose, see the show perhaps, get myself pleasantly drunk. Not think about...things. Not worry about that blasted cousin of Shaun's spreading rumours over all of London when I myself am not even certain what's going on yet. Not rethink every moment of that last conversation, trying to figure out exactly what was said and what was left unsaid.
Bloody hell. Maybe I'll get an early start.