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They want a broodmare. I want out.

I've never wanted anything to do with the mafia life. I was going to
get my degree and get out. But thanks to mafia warring, I'm now
being held hostage by one of the largest criminal empires.

Giulio Pavone is as personable as he is cruel, treating women like

nothing more than product to be sold. Damien Rossi's faux gentle
touch makes my skin crawl. Slayer has made no secret how much he
wants to see my tears.

And above all, they want to forcibly use me to continue the Pavone
family line. I'm nothing but a broodmare to them. I know if I get
pregnant, my chance of escape becomes next to nothing.

I have to get out. I have to stay strong. I can't become one of the
broken girls they sell at their seedy clubs.

This is a dark novel with potentially triggering content,

including forced pregnancy, captivity, and breeding kink. Read at
your own discretion. For detailed content notes, please visit Addison
Wolf or Raissa Donovan’s websites. Read at your own discretion.

Though this book picks up where Loving Lucia left off for Vanessa's
story, it is not necessary to read the Spoils of Victory trilogy before
diving into the Breeding Contempt trilogy. However, there are
spoilers for Loving Lucia in this book.
CLAIMING VANESSA
BREEDING CONTEMPT
RAISSA DONOVAN
ADDISON WOLF
Copyright © 2022 by Raissa Donovan & Addison Wolf
Cover by Cormar Covers
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a
book review.
Created with Vellum
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing Claiming Vanessa was a journey for both of us. We had to

figure out how to make this trilogy separate from the Spoils of
Victory trilogy so it could be read out of order, yet still make it fun
for our SoV readers. Beware of spoilers, but I hope this book makes
you want to go back and read the Spoils of Victory trilogy if you
haven’t already! It has different kinks, so again, mind the warnings
on the authors’ websites.

Special shoutouts go to the people who alpha and beta read, who
helped us keep our sanity while we worked with the first and second
drafts of the book. (“Rough draft” is the nice word for what we
started out with, but it turned into something we love!) Thank you
to Crystal Partin, Poppy Jacobson, Anna Wineheart, Michelle
Love, Li Cai Haney, and ashmoret ba lailah (and to anyone else
we may have missed in the shuffle). Your comments and feedback
were invaluable.
 CONTENTS

Prologue: Vanessa
1. Vanessa
2. Giulio
3. Vanessa
4. Damien
5. Slayer
6. Vanessa
7. Damien
8. Giulio
9. Vanessa
10. Slayer
11. Damien
12. Vanessa
13. Giulio
14. Vanessa
15. Giulio
16. Vanessa
17. Vanessa
18. Damien
19. Slayer
20. Damien
21. Vanessa
22. Vanessa
23. Slayer
24. Damien
25. Giulio
26. Vanessa
27. Vanessa

Afterword
Ruining Vanessa (Breeding Contempt #2)
About Addison Wolf
Also by Addison Wolf (as Adara Wolf)
About Raissa Donovan
Also by Raissa Donovan (as R. Phoenix)
 PROLOGUE: VANESSA

I can barely breathe.

Each one of the priest’s words brings my sister Lucia closer to
marrying one of the biggest monsters I’ve ever known. Emilio
Pavone, the man who had three of his previous wives disposed of,
who had our father murdered in front of our eyes, has insisted on a
religious wedding, and I can’t help but be bitter at the hypocrisy of it
all.
After all the things he’s done to my family…
I try to keep up with what the priest is saying, waiting for my cue
to read the verses from the bible I’m supposed to repeat, but it’s so
hard to focus. When some of the guests laugh, it pulls me back into
the moment. What could possibly be funny at a time like this? I look
from Lucia’s blank face to Emilio’s smug smirk, and I wish I could
object to this farce.
The priest doesn’t seem to care that Lucia clearly doesn’t want to
be there. “Of course, the real reason we join in this most holy union
is to honor God and bestow the gift of life on the next generation.
One man and one woman, together, embody that which is most
sacred. Apart, they are nothing. But together, they share the love of
God and pass it on to their children.”
What love? What sanctity? There is nothing about Emilio Pavone
that embodies anything holy. I resist the urge to wipe my eyes,
averting my gaze from Lucia as the priest continues.
 I notice Damien Rossi staring at me. Emilio has chosen his
consigliere to be his best man. Although Damien hasn’t been half as
violent as Emilio, I still remember his invasive questions, his creepy
touches, the terrible photo shoot I’d had to endure at his whims.
The way he looks at me, as he’s looking at me now, like he wants
something more from me.
I hate myself for having thought he was handsome when I’d first
met him. A few inches taller than my 5’11,” with intense brown eyes
and dark, subtly curled hair. He’d shaved for the wedding, but
normally there’s thick stubble on his jaw.
But none of that will ever change the fact that he’s just as
responsible as Emilio Pavone for the hell Lucia and I have gone
through these past few months.
“Now, the friends and family of the happy couple will read some
bible passages to guide and bless them.”
That’s almost my cue.
Others from Emilio’s side of the family step forward with their
own offerings, all about a woman’s duty and family. Then it’s my
turn, and I take a shuddering breath and make my way to the pulpit.
My hands shake as I place the cue cards down in front of me.
Don’t cry, I remind myself. This is all for Lucia. I can’t risk making
things worse for her.
“Wives, submit to your own husbands, as to the Lord. For the
husband is the head of the wife even as Christ is the head of the
church, His body, and is Himself its Savior. Now as the church
submits to Christ, so also wives should submit in everything to their
husbands.” The words come out in small, stumbling bursts. It feels
like a cruel joke.
No, I know it is, because Emilio had specifically handed me this
passage to read. He wants to drive it into Lucia that he owns her
now.
When I’m done reading, I step away, almost bumping into Giulio,
Emilio’s adult son. Giulio is older than Lucia’s twenty-two years,
even, probably in his early thirties, and he’s far more handsome than
his father. Despite the formal occasion, he showed up with his tie
already loosened and the top button on his shirt collar undone. The
frosted tips on his hair make him look out of place in the church,
more suited for the beach.
He winks at me and pats me on the ass before taking his place to
read some equally inane passage. I bite my lip to keep from yelping,
and if I wasn’t so frazzled, if this wasn’t such a public place with so
many mafiosi, I might’ve glared at him for it. As it is, my cheeks
flush red, something I know my makeup can’t hide.
I return to my mother’s side, glancing over at her. She’s wavering
on her feet, a testament to just how many drinks she’s already had.
I can’t even imagine how drunk she’ll be by the time the reception is
over, but she made it perfectly clear to Lucia and me that it has
nothing to do with the fact that Lucia’s being married off to Emilio.
It’s almost funny, watching you about to enter the same hell I’ve
been in, she’d told us only minutes earlier. I blink back tears. I don’t
want to think about her, about how dismissive she’d been of both of
us, of how she’d stumbled up the aisle with Lucia without care.
Once everybody’s said their part, the vows will begin. And
whatever hope I had of escaping with Lucia will be over. Our mother
isn’t going to help us, and no one else will.
Giulio finishes speaking, the silence drawing me back into the
moment. He returns to his spot.
Here it is, the beginning of the end.
The vows begin, and I fight to keep my tears from falling. I have
to be strong for Lucia—Lucia, who’s always been strong for me. If
she’s not weeping as she speaks her flat yeses, then I can hold back
too.
I—
There’s a loud sound, almost like fireworks being set off, but that
doesn’t make any sense. Confused, I look out over the crowd, trying
to figure out where the noise is coming from. It takes my rattled
brain a moment to identify the noise. It’s not fireworks.
It’s gunfire.
Somebody screams, and that seems to wake everybody up. Men
jump up, drawing weapons.
Emilio immediately grabs Lucia’s wrist and brandishes a gun of
his own. He’d been armed, at his own wedding.
 “Where the fuck are you?” Emilio shouts into the church at large.
“How fucking dare you ruin my fucking wedding, you shitstain. I’m
going to murder you!”
I should do something while he’s distracted, before the shooting
gets worse.
But I’m frozen in place. I have no idea what I can even do.
Lucia catches my gaze. “Vanessa!” she hisses. “Get out of here!”
I don’t want to leave her here. I try to protest, but the words
catch in my throat. I shake my head.
She scowls at me, not even bothering to try to pull away from
the still-distracted Emilio Pavone. “Go!” she snaps. “Follow Mom.
She’s getting the fuck out of here.”
I want to protest, but the gunshots are erupting all around me,
and I’m scared to death. There’s nothing I can do to help. I don’t
have a gun, kickboxing hasn’t prepared me for something like this,
and Lucia has proven over and over that she can take care of
herself.
Hiking up the skirt of my dress, drowning in utter shame and
self-loathing, I turn and follow our mother as she flees.
Something comes over the sound system, and it takes me a
moment to recognize it as Emilio’s voice. I don’t bother to try to
make out the words, though, intent on running after my mother. I’m
glad I’m wearing flats, at least; there’s no way I’d be able to run in
heels. As it is, I’m not sure how our drunk mother is faster than I
am. There’s an exit up ahead, and I think for a second that maybe
we can get out of the church and figure out… something.
But up ahead are Giulio Pavone and Damien Rossi, blocking the
doors.
I slow down, staring at them.
“Hi there, Vanessa, Eva,” Giulio says, waving. “Looks like we all
had the same idea. Time to GTFO and leave my old man and your
sister to fend for themselves.”
Guilt runs through me at the knowledge that I’m leaving Lucia
behind. But she’d told me to go, and I know she’d meant it. “Get out
of the way,” I say, pretending my voice isn’t wavering.
 Giulio taps his chin, then inclines his head in Damien’s direction.
“Who do you think set this up?”
“Victor Corvi. With help from Angelo Guerra, in the very least,”
Damien answers steadily. “Given the recording we just heard, and
the very public nature of this attack, I’d say Corvi is out to annihilate
the Pavone Family.”
“Sounds about right.” Giulio crosses his arms and leans forward
in my direction. “So, Vanessa, what’s going to stop Victor Corvi from
shooting me the moment I step out those doors?”
I blink at him, uncomprehending. “What?” I ask. “I don’t… I
don’t know?”
Giulio sighs and turns to my mother. “What do you think, Eva?”
The adrenaline of fear must have sobered her up a bit, because
she isn’t as unsteady on her feet. She doesn’t sound drunk at all
when she answers, “A hostage.”
Giulio smiles widely. “Oh, you get it. And it looks like we’ve got
two very, very lovely hostages here.”
I look at my mother and hiss, “Mom!” The gunfire in the
background has faded into next to nothing as my head starts to
spin.
She shrugs. “What? A hostage would work. But you don’t need
two hostages,” she says.
I realize where she’s going with this, and my stomach starts to
churn. “Mom,” I whisper.
Giulio leans back against the door again. “What do you think,
Damien? Do we need two?”
Damien stares intensely at me. “We need Vanessa.”
“N-no,” I protest. “You don’t… They’re not just going to let you
go because of me. They’re not here for me. They won’t care about
me.”
There’s a split second where everything seems frozen in place.
Damien’s hand extends out to me. I need to run. I should run. I
should fight.
But I do nothing, and Damien wraps his big hand around my
wrist. I stare at that point of contact, at the hairs on the back of his
hand, while he rubs his thumb in slow circles over my skin.
 “You sure you don’t want to come with us, Eva? I could probably
find a way for you to earn some money,” Giulio says, but he also
steps aside.
My mother grabs the door handle, shaking her head. “Thanks. I
like you more than your father. Or my husband. But I’ll pass.” Then
she giggles, meaning she hasn’t sobered entirely yet. “Don’t worry,
Vanessa. It can’t be any worse than what I went through.”
“Mom!” I can’t stop the tears from spilling, even as I try in vain
to pull free of Damien’s grasp. It was gentle at first, almost, but it
tightens when I start to struggle against him. “Mom, you can’t just
leave me here with them!”
She’s never particularly been the motherly type, but this goes
beyond anything I ever could’ve thought possible.
I never realized she hated us.
Until now.
“Vanessa, just play along and they won’t hurt you. Much.
Cocktails help,” she says, twisting the door handle and glancing
around before stepping outside.
Just like that, she’s gone, and I’m left staring at her in shock.
“Damn, what a bitch,” Giulio comments, adding a sarcastic
whistle. “But now that that’s out of the way… Can we finally fucking
leave, Damien?”
Damien pulls me closer to him, so that my back is pressed
against his front, and wraps his arm around my waist. He nuzzles his
nose against my neck, and I shudder in revulsion. My mind flashes
back to how he’d once ordered me to bend over my own bed and
expose my ass so he could take photos, and I flinch.
He takes a long, deep breath.
I squeeze my eyes shut and whimper.
“Yes,” Damien says quietly. “We can leave. But not through here.
There’s another exit, closer to where I parked.”
Giulio nods. “Yeah. I think there’s a side hall. We can avoid all the
shooting that way. If we’re lucky, we escape unnoticed.” He grins at
me. “If we’re unlucky, somebody ends up dead.”
I shudder, my skin crawling where Damien touches me. I wish I
wasn’t so helpless. I wish I could do something other than follow
meekly as Damien pushes me ahead of him. We make our way down
the hallway, and they push me outside first, like I’m the sacrificial
lamb. I guess to them, I am, though I don’t understand how I could
keep them from being shot if Victor Corvi has his sights on them.
We take a few steps out into the open, then I hear crunching on
the gravel as the man in question crosses the distance between us.
He looks… distinguished up close, strangely, clad in an
impeccable suit.
Damien and Giulio slow down, and Damien pulls me to his chest
again so I’m essentially human armor.
“Back off, Corvi,” Damien says.
“Let her go, and I’ll allow you to leave alive,” Victor says calmly.
I don’t know why he wants me, but I don’t trust him. Lucia had
spoken highly of him, but that had been because he’d held her for
months. She’s been brainwashed, I’m sure of it, and this doesn’t
make me think any better of him. But it does confuse me.
“You don’t need her anymore.” Victor sounds so sure of himself,
and he’s not even brandishing a weapon. I can’t help but marvel at
his sheer audacity, though I’m sure he’s covered by snipers and
others to ensure that any attempt on his life is quickly stymied.
Giulio laughs, the sound ugly. “Yeah? As soon as we hand her
over, there’s nothing preventing a bullet from going straight through
our brains.” I follow his gaze to a dead body lying nearby, and I
shudder before quickly looking away. “Like poor Miguel there. Man,
you fucking suck, Corvi. Miguel still owed me a few drinks.”
Victor ignores him, focusing those intense eyes on me. “Vanessa,
it’s a pleasure to meet you. Although I wish it were under better
circumstances.”
I don’t know what to make of his words. I don’t trust him. “I’m
not going to say it’s a pleasure to meet you, because it’s not,” I
mumble through my tears, squirming as Damien’s touch becomes a
little more intimate. Is he acting for Victor’s sake? It’s humiliating as
it is, but knowing that Victor is seeing it makes it worse.
“I suppose it isn’t,” Victor replies.
Damien squeezes my breast, and I lose track of what they’re
saying. In the end, it doesn’t matter. Giulio Pavone and Victor Corvi
are cut from the same cloth—violent men who use violent means to
get what they want, with no care about who they hurt in the
process.
I’m a victim of their greed and pride. It’s not shameful if I don’t
fight. I’m keeping myself safe.
That’s what the internet had said, anyway, when I’d read up
about trauma and victim blaming. But now that I’m here, I do feel
ashamed. Lucia’s still inside, grappling with Emilio Pavone, and I’m
just letting Giulio and Damien cart me off.
Damien’s hand shifts again, this time circling my belly, and that
pulls me out of my fugue. I squirm, hoping to dislodge his
wandering hands, but although I’m nearly as tall as he is, he’s still
got three times as much muscle and has no problem keeping me in
place.
“Let me go!” I cry.
“Vanessa, cupcake,” Giulio says, “You really want to go with
Victor fucking Corvi? I’m pretty sure he just shot up the entire
church. His attack dog murdered your father. And look what he did
to Miguel!”
I can’t help but look at the body again, and my stomach roils. I
don’t know what to say. I don’t know who’s better or worse. Lucia
had thought Victor was safer, but I don’t know what to think.
“You’re no better than him. You—you and Damien, and your
father,” I say, dizzy as I try to make an impossible choice. Should I
trust Victor?
Giulio’s smile chills me to the bone. “Nah, fuck my old man. He’s
not gonna recover from this. Allies dead, everybody thinks he set
them up…” He laughs. “That was actually fucking brilliant, Corvi.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I don’t think I even
want to know. This is all mafia politics, and I want nothing to do
with them.
It isn’t until I hear my name that I snap back to the conversation,
realizing they’ve been talking the whole time. “...you can be on your
way and disappear before anybody realizes you abandoned your
father.”
 Giulio sighs. “Give it a break.” As quickly as Giulio pulls out a
knife, Victor has his gun leveled on him. “Chill, man, it’s just a knife.”
But it’s not just a knife. It’s a knife he puts to my throat, and I try
to stay perfectly still. Would he slit my throat right now? It seems
like I’m the only thing preventing Victor from just killing Damien and
Giulio right here, and I don’t understand why.
“So, I’d really like to keep Vanessa. She’s pretty, I can think of a
few uses for her cunt, and you gotta admit she’s great leverage. But
if you don’t back the fuck off right now, I will slice her neck before
any of you can pull the trigger. Got it?”
No. No, no, no. I can’t do this. Maybe Victor would be better, a
realization I make too late. I look desperately at Victor, hoping he
can salvage the situation. Being with Lucia has to be better than
being with these monsters.
“I understand.” Victor lowers the gun, and I let out another
whimper, another wave of tears spilling down my face as I realize
this is it. One way or another, I’m going with Damien and Giulio, and
I have no idea what they’re going to do with me.
Dizzy, I have to rely on Damien to keep myself upright. I feel like
I’m going to pass out at any moment, and it’s all I can do to stay
conscious and hope that this can somehow turn around.
But it won’t, and I know that.
The knife is sharp against my throat as they lead me away. Every
step is an opportunity for something to go wrong, for my skin to
slice open and blood to splatter all over.
My body can join my father’s, another victim of the Pavone
empire.
No—my father had been anything but innocent. It’s his fault that
I’m even in this mess. But I can’t hold onto that hatred, because it
doesn’t matter.
My tears get worse when Damien forces me into the back seat of
a dark sedan. Giulio slides in next to me, finally putting the knife
away.
With trembling hands, I attempt to open the door, but nothing
happens.
 “Child locks? Really, Damien? Did you think I was going to run
away?” Giulio asks as he wraps one arm around my shoulders.
“I was… hopeful that we would somehow end up with Vanessa
tonight.” Damien starts the car. “Although I thought I would simply
ask Emilio if I could have her.”
Giulio laughs. “Yeah, man. He probably would’ve given her to
you. Such a loyal consigliere and all.”
I shudder. How long has Damien been planning this? I knew he
had an unhealthy interest in me, but I’d never thought he’d do
something like this. The photos he’d taken of me had been
uncomfortable, but I’d thought he’d stop at that.
They start to chat like I’m not even there, and I zone out as the
car moves. Lucia… I don’t even know if she’s safe. I don’t know
where she is, or who she’s with.
I don’t know anything anymore.
 1

VANESSA

T he sign on the building says “XXX—Strippers—Private Dances”

with an arrow pointing to a stairway below. Next to it is a
rundown Chinese restaurant, and on the other side is a
convenience store. The building facade itself is dark and grimy.
I stare at the blinking sign, dread pooling in my stomach. This
can’t be happening. This can’t actually be real.
The hand on the back of my neck tightens and I gasp.
“Keep moving,” Damien says quietly, guiding me toward the
stairs.
Damien Rossi, consigliere to Emilio Pavone, one of the most
powerful men in the dark underbelly of the east coast. He’s only a
few inches taller than I am, but I still feel like I need to crane my
neck to look at him.
Ahead of us, already halfway down the stairs, is Giulio Pavone,
Emilio’s son.
I still can’t believe it. I still can’t figure out how this situation
even came to pass. I still feel frozen, numb, like a puppet on strings
that’s only being manipulated into movement I wouldn’t be able to
make on my own.
Giulio pauses and turns around. “What’s the hold-up?”
“Nothing,” Damien says, nudging me forward.
I stumble, glad I’m wearing flats as I catch myself, but the fabric
of the bridesmaid’s dress doesn’t make it any easier to move. My
sister hadn’t gone for any crazy designs, but she’d still been trying to
satisfy Emilio Pavone’s desire to have the “perfect” wedding, with the
perfect clothing at the perfect ceremony.
My body shakes every time I remember the gunshots. How many
people had died for the egos of these mafia men?
I swallow hard, trying to convince myself that Lucia is all right,
but I just don’t know what happened after Damien and Giulio forced
me into the car at the church. A few hours of driving to New Bristol
has done nothing to soothe my nerves, especially considering the
loud technopop that had been blaring through the speakers the
entire time and the awful words Giulio had been speaking into my
ear.
More of the same music comes blasting into the alley as Giulio
opens the door to the strip club. Damien keeps his hold on my neck
as he urges me to keep moving.
All three of us are out of place in these dingy surroundings, with
me in my expensive bridesmaid dress, and Giulio and Damien both
in suits.
My eyes land on Giulio’s feet, where instead of dress shoes, he’s
wearing sandals. As soon as we’d gotten to the car, he’d switched
shoes, and the sandals look ridiculous with his suit.
Not that it matters, but it’s better than looking up.
Giulio pauses by the door to talk to a large, muscled man with a
buzz-cut. “Yo, Bernardo! How’s today been so far?”
The man shrugs, his tight shirt rippling with the movement.
“Quiet. Had to toss out a guy who ran out of money. Stef is crying,
but that isn’t new.”
Giulio sighs loudly. “Again? She’s been here what, a month? I
can’t really sell her as a ‘new girl’ anymore. She has to stop with the
tears.” He turns around to gesture at Damien. “Call, um, what's-her
face, so she can talk to Stef and teach her how to fake it better.”
Damien tightens his hand on my neck again, then I hear a small
huff as he rubs the skin. “I don’t know who what's-her face is,
Giulio.”
Giulio rolls his hand and snaps his fingers. “You know… Bernardo,
you know who I mean, right?”
 Bernardo clearly does not know, because he shakes his head.
“One of the other girls?”
“No, no. I mean… Ah, right. Chantal! From Bare Essence. She’s
got a way with the girls like nobody else. Actually, I’ve said I want to
promote her, right?” Giulio claps Bernardo’s shoulder. “Thanks, man.
Damien and I are gonna be in the VIP room, so let Donny know it’s
reserved right now.”
Giulio chats with the man at the door for a little longer, and I
startle when Damien’s fingers flex on the back of my neck and he
guides me deeper into the shithole that’s supposed to pass as a strip
club.
It’s trashy, to put it lightly—not that I’ve been in enough strip
clubs to know what is or isn’t classy, but I can easily tell this one is
far from the top tier—and everyone looks… tired. The scantily clad
women are putting on a token performance, something I quickly
look away from, and the men leer and reach out and grab even
though I’m pretty sure they’re not supposed to touch. No one stops
them.
We keep pausing while Giulio talks to people. He smiles and
jokes with them, putting me on edge. Giulio kidnapped me. He runs
seedy clubs. He’s the heir to a large, sprawling criminal empire,
complete with drugs and human trafficking. How can he be so…
irreverent, so jovial?
By contrast, my father had been constantly angry, always
threatening violence. There were no casual jokes there.
I blink at the sudden prickling in my eyes. I don’t want to cry. I
can’t cry, not now. I don’t know why I’m upset about my father’s
death now, when I’d never liked him. But he might still have been
able to do something about my situation.
It’s almost enough to make a hysterical giggle spill past my lips.
Like he’d helped Lucia?
No, I still would’ve been on my own.
We finally arrive at a black door decorated with some tacky
decals. Faded letters declare the room beyond “VIP.”
Giulio opens the door and immediately goes to sit on the wide
couch by the seating area. I notice it’s made of a black, smooth
material. Not leather, nothing so rich could possibly be here, but
something easy to clean.
A pole runs down the center of the sitting area, and all the
seating is arranged around the pole so it’s front and center. There’s a
bed on the other side of the room.
Damien taps my ankle with his foot, wordlessly telling me to
move inside.
Giulio grins and pats the spot on the couch next to him.
“Vanessa… Nessa, is that what your sister calls you? Come on, sit
with me. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
I stay standing, folding my arms across my chest, as Damien
closes the door behind us. “You can call me Vanessa,” I inform him
as haughtily as I can manage, trying not to let him see just how
close I am to breaking down.
Giulio laughs and claps his hand against his thigh. “Sure, why
not. Vanessa’s not a bad stripper name anyway.” Then he smirks at
me, even as the color drains from my cheeks. “You do you, but I
don’t know if you really want to piss off your new boss.”
I stare at him. “I’m not a stripper, and you’re not my new… boss,”
I tell him. I’m unsteady on my feet, my knees threatening to buckle,
but I’m not going to sit next to him. I try to pull away from Damien,
to lean against the wall and gather myself.
Damien sighs and shifts his hand from my neck to my shoulder.
“Giulio, don’t scare her. We took her for leverage against Corvi.”
Giulio rolls his eyes and flops back on the couch. “Spoilsport. But
we can’t keep her around doing nothing. That’s just a waste. She’s
hot enough, and we really don’t have any girls that corner that girl
next door vibe the way she does.” After a brief pause, he leans
forward again. “Actually, we’ve got no idea if we even need her
anymore. I’m definitely putting my money on Corvi, but who knows,
maybe my old man pulled a surprise win.”
“With all of Corvi’s men after him?” Damien asks.
“True enough! Let’s find out.” Giulio pulls out his phone and dials
a number, setting it to speaker. It rings a very long time before
somebody finally picks up.
 “The number you have dialed is out of service,” a vaguely familiar
masculine voice says.
Giulio lights up. “Whoa, really? You gotta tell me: how fucking
bloody was it?”
There’s a pause, and a snort. “You realize your dad’s got you
listed as ‘ungrateful brat’ in his phone?”
“Yeah. I changed it to that for him.” Giulio grins at me and
Damien. “Look, just one small, gory detail. I really want to know.”
I realize why the voice sounds familiar: it’s Angelo Guerra, the
same man who executed my father right in front of my eyes.
I cover my mouth to suppress a whimper.
“Sure, why not. I castrated him. Made him choke on his own
balls. Which, by the way, I’m fully intending to do to you if you don’t
hand over Vanessa.”
My eyes widen at that, and I stare at the phone. I don’t want to
be anywhere near the man who murdered my father.
“What happened to Lucia?” I blurt out, unable to stop myself. I
don’t want the attention, but I need to know if she’s safe.
“Vanessa? Hey! Lucia’s very, very fine. If Rossi is there, tell him
he was right, I was definitely getting really close to her. But you
would too, if you saw how she can take three guys at once.”
I want to be sick.
My hand flies up to my mouth, and I try not to gag. I don’t want
to imagine my sister getting abused by even more men.
“Let her go!” I say fiercely. “She doesn’t deserve for you to be…
to be touching her. None of you should be touching her!”
Giulio bursts out laughing, almost drowning out the sound of
Angelo chuckling. “Damn, Guerra. It’s a shame you’re back with that
dick Corvi. I think we would have gotten along. But hey, just so you
know—my dad was the easy target. I’m not half as unobservant as
he is, and I’ve been building up my own resources. Also, did you
know the strip club and brothel situation in Benton City is just
fucking sad? How does anybody have any fun in your town?”
There’s a slight pause on the other end before Angelo responds,
“You thinking of fixing that?”
 “Mm. I might. Now, thanks for the update. Hope the convo was
long enough for your tech guy to figure out he can’t actually trace
the call. Ciao!” Giulio ends the call and tosses the phone on the
table.
Damien lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Did you have to provoke
him?”
“I didn’t have to. But I wanted to.” Giulio gets up and closes the
distance between us. He’s the same height as me, but of course that
doesn’t stop him from being just as intimidating as Damien. “So.
Why the fuck do they actually care about you? They’ve got the
Bellini girl they want, right?”
“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. I’m still confused by
Victor attempting to negotiate for me.
“Maybe they’ve got a buyer lined up?” Giulio reaches out to touch
my hair, and I flinch away. His smile drops a little, and I’m terrified
he’s about to hit me, but he sighs and heads back to the couch.
“Damien, let’s just fuck her. I need something to unwind after this
fucking day.”
“No!” I say quickly, straightening up and tugging away from
Damien’s touch on my shoulder. “Neither of you is fucking me.” My
voice is high and thin, and it’s all too obvious that even I know
there’s nothing I can do to stop them if they make a move on me.
I whimper when Damien winds a hand around my waist. “Sure.
How do you want her?”
I slam my hand on his arm, but Damien is like a statue. I try
stepping on his feet, although fear has me using far too little force.
Giulio’s looking a lot more interested now though. “Actually…
Slayer would have fun with her, wouldn’t he? Yeah. Let’s call Slayer.
Make it an evening of it.” He reaches for the phone again, then sighs
and throws it against the wall. It clatters loudly, although the case
prevents any parts from going flying.
He reaches into his other pocket and pulls out a different phone
and hits a few buttons. I feel Damien’s fingers curl and dig into my
skin.
“We don’t need Slayer to have a fun evening,” Damien says. “It
could just be the two of us.”
 Even in the midst of my fear, I don’t miss that he said, ‘the two
of us,’ as if I don’t even count as a person. I bite my lip, not wanting
to comment on it, and I go still under Damien’s hand.
“Nah. I promised Slayer he could have all the new girls, anyway.
And Vanessa is very, very new.” Giulio puts the phone on speaker,
again. I can’t figure out if he just doesn’t care about privacy, or if he
wants to scare me.
Probably both.
After two rings, someone picks up. “Hey, Jules,” the deep voice
says. “Done with the wedding party so soon?”
“God, you shoulda been there. It was fucking insane.” Giulio
winks at me. “You might have heard already, but the place got shot
up. A fucking church! Who does that? Anyway, you can hit up your
contacts in Benton for all the details, but the important part: I got a
new girl out of it.”
“I’m not a ‘new girl,’” I protest, nearly choking on the words as I
try harder to pull free from Damien’s grasp. “I don’t work for you.
I’m not your new anything.” It would be more convincing if my voice
wasn’t shaking so badly that I’m stumbling over my words.
That only gets a laugh from the other end of the line. “Color me
interested,” the man drawls. “Tell me more about this… non new
girl.”
I stiffen when Damien lowers his lips to my ears. “He likes the
insecure ones,” he whispers. I’m not sure if it’s a threat or a
warning.
I shudder, but I’m not surprised Giulio is involved with someone
who prefers it when his women are meek and scared. I just don’t
know if I can go utterly pliant and pretend to be unaffected so he
doesn’t get off on being with me.
“So, picture this: tall, skinny, small tits, long brown hair. Nice
face, but not drop-dead gorgeous. Not like her sister, now there was
a looker. Anyway, she’s got this kind of sweet innocence about her.
Pretends to be tough but she is fucking trembling, and we haven’t
even done anything to her yet. Also, I have never seen Damien this
taken with anybody. He’s had his hands on her every single minute
he can. So he can stop pretending he doesn’t want something from
her, that’s for sure.” Giulio gives Damien a very pointed look.
I don’t know why men think it’ll bother me to hear that they
think my sister is prettier than I am, because it doesn’t. Lucia and I
have never been rivals, especially not when it comes to men. She’s
always wanted their attention, and she’s been able to get it, whereas
I’ve been more reserved. It’s not that I’m a virgin, but I know I don’t
even have a tenth of her experience.
“I love it when they tremble,” the voice on the other end of the
phone says. I can hear keys jingling, then the sound of a door
closing. “Don’t let Damien have her before I get there.”
“Then don’t detour anywhere. Actually, wait, can you pick up
some food? We’ve got drinks here but the snacks here suck.
Damien, why don’t we have better food?”
Damien shakes his head. “Because you said this isn’t an all-
inclusive sort of place, and you don’t think a food license is worth it
when the clientele can barely afford the girls.”
“Just have something delivered,” the man on the other end of the
phone says.
“No, you know they don’t deliver here! They see the address and
think it’s a prank,” Giulio complains. “Come on, that Mexican place is
on the way. Just bring some burritos for everybody.”
“Only if I get first dibs on her,” Slayer says, and I can hear a car
starting. “You don’t have to get her ready for me.”
I look helplessly at Damien, wanting him to intervene, but what’s
he going to do to help? Take me first, so I’m less appealing? That’s
not preferable. “I’m not on the menu,” I tell him, though my voice is
low because I don’t want the other man to hear me speaking.
Giulio waves dismissively at me. “Yeah, you can have her first.
And I want the vegetarian burrito, okay? With extra cheese and
guac.”
The line goes dead.
Giulio stares at his phone in disbelief. “Did he hang up on me?”
“It’s a wonder more people don’t hang up on you,” Damien says.
He starts dragging me toward the sofa. “Giulio… I don’t want
Vanessa for myself. I want her for you.”
 I struggle against Damien, but it’s pointless. All I can do is slow
him down a little, and before I know it, I’m sitting next to Giulio.
“I’m still here!” I snap. “And I don’t want any of you.”
“Yeah, shut up for now,” Giulio says to me. “What do you mean,
you want her for me? I’ve got plenty of girls available.”
Damien sits down next to me, keeping me from getting back up.
My pleas feel worse than ignored. They’re having an actual
conversation around me, like I’m not really here and I’m not even a
person.
Damien runs one hand over my stomach. Even through the
bridesmaid dress, his touch feels far too hot.
“She’s a Bellini, right? And she’s your type. I thought…” Damien
sighs. “She’d make a good mother for your children.”
What?
I stare dumbly at Damien, not even able to try to move as I work
through what he’s saying. I’d admitted to him that I wanted children
once, back when Emilio Pavone was keeping me trapped in my own
home, but I never said anything that would indicate I’d be interested
any time soon. And definitely never with anybody in the mafia world.
“I know she’s smart, and she’s attractive. She has a mothering
instinct. Nobody would question if you married her and then took on
her father’s business.”
Giulio’s expression darkens for the first time that day, and he
suddenly looks much, much more like his father. “This fucking thing
again? I told you, I don’t care about heirs or legacy or whatever. I
can take over Bellini’s operations without being married into the
family or siring Bellini brats.”
Damien keeps stroking my stomach in slow circles. The touch
feels even more sinister now that I know exactly what Damien is
imagining.
“Why not? Don’t you want to see her stomach swelling up,
knowing that it’s your child inside her? That you’ve bred her, that
you’re going to leave behind something great?”
I grab Damien’s wrist, digging my fingernails into his skin, but I
don’t manage to even get a reaction out of him.
 “Stop touching me!” Despite my anger and my fear—or maybe
because of it—my voice wavers, and the words sound pathetic even
to my ears. The idea of bearing the child of a piece of trash like
Giulio Pavone is sickening, and it gives me the courage to snap,
“Find some gold digger who actually wants you, and leave me
alone.”
“Why’s this so important to you, man?” Giulio asks, completely
ignoring my outburst. “I’ve got you, I’ve got Slayer, I have all these
clubs with a lot of girls… And a full criminal empire now! Damn,
that’s going to eat up all my time.”
Damien finally lets go of me, only to take Giulio’s hand and
gently stroke it. I’m trapped under their arms. “We aren’t immortal,
Giulio. Who are you going to leave all of this to, when we’re gone?
You want one of the other groups to swoop in on the power
struggle? I’m older than you. I’ll probably be gone before you.”
“Even if you were younger, you’d end up taking a bullet for me
and leaving me alone, you fucker.” Giulio pulls his hand away and
makes a show of yawning. “Fine. If this is so important to you, we
can try to knock her up. Which will severely devalue her, FYI. And
I’m not fucking marrying her. She can pop out a few babies and we
can figure out what to do with her after that.”
“Are either of you even listening to me?” I ask, tears starting to
trail down my cheeks. “I’m not consenting to this.”
Finally, Giulio looks straight at me. “Read the room! We were
having an important conversation.” He slaps my thigh. “I guess you
aren’t too bad. You’ve got similar coloring to Damien. It’ll almost be
like he and I had a kid together.” Then he laughs. “Actually, maybe
she should have your kid, Damien. Oooh, and we should let Slayer
spooge in her too, then we’ll have no clue whose it is.”
“An important conversation?” I sputter, wiping uselessly at my
tears. “About using my body to have your… your… your spawn? I
think I have a place in that conversation, and… and my answer is
no.”
Damien shakes his head. “Not Slayer’s,” he says, and even
though my anxiety is rising to impossible levels, I can still hear the
bite in his voice. “He doesn’t get to come in her.”
 “None of you do!” I yell.
”All right, let’s get her ready for Slayer. Naked, ropes… or should
we let her run around the room while he chases her? That’s always
fun. Fuck, imagine, we can DP her after we ‘catch’ her… Yeah, like a
wild hunt or something. I need to start writing these ideas down.
They’d be great for a themed club.”
The two of them keep talking, ignoring me, and I realize with
dread that there’s nothing I can do to stop them.
 2

GIULIO

I ’ll admit: I love riling people up, and Vanessa’s reactions are
primo amusing. She’s trying so fucking hard to not let my words
affect her, but I can see the way her lips quiver, the way her eyes
shine with unshed tears.
She’d cried during the car ride, cute little sobs that had gotten
stronger when I casually chatted about the gore we’d just seen.
I grab her shoulders and push her off the couch. She stumbles,
nearly crashing into the coffee table, but as soon as she’s got her
bearings, she runs toward the door.
Damien sighs and follows her, stopping her before she can even
grab the door handle.
“Just let me go,” Vanessa begs, but Damien ignores her and
turns her around so she’s facing me.
“If you attempt to run again, we’ll have to tie you down,” Damien
says quietly.
Vanessa looks ready to burst into tears all over again. She backs
away from him until her back is pressed against the wall.
“Okay, Vanessa, time to strip,” I tell her, grinning widely. “Show
me the goods. Pretend you’re auditioning for a spot in this club, and
you’re very desperate to get taken in because otherwise you’re
sleeping on the filthy New Bristol streets with who knows what kinds
of men. Sure, you’re gonna be selling yourself for a roof over your
head, but at least there’s food and guarantee of protection. And the
boss is kind of hot, too.” I wink at her.
Her terror is delicious, from her too-pale face down to the red-
rimmed eyes. She only stares at me like she doesn’t understand
what I’ve just said. Just when I think she might not have absorbed
it, she gives a tiny shake of her head, glancing between me and
Damien before settling her attention back on me. She wraps her
arms around herself and hunches her shoulders, like that’ll somehow
hide her from our view.
“Come on, play along,” I urge, gesturing with my hand. “Don’t be
boring. I’d hate for any of my future kids to be boring.”
Damien rolls his eyes. “Your children could never be boring,
Giulio. But they might have a modicum of restraint.”
I laugh, genuinely amused by Damien’s dry humor. He thinks he
isn’t funny, but that’s because nobody else understands him.
“All right, I’ll be responsible for the humor genes.” I turn my
attention back to Vanessa. “But I would also like my kids not to be
stupid. Damien says you’re smart—I’m not seeing it right now.”
She’s trembling, down to her lips, and it’s almost sweet. When
she lifts her head to meet my eyes, she shakes her head and starts
backing up. Where she thinks she can go, I don’t know, because
soon enough she’s up against the wall, giving me the most dismayed
expression.
“Yes, I’m allowed in there,” a loud voice says from the other side
of the door. “Get out of my way. Fuck. Giulio!”
I smile, genuinely excited that Slayer got here so fast. I get off
the couch and hold up my hand to Vanessa. “Hold that thought.”
As expected, she doesn’t move at all.
Damien opens the door with only the smallest hint of a scowl. I
clap him on the shoulder as I walk past him. Despite how little
Damien thinks of Slayer, he still plays along for my sake.
Outside the small VIP room, Bernardo is trying to body block
Slayer from coming closer. I roll my eyes, because Bernardo
definitely knows Slayer’s allowed. Unfortunately, Slayer has made no
attempt to get along with any of the staff.
 “Yo, Slayer!” I shout, waving wildly. “Nice of you to join us. Is
that my food? Bernardo, let the man through. I’m fucking starving.”
“Right down to your veggie crap,” Slayer says, flashing a smug
smile at Bernardo as the man finally—reluctantly—moves aside. He
breezes past him, brushing close to me when he passes through the
door.
As expected, his attention instantly goes to Vanessa, and he
whistles.
“She looks terrified,” he says gleefully.
Damien sighs, closing the door, and steps back. He crosses his
arms against his chest, his eyes glued to them.
If Vanessa wasn’t already as pale as she could go, she might’ve
gone a shade whiter from the way Slayer is undressing her with his
eyes.
I guess I don’t blame her. Slayer’s built like a fucking truck,
muscles bulging out of his tight shirt. The dark hair and dark eyes
make him intimidating on a good day, but right now, he looks even
more threatening.
I grab the bag of food Slayer’s extending out to me and take it
back to the couch so I can sort through it. “Veggie, extra guac, extra
cheese. Nice. Damien, your usual extra spicy chicken is here too.
And… who’s the salad for?”
“You,” Slayer says with a smirk. “I figured you’d want it, with how
you like your rabbit food. If you don’t want it, you can always give it
to your new whore.”
Vanessa flinches, looking for all the world like she’s trying to
disappear into the wall.
I open up the salad to inspect the contents. “Dude, this is a
Caesar salad. That’s the most boring version of salad.” I lift the salad
up in Vanessa’s direction. “You can have it. You’ve got to be starving
after the day we’ve had. Fuck, I can’t believe we missed out on the
catering. The wedding cake! Do you know what kind of cake it was
going to be?”
“It’s all the same,” Slayer says dismissively, just to get a rise out
of me. He knows I don’t like my food this plain.
“Not hungry,” Vanessa mumbles, the words barely audible.
 Slayer prowls toward her, getting close to her and breathing in
deeply as he towers over even her tall frame. “She even smells
sweet,” he says, and she whimpers.
Damien sneers in Slayer’s direction, then comes to take his
burrito from where I left it on the coffee table. He sits down next to
me. “The cake was going to be something nutty. Amaretto? It
sounded better than whatever was served at your father’s wedding
to Clarissa.”
I quickly take a bite of my own burrito before I get pissed off for
real. The wedding to Clarissa was a fucking farce. I’d hated Clarissa
from the first day my old man introduced us. The only shame is that
my old man had her murdered instead of divorcing her when
Vanessa’s sister had caught his eye. Talk about a waste. She could
have started earning at one of my clubs.
“Anyway,” I say, “Vanessa here was the bride’s sister. Oh, fuck,
Slayer, you missed such an event. It’s gonna be all over the news
tomorrow. And my old man kicked it.”
Vanessa glances past Slayer to me, but she says nothing. Her
attention snaps back to him, though, when he puts his big hands on
her small waist and leans in. She yelps, and he draws back with a
grin. I can see a red mark forming already on her neck from where
he bit her.
“Don’t mark her,” Damien snaps. “We have plans for her.”
Slayer shoots Damien a look over his shoulder, and I know for a
fact he now wants to mark up Vanessa even more.
“Yep, lots of plans.” I kick off my sandals and stretch my legs out
on the coffee table. “I’m going to be a father, apparently.”
At that, Slayer turns his head and stares at me. He blinks, and
the expression of shock on his face is almost comical. “What?” he
asks. “I thought you were always careful!”
I laugh and wave him off. “Yeah, I am. But Damien here has
convinced me. With my old man out of the picture and unlikely to
produce the little brother or sister I’ve always wanted, it’s on me to
carry on the family line. And who else to carry my spawn into this
world than the daughter of a… okay, also dead, mob boss? Say what
you want about Giorgis Bellini, but he held his own against Victor
Corvi for over a decade, so he wasn’t an idiot. His worst mistake was
trusting my father.”
“Pretty big mistake,” Slayer says, but I can tell he’s still reeling
from the mention of my new role in life as a father. “So does that
mean she’s off limits?” His disappointment is palpable, but he
doesn’t step away from Vanessa. If anything, he presses closer to
her, boxing her in against him.
“Yes,” Damien says, at the same time that I say, “No.”
Vanessa makes a soft whimpering sound, but all of us ignore her.
Slayer huffs in annoyance. “Which is it?”
“Use a condom,” Damien says, and I know it kills him to even
offer that compromise.
I grin and give Damien a quick kiss on the cheek. “You can use a
condom if you want,” I tell Slayer. “I don’t give a fuck if her child is
mine or yours or Damien’s. We’re in a modern age! Family isn’t
defined by blood. The ancient Romans, they picked anybody they
wanted to name as their successors.”
“We aren’t in ancient Rome,” Damien answers firmly. “Most
modern Italians aren’t even descended from ancient Romans. And
we’re barely Italian as is. Your mother was Swedish, Giulio.”
“Oh, stop bitching,” Slayer says, his hands sliding up and down
Vanessa’s sides as she makes soft little sounds of rising panic. “I
always use a condom with the girls here. I don’t know where her
cunt’s been.”
That’s actually a fair enough point, but I doubt Damien would
have picked Vanessa if he thought she was a used-up whore. “Does
Slayer have any reason to worry, Vanessa?” I ask between bites of
my burrito. “You were a college girl, right? Did you have a string of
boyfriends?”
Vanessa hesitates a moment, then says, “Yes. I had a lot of sex.
Unprotected.”
Slayer snorts. “Little liar.” He cups her cheek with his hand. “Try
that again, with the truth this time.”
She shakes her head, and Slayer’s hand is suddenly around her
throat.
“I said, the truth, bitch.”
 Damn, that’s fucking hot. And from the way Damien’s breath
hitches, I can tell he thinks so too. He might not like Slayer, but he
definitely appreciates Slayer’s… effect… on women.
“The Bellini guard seemed to think she was more, ah, pure than
her sister,” Damien mentions. “I never told Emilio, but a few of
Bellini’s men had definitely fucked Lucia. Although according to
them, she seduced them. She was a very outgoing little slut, per
their words. But none of them had ever done anything with
Vanessa.”
That little bit of information leaves me speechless for a second
before I burst out laughing. It takes me way too long to calm down
again. My old man got taken in by a slut? He’d been talking up how
“virginal” she was and how she’d been saving herself for marriage. I
remember his rant from when he’d been rejected by her the first
time, before he’d had Clarissa killed.
And it was all a fucking lie? That’s fucking priceless.
“Christ, Damien,” I say when I can finally speak again. “That’s
just… that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day, and I already heard
Angelo fucking Guerra say he fed my old man his own balls.”
Slayer barks out a laugh. His hand isn’t tight around Vanessa’s
neck; I can still hear her panicked breathing, but he doesn’t let her
go. “Damn, that’s brutal,” he says. “Maybe we should send Guerra a
gift basket.”
“Good idea. Damien, remind me to get him one of those edible
bouquets or something.” I crinkle up the burrito wrapper and toss it
into the plastic bag. “Okay, I’m done eating. Are we fucking her or
what?”
“Yes,” Slayer says. “And it sounds like you need to get working on
her, if she’s going to carry your heirs or whatever.” He releases his
tight grasp on her throat, but he strokes it, making her swallow
hard. He snorts. “I can’t imagine you as a daddy. Is Damien gonna
raise your little spawn for you? Take them to the park and swing
them and play in the dirt with them?”
“Yeah, of course Damien’s gonna help raise the kid.” I roll my
eyes. “But who do you take me for? I’m gonna be the funnest dad
ever. I’ll take them to do all sorts of activities, the kind my old man
would never have taken me on.” I stand up and stretch. “If you play
your cards right, I’ll let you be the nice uncle who teaches the kid
how to shoot straight and gut a… rabbit.” I pause and give Vanessa
another hard look. “She’s trembling. Kind of like a rabbit. Want to
play out a hunt?”
“Not much room in here,” Slayer says. “She wouldn’t be able to
get far. But yeah, another time for sure. I’m good at rabbit hunting.”
He smirks.
“Please,” Vanessa croaks out in a whisper. “Please don’t touch
me.”
“It’s a little late for that, bitch,” Slayer tells her. As though to
prove his point, he squeezes one of her small breasts. “Could be
built a little better up top, but eh. Perfect mouthful.”
“Fine, fine, no hunting.” I look around the room and shrug. “Back
to my original plan, then. She’s a desperate young waif, and if she
doesn’t strip for her prospective new boss, she gets thrown out on
the streets naked to be taken advantage of by all the trash hanging
out in the back alleys.”
“N-no,” Vanessa says shakily. “I’m not… I’m not… I’m not doing
that.”
Damien throws his own burrito wrapper onto the table—not even
into the trash bag, come on, man—and stands up. He walks over to
Vanessa, standing on the other side of her from Slayer. He gently
pets her, and I knew I wasn’t wrong when I thought he was way
more into her than he’s been into other ladies.
“Vanessa,” he says softly, “it’s easier to play along with Giulio’s
whims. He generally gets his way, so you might as well take the path
of least resistance.”
Tears have started streaming from Vanessa’s eyes, and Slayer
leans in to lick them away, ignoring Damien completely. She
whimpers, her hands balling up at her sides as she seems to finally
realize she’s not getting out of this.
“I’ll s-strip,” she stammers out. “But I’m not… I’m not playing…
that game. I can’t. I can’t.” She sounds even more terrified.
“God, she’s sexy,” Slayer says, letting out a groan. “Let her say
no. I can strip her down for you. I’ll play bouncer with your reluctant
new girl.”
I laugh and, after disposing of the trash on the coffee table,
settle back down on the couch. “All right, bouncer man. Bring the
new girl to meet the boss. We’ve got a nice, sturdy platform for her
here.” I grin at her terrified eyes. “Better make it a damn good show.
Who knows where the boss’s whims might take him otherwise?”
 3

VANESSA

I ’m on the verge of breaking down, and all that’s keeping me

from collapsing is Slayer’s big hands on me as he presses me
against the wall with his body. He licks away my tears as fast as
they fall, and it’s even more horrifying when I can feel the hard
press of what has to be his cock against me.
I look at Damien, desperate for a reprieve. “Please,” I whimper.
“Please don’t let them do this.”
He shakes his head. “Shh, there’s no need to be afraid. Giulio’s in
a good mood.” He strokes my hair again, and if he’s trying to be
reassuring, he’s failing spectacularly.
“Let’s get this started,” Slayer says. He pulls me closer to him,
away from Damien, and I stumble, falling right into those too-
muscular arms. “You said you’d strip for us, so you’re gonna strip.
Come on.” He pulls me forward until my knees hit the coffee table.
“Get up there. We want a good view of you.”
“It’s sturdy,” Damien says, as though that’s any more reassuring
than anything else he’s said. “You’ll be safe.”
Slayer shoots him a dirty look, but he offers me a hand.
I’m shaking so hard I can barely even move, and I can’t stop
crying. But I gather up my bridesmaid’s dress and climb onto the
coffee table. I teeter precariously, but Slayer’s hand at my back
keeps me upright.
 When he lets go, I almost fall. I catch myself, and I look
pleadingly at Giulio, begging him wordlessly not to do this to me.
“So, Vanessa, is it?” Giulio asks, like he doesn’t already know the
answer. “My assistant manager here,” he points to Damien, “says
you begged him to let you audition. I don’t normally allow girls to
come in off the streets, but he said to give you a chance. So tell me
why I should bother with a newbie like you.”
I can’t play this game. I can’t pretend I want to be here. I can’t
do this.
I sob, bringing my hand up to my face. “Please don’t,” I whisper.
Giulio sighs loudly. “Okay, see, I thought I was pretty clear in my
threats earlier. Outside, naked? I just… hate boring people, y’know?
My old man, he was pretty boring. Clarissa was boring as fuck. And
now you’re starting to sound a little boring.”
But I am boring. I don’t party hard and play games with
dangerous men. I don’t know if he’ll really follow through on his
threat to toss me out, but I saw the neighborhood as we entered it.
This is not a good place to be, let alone naked.
“Come on,” Slayer says impatiently from behind me, cupping my
ass through the dress. “Just do what he wants, and we can get to
the good part.”
I don’t want to get to the “good part.” I don’t want any of this. I
just want to collapse and cry.
I reach behind myself with shaking hands and catch the zipper of
my dress, starting to pull it down. I can’t bring myself to play along
and speak, but they want me naked more than anything else. I can
do that, at least.
Except Giulio scoffs loudly. “Oh, come on. Do you seriously have
no imagination?” He turns to look at Damien. “What’s a chick need
to get pregnant? Just cum and food? If she’s gonna be like this all
the time, we might as well just tie her down and keep her locked up
until she pops a baby out.”
The idea of being locked in a room, repeatedly used by the men
until I get pregnant, is even more terrifying than the prospect of
what they’re doing now. I’d been going stir crazy in my room at
home when Emilio Pavone hadn’t let me leave, and I hadn’t even
been forced to stay in there that long. I wouldn’t be able to handle
months in a locked room by myself.
“P-please,” I say, my voice nothing more than a ragged whisper.
“I need… I need a job.” I nearly choke on my sob.
“Go on,” Damien coaxes. “Tell him exactly what you told me.
About how your family kicked you out, and how hard it’s been on the
streets.”
I blink through tear-filled eyes, confused at first, until I realize
that Damien is feeding me ideas on how to play this, on how to
appease Giulio.
Slayer snorts, his hand still firmly on my ass, but he doesn’t
interrupt.
“I… I…” I stammer, looking down at my feet instead of at Giulio
and Damien. This is the lesser of two evils. I have to do this. “M-my
family… kicked me out,” I repeat. “Because… because I’m a… I’m a
slut. And I’m trying… trying to survive, on the streets, but it’s hard,
and I…” I try to blink back my tears. “Please take me in. Sir.”
Giulio shakes his flat hand back and forth. “Okay, an actress you
are not. We’ll work up to it. Slayer, stop touching the potential merch
and sit down so she can convince us she’d be a great addition to our
line-up.”
Slayer grumbles but stops touching me, stalking around me to
the couch. He flops down next to Giulio, casually resting his arm
behind Giulio’s head. “She sucks at this,” he complains. “Can’t we
just… skip all this crap? You’re being all dramatic.”
Giulio pats Slayer’s thigh. “You want to skip all this crap,
Vanessa? Get to the good part sooner?”
I can barely catch my breath. What’s worse? Trying to pretend I
want this? Or letting them force me to take them? I’ve only been
with one man, I’ve never even imagined sleeping with multiple at
once, and never any like these three.
“I’m… I’m a good choice,” I say. “I can… I can do… things. I’m
sorry. I’m so sorry, I can’t… I’m trying, I really am, please.” I break
down into tears again, even though I know all it’s doing is speeding
up the inevitable.
“Sounds like she made her choice,” Slayer says smugly.
 Giulio knocks him on the chest. “Nah. She just doesn’t realize
what her choices actually are. She could strip, do a little dance up
there for us, and then sit on our laps one at a time. Or we could pull
her off the table, hold her down, while we have our fun together.
She looks so inexperienced. I bet she’s extra tight.” He looks at
Damien. “Did you get to finger her while you were dealing with my
old man?”
“No. The only thing I did was take those photos I sent you,”
Damien says. “I don’t believe she had much contact with anyone for
the past few months, so she would indeed be, ah, tight.”
The… the photos. I still remember how Damien had made me
bend over my bed and remove my pajama pants. I remember the
loud snap of the phone app. And I remember Damien refusing to tell
me why he was taking photos. Now I know.
Not that it matters, not anymore.
I shudder. I might not be experienced, but I know I don’t want to
take the two—three of them—all at once. It sounds even more
horrifying now that I’m being threatened with it, but I’d never been
interested in group sex.
A striptease, a dance, and some more lap dancing. Surely that
has to be better than taking all of them at once. What other options
do I even have? I’m not a seductress. I can’t forget that there are
three of them. I can’t fight them. My only choice is to go along with
this.
I keep pulling the zipper of my dress down, blushing furiously. I
can do this, one step at a time. I don’t think I can dance, but I can
strip slowly, and maybe that’ll be enough.
“Oh, hold there. Do a little twirl while you hold the dress up,”
Giulio says when the top of the dress starts sliding down my body.
I bite my bottom lip then slowly move in a circle, preventing the
dress from falling down more. It’s a little bit of a reprieve, and I
struggle to compose myself before I’m facing them again.
I freeze when I realize Damien has joined Giulio on the couch, on
the opposite side of him from Slayer. Giulio has one hand directly
over Damien’s crotch, and it’s… it’s moving. He’s massaging Damien
through his slacks.
 Slayer is intent on me, though his arm is still around Giulio’s
shoulders as casually as if they sit that way all the time, pressed in
close like lovers. I don’t know what’s between them, but I wish they
would keep it between the three of them instead of including me.
I jerk the zipper down a little more, paralyzed by the sight of
Giulio touching Damien. Maybe they’ll just get off that way. Maybe
they’ll just watch. Could I be that lucky?
“Love that lacy little bra,” Giulio says. “Nice of your family to kick
you out while you were wearing it. Pure white, though? Not what I’d
figure for a slut.”
“Nah, get her some bright red,” Slayer says. “It’d be perfect on
her skin. Not that it would stay on her long.”
I shudder, but the zipper keeps going down, until I’m exposed
from the waist up. I’m so grateful for the pretty white lace bra,
because it’s at least hiding a little bit from view. I know they won’t
let me keep it on forever, but I’m glad for it while I have the chance.
Damien’s gaze is intense, never once leaving my body. “You
might want to remove the shoes first,” he suggests.
“Aww, I was hoping she wouldn’t notice that part,” Giulio
complains. He moves his hand off Damien and onto his own crotch.
“Love a girl in nothing but underwear and a sexy pair of shoes.”
“They’re not heels, though,” Slayer comments. “It’d be sexier if
they were. She’d be stupid tall that way. What did they feed you
growing up, huh? Plenty of cum?”
My face doesn’t know whether it wants to flush red or blanch,
and I don’t know if I want to be sick or cry harder. I hesitate before
going back to the zipper of the dress, dreading baring more but
knowing it’s only a matter of time before I’m standing there in only
my panties, bra, and stockings.
“That’s good though, right? My babies will be huge!” Giulio jokes.
Then he starts unbuckling his belt. “Okay, speed it up a bit, girl. It’s
been a long day and we all want to get home at some point.”
I want to get home, too. I want to get home more than anything
in the world right now, where I’d be safe.
I know that’s not going to happen.
 I unzip the dress the rest of the way, letting it pool around my
ankles.
“Nice,” Slayer says. “A little fragile, though. I might break her.”
Damien shakes his head. “You aren’t breaking her. Vanessa,
you’re doing well. You look good.”
“Hmm.” Giulio stands up and approaches me, his cock poking out
of his underwear, and taps his chin. “The height is good—and fuck
off, Slayer, we are definitely getting her sexy heels so she can teeter
around for us. There’s no such thing as stupid tall.”
He puts his hands on my hips and urges me to turn around,
stopping me when I’m facing away from them.
Giulio runs a finger over my ass crack and pushes in
threateningly. “Ass is a little bit flat, but I guess that’s a given if she’s
been living on the streets. We’ll feed her up and give her a little bit
more meat on her bones.”
“You know, I think she really will look sexy when you knock her
up,” Slayer says thoughtfully. “She’ll gain some weight, maybe in her
tits and ass, and she’ll even have a little belly. You gonna keep her
knocked up all the time?”
I tense up, and I’m glad I’m facing away from them, so they
can’t see just how their words are affecting me.
“Fuck, I hadn’t considered that. Do I need more than one kid,
Damien?”
There’s a small pause, then Damien says, “Heirs are typically
male.”
Slayer barks out a laugh. “So just keep getting her pregnant until
she gives you a boy. I think she’ll look sexy as fuck with that little
glow pregnant women get. It’s gonna destroy her resale value,
though.”
Resale value.
I go rigid at that, trying to even out my breathing as I stare at
the wall. They wouldn’t.
They would.
“Breast milk is best for children though,” Damien interjects. “You
want your children to grow up healthy and strong. You can’t simply
sell her off.”
 “Of course, of course. No formula for my kids.” Giulio puts both
hands on my ass and slowly runs them up my back, until he reaches
my bra.
My breathing gets heavier and I’m trying so damned hard to hold
back the sobs.
What happens if I can’t breastfeed? Not every woman can.
There’s nothing wrong with formula-feeding, no matter what Damien
seems to think, and I’d definitely prefer it over the invasiveness of
having them monitor me breastfeeding.
But then, they seem like they’re going to be invading every
aspect of my life from here on out.
He unclasps the bra and pushes the straps down my arm. “All
right, turn around again so we can see your tits. Those are the real
moneymakers around here anyway. Tits are way more legal to show
off.”
I turn around, shaking so violently I’m not sure I can even
remain upright as my bra drops to the table beneath me.
Slayer lets out a disgruntled little sound. “She’s… small. How’s
she even gonna feed a kid with those?”
“Flat-chested women breast-feed all the time,” Damien says,
glowering at Slayer. “And they’ll grow with all the pregnancy
hormones. Besides, Giulio likes ‘em small.”
Giulio laughs and pinches both my nipples. “I do! No offense to
your sister and her knockers, but I do like a more linear silhouette.”
I whimper, biting my lip hard so I don’t make any more noise as
he twists my nipples in his fingers.
“No one’s coming in here for flat-chested bitches, though,” Slayer
complains. “She’s gonna suck on the floor.”
“If she dances well, they won’t care,” Giulio answers. He gives
my breasts one last squeeze before he reaches down to my
stockings, pulling on the elastic. “Damn, you sure got dressed up for
a wedding you gave no fucks about.”
I hadn’t had a choice, if I’d wanted Emilio Pavone to think I was
taking it seriously. I’d have put Lucia at risk if I hadn’t played along,
and that had meant perfect clothes, perfect hair, perfect makeup—all
of which were destroyed now. I’m a disheveled mess, and I don’t
even care.
I don’t say anything in response, closing my eyes as he starts to
push the stockings down my legs. Every second bares me more,
exposing more of my body to them.
Giulio picks up one of my legs, forcing me to grip his shoulders or
risk falling, to pull first the shoe, then the stocking off it. He repeats
it on the other foot, and from the wicked smile he gives me, he
knows exactly how unbalanced I am.
Now I’m left in nothing but my panties. Giulio sets his hand
directly over them, cupping my vulva and rubbing insistently against
the lace.
“What’s it gonna take to get her wet?” Giulio asks, looking
straight up at me. “I know it’s not gonna be Slayer’s cock that does
it.”
“Fuck off,” Slayer snaps. “My cock can get her plenty turned on.”
No, it can’t. I can’t think of anything less arousing than being
here with them.
Giulio winks at me as he starts peeling the panties off. “You
wanna bet? Vanessa, if Slayer manages to get you wet, I’ll let you
off the hook for tonight. He’ll be the only cock you’ll have to take.
The pregnancy thing can wait a few days.”
I’m consumed by dread. There’s no way he’ll be able to get me
wet. I’m going to have to take all three of them, and I’m going to
have to do it while I’m dry—unless they make me bleed. I whimper.
No one named Slayer, with such a preposterous nickname that it
seems terrifying, is going to be able to pleasure me.
What’s more, I don’t want him to.
Slayer sits up straight. “Hah! You can forget about coming inside
her tonight!” he crows. “She’s going to be dripping for me. I hear
pregnant women get horny as fuck. Maybe she’ll lose the shyness
and get real freaky once you knock her up.” He comes to stand next
to Giulio, reaching out to toy with my nipples before he yanks my
underwear abruptly down. “All right, enough games. Get on the bed,
bitch, and spread your legs.”
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
brillants, tombant sur des poulets tués[89]. La maison où pendait cette
enseigne (Sauval ne nous dit pas où elle était placée) servait sans doute aux
joyeux repas de la confrérie. C’est aussi dans les Comptes de la Prévôté de
Paris, publiés à la suite de l’ouvrage de Sauval, que nous trouvons quelques
indications sur les confréries et sur leurs maisons. La confrérie de la
Madeleine, fondée en l’église Saint-Eustache, touchait, en 1421, dix sols
parisis de rente sur une maison de la rue Montorgueil, qui avait appartenu à
maître Jean de la Croix.
La confrérie aux Bourgeois, qu’on appelait la Grande Confrérie, était la
plus riche des confréries de Paris. Voici la mention de deux maisons qui lui
appartenaient en 1448 et en 1450: «Maison scise rue de la Cossonnerie, à
l’enseigne Saint Michel, qui fut à la grande Confrairie aux Bourgeois de la
ville de Paris, donnée à rente par Mᵉ Girard Gehe, curé de Saint-Cosme,
abbé de ladite grande Confrairie; Mᵉ Pierre de Breban, conseiller du roi en sa
Chambre des Généraux, doyen de ladite confrairie; sire Michel Culdoë,
bourgeois de Paris, prévost d’icelle grande Confrairie, pour quatre livres
parisis de rente.» Cette note nous apprend que la confrérie avait à sa tête un
abbé, un doyen et un prévôt. Ce furent ces officiers qui vendirent, en 1450,
une des maisons de leur confrérie: «Maison scise rue Saint-Denys, à
l’enseigne du Cocq blanc, scise entre les rues Perrin-Gasselin et de la
Tabletterie, vendue par les abbé, doyen et prévost de la confrairie aux
Bourgeois de la ville de Paris, pour quatre livres parisis de rente.» Citons
encore une autre confrérie qui avait une maison à enseigne antérieurement à
l’année 1463: «Maison scise en la Vieille-Tixeranderie, faisant le coin d’une
petite ruelle par laquelle on va de ladite rue de la Vieille-Tixeranderie au
Martroy Saint-Jean, tenant d’une part à un Hostel, où jadis souloit pendre
l’enseigne de la Heuse (la botte), qui appartient à la confrairie de la
Conception Nostre-Dame aux marchands et vendeurs de vin à Paris, fondée
en l’église Saint-Gervais, et qui à présent appartient à Jean Raguier[90].» Un
dernier souvenir peu édifiant des anciennes confréries parisiennes; c’est
encore Sauval qui nous le fournira: «Croiroit-on bien qu’au Saint-Esprit (à
l’hôpital du Saint-Esprit, qui attenait alors à l’Hôtel de ville), il y a une
confrérie de Notre-Dame de Liesse, fort riche et composée de gens à leur
aise, mais de condition médiocre, qui n’y admettent personne qu’à condition
de leur faire un grand festin et qui dissipent en banquets fort fréquens les
richesses que leurs devanciers n’avoient amassées que pour mieux honorer
Dieu et faire des aumônes? Aussi y a-t-il presse à être leur traiteur, et n’en
prennent-ils point qui n’ait le goût friand, et à cause de cela est perpétuel et
bien payé. Les compagnons d’entre eux n’appellent point autrement leur
confrérie, que la Confrérie des Goulus[91].»
Les enseignes professionnelles des métiers devaient être fort nombreuses
dès le XIVᵉ siècle; mais, comme elles dépendaient presque exclusivement des
boutiques, elles n’ont pas été indiquées dans les documents relatifs aux
immeubles; car ces sortes d’enseignes suivaient toutes les vicissitudes d’un
commerce qui les amenait et les emportait avec lui. Ainsi, nous ne trouvons
qu’un petit nombre d’enseignes de métier, dans les curieuses recherches de
Berty sur les quartiers de la Cité, du Louvre et du bourg Saint-Germain. Par
exemple, rue de la Juiverie, la Heuse, ou la Botte, XVᵉ siècle, et la Chausse
de Flandre, 1450; rue du Four-Basset, le Gland d’or, 1600, et le Heaume,
1429; devant Saint-Nicolas-des-Champs, le Pesteil ou le Pilon, 1395; rue
Saint-Honoré, l’Éperon d’or, 1603; rue Champfleuri, les Deux Coignées,
1451; le Heaume, 1378; le Rabot, 1572; la Pelle, 1410, etc.
Les marchands, ou vendeurs proprement dits, qui ne fabriquaient pas leur
marchandise, tels que les drapiers, les épiciers, les pelletiers, les lingers, etc.,
préféraient des enseignes de fantaisie, qui convenaient également à toute
espèce de commerce et qui ne caractérisaient pas spécialement leur
profession. De là les Bras d’or, les Barbes d’or, les Soleils d’or, les Étoiles
d’or, les Escharpes d’or, etc., qui prouvaient surtout que l’or sous toutes ses
formes avait les préférences du commerce.
Les enseignes de boutique et d’ouvroir étaient de dimension
généralement modeste, avant le XVIIᵉ siècle, quand elles devaient prendre
place au-dessus de la porte d’entrée de la boutique et, par conséquent, sous
l’auvent. Le système des armes parlantes convenait le mieux à la plupart des
métiers et des industries, car c’était là l’indication la plus naturelle et la plus
simple de chaque genre de fabrique et de vente: il suffisait de la
représentation figurée d’un pot ou d’un plat d’étain pour annoncer l’ouvroir
d’un ferblantier; rien n’indiquait mieux la boutique d’un chapelier qu’un
chapeau; la boutique d’un bonnetier, qu’un bonnet; la boutique d’un
serrurier, qu’une clé. Mais, au XVIIᵉ siècle, tous ces attributs de métier
prirent des proportions exagérées et bientôt monstrueuses: «Ces enseignes,
dit Mercier[92], avoient pour la plupart un volume colossal et en relief; elles
donnoient l’image d’un peuple gigantesque, aux yeux du peuple le plus
rabougri de l’Europe. On voyoit une garde d’épée de six pieds de haut, une
botte grosse comme un muids, un éperon large comme une roue de carrosse,
un gant qui auroit logé un enfant de trois ans dans chaque doigt; des têtes
monstrueuses; des bras armés d’un fleuret, qui occupoient toute la longueur
de la rue[93].» La plupart de ces objets, que l’orgueil du marchand grossissait
à l’envi, pendaient à de longues potences en fer et oscillaient dans l’air, au
gré du vent, en jetant, la nuit, de larges ombres qui rendaient nulle la faible
clarté des lanternes. Ce fut l’ordonnance de police du mois de novembre
1669 qui obligea tous les gens de boutique à réduire leurs enseignes à la
même dimension, «13 pieds et demi, depuis le pavé de la rue jusqu’à la
partie inférieure du tableau, qui n’auroit que 18 pieds de largeur sur 2 pieds
de haut.» Les potences, auxquelles les tableaux d’enseigne devaient être
accrochés, furent aussi réduites à des dimensions uniformes. Le modèle de
ces potences nous a même été conservé, dans le Traité de la Police de
Delamarre (liv. XI, tit. IX), avec l’adresse du fabricant privilégié, qui
fournissait les ferrements, moyennant le prix de 17 livres; c’était le sieur
Nicolas de Lobel, serrurier du roi, rue Coquillière, proche Saint-Eustache,
vis-à-vis la rue des Vieux-Augustins.
Tant que La Reynie fut lieutenant général de police, on respecta ses
ordonnances, et les enseignes restèrent soumises au règlement qui avait
diminué considérablement leurs dimensions: «Les enseignes n’obstruent
plus les rues, écrivait le docteur anglais Lister dans son Voyage à Paris en
1698, et font, grâce à leur petitesse ou à leur élévation, aussi peu de figure
que s’il n’y en avait point.» Mais un siècle après l’ordonnance de 1669, il
n’était plus question de la police des enseignes, qui avaient repris des
proportions énormes, aussi gênantes que dangereuses pour le public, eu
égard au peu de largeur des rues et à la hauteur excessive des maisons. Il
fallut l’ordonnance de police de M. de Sartine, du 27 décembre 1761, pour
forcer les marchands à supprimer les potences «et tous les massifs et reliefs
servant d’enseignes, pour les convertir en tableaux appliqués sur les murs, en
suivant les dimensions obligées.» Cette ordonnance, mise à exécution dans
le plus court délai et maintenue avec rigueur, eut pour objet de faire rentrer
dans le néant la ridicule et hideuse fantasmagorie des enseignes de
métier[94].
 VIII

ENSEIGNES DES HOTELLERIES ET DES AUBERGES

O N peut affirmer, sans essayer de le prouver par des documents certains,

que, dès les premiers temps du moyen âge, les hôtelleries et les auberges
de Paris avaient des enseignes, comme dans tout le monde romain; car il
est impossible de supposer l’existence d’un asile de jour et de nuit pour les
voyageurs, sans un signe distinctif, sans une enseigne annonçant à l’extérieur
la maison hospitalière qui attend des hôtes étrangers et qui leur offre à toute
heure le gîte et la nourriture. Cette enseigne n’était peut-être qu’une branche
d’arbre, ou bien une couronne de feuillage, ou bien un bouchon de paille, ou
bien tout autre objet indicateur, mais ce devait être un signe spécial et
généralement admis, qui permettait à tout individu arrivant dans une ville ou
dans un pays sans y connaître personne et sans en savoir la langue, de
trouver là, moyennant pécune, à se loger et à vivre. On peut dire avec
certitude que la plus ancienne enseigne a été celle d’une hôtellerie.
Cependant nous ne citerons pas d’enseigne d’hôtellerie, à Paris,
antérieurement à 1302. Ce fut en cette année 1302 que l’adroite faussaire
flamande Jeanne de Divion, complice de Robert d’Artois, qui disputait à sa
tante Mahaut la succession du comté d’Artois, vint descendre à l’hôtellerie
de l’Aigle, dans la rue Saint-Antoine, pour y préparer en secret de faux actes
destinés à servir les machinations de son patron[95]. Cette hôtellerie,
dépendant des propriétés de l’abbaye de Saint-Maur-des-Fossés et située
près de la porte Baudoyer, avait pour enseigne l’Aigle, qui rappelait peut-être
qu’un camp romain, Castrum Bagaudarum, occupait jadis la place de Saint-
Maur-des-Fossés.
Il faut aller à la fin du XIVᵉ siècle pour trouver à Paris les noms des
enseignes de deux autres hôtelleries; elles avaient laissé d’excellents
souvenirs au poète Eustache Deschamps, qui les regrettait, en les comparant
aux auberges d’Allemagne, où l’on faisait maigre chère. Voici quelques vers
de sa ballade sur les ennuis du séjour d’Allemagne:
 Princes, par la vierge Marie,
On est, en la Cossonnerie,
Aux Canètes ou aux Trois Rois,
Mieux servy en l’hostellerie,
Car ces gens que je vous escrie
Là n’y parleront que thiois (allemand).

La Cossonnerie ou Coqçonnerie était la poulaillerie des Halles, le marché

au gibier et à la volaille. Il a laissé son nom à la rue où il se tenait[96].
Monstrelet, dans ses Chroniques, cite quatre bonnes hôtelleries parisiennes,
sous le règne de Charles VI: l’hôtel à l’enseigne de l’Épée, rue Saint-Denis;
l’hôtel de l’Ours, à la porte Baudet ou Baudoyer; le logis de l’Arbre-Sec, rue
de l’Arbre-Sec, et l’hôtel de la Fleur de lys, près le Pont-Neuf[97]. Il y avait,
dans le même temps, une hôtellerie non moins renommée, à l’enseigne du
Château de fétu (château de paille?), situé dans une partie de la rue Saint-
Honoré, appelée alors rue du Château-Fétu, et qui s’étendait depuis la rue
Tirechappe jusqu’à la Croix du Tiroir[98]. On lit dans la Chronique de
Froissart[99]: «Si descendirent les chevaliers d’Angleterre, messire Thomas
de Percy et les autres, en la rue qu’on dit la Croix-du-Tirouer, à l’enseigne de
Château de fétu.» Cette hôtellerie devait être assez importante, pour que des
seigneurs de si haut parage vinssent y loger avec tout leur train; aussi,
lorsque les Anglais se furent emparés de la ville de Paris, au nom du roi
d’Angleterre Henri V, avant la mort de Charles VI, le Château de fétu fut
compris dans les confiscations domaniales de l’occupation anglaise.
On peut se faire une idée de l’état confortable de certaines hôtelleries, dès
ces époques reculées, lorsqu’on voit les ambassadeurs des souverains
étrangers loger dans ces hôtelleries, avec une nombreuse suite d’officiers, de
valets et de chevaux. Sous le règne de Louis XII, en 1500, les ambassadeurs
de l’empereur Maximilien, en arrivant à Paris, furent conduits, par le prévôt
des marchands et les échevins, dans la rue de la Huchette, à la maison de
l’Ange, «qui étoit fort belle pour ces temps-là, dit Sauval, et là, ils étoient
défrayés de tout aux dépens de la ville». En 1552, sous le règne de Henri II,
un ambassadeur du roi d’Alger étant venu trouver le roi de France à Châlons,
avec des chevaux et des juments arabes, le roi écrivit au prévôt des
marchands pour lui ordonner de recevoir très honorablement cet
ambassadeur et de «lui montrer tout ce qu’il avoit envie de voir à Paris...
Quelques jours après, dit Sauval, cet ambassadeur descendit à la rue de la
Huchette, à l’hôtellerie de l’Ange[100].» Le prévôt des marchands et les
échevins allèrent en grande pompe lui faire la révérence et lui donnèrent,
pour le garder, une escorte d’arbalétriers de la Ville, qui veillaient jour et
nuit à la porte de son logis, pour empêcher le peuple d’entrer dans
l’hôtellerie.
S’il y avait alors un certain nombre de belles et opulentes hôtelleries, où
descendaient les voyageurs de distinction qui se rendaient à Paris, de tous les
points du monde, pour visiter cette grande capitale, qui passait pour la ville
la plus curieuse et la plus intéressante de l’Europe, Paris renfermait une
multitude d’auberges de bas étage, espèces de coupe-gorge et repaires de
malfaiteurs, où la police allait ramasser le gibier de potence, qui peuplait les
prisons du Châtelet avant de faire l’ornement des gibets de la place de
Grève. Les Registres criminels du Châtelet, à la fin du XIVᵉ siècle, citent une
foule d’enseignes de ces tavernes, où l’on tuait, où l’on volait sans cesse les
marchands qui avaient le malheur de s’y être arrêtés pour passer la nuit[101].
Parmi celles de ces enseignes mal famées qui reviennent le plus
fréquemment sous la plume du greffier Alleaume Cachemare, on remarque
l’Écrevisse, place Baudoyer; l’Écu de Saint-Georges, rue de la Harpe, et
surtout l’Écu de France, rue de la Truanderie. L’auberge du Plat d’étain,
située au bas de la rue Saint-Jacques, était aussi un des mauvais lieux où les
archers du prévôt de Paris faisaient les plus fructueuses captures pour la
justice criminelle du Châtelet. L’hôtellerie du Pestel (le pilon), dans la rue de
la Mortellerie, théâtre ordinaire des repues franches de la bande du poète
Villon, rassemblait ces joyeux compagnons qui revenaient de la maraude,
tout chargés de victuailles qu’ils avaient dérobées chez les marchands[102].
Villon n’a pas omis de célébrer, dans son Grand Testament, ce repaire de
voleurs:

Où pend l’enseigne du Pestel

A bon logis en bon hostel.

Il y eut de tout temps des hôtelleries de cette espèce, que nous appelons
maintenant des garnis et qui conservent encore, sous ce nom-là, les
traditions de la race des gens de pince et de croc, comme ils se qualifiaient
eux-mêmes à l’époque de Villon. Ces garnis de bas étage n’étaient souvent
que des maisons de débauche, tel que celui représenté dans la ballade où
Villon décrit ses honteuses amours avec la grosse Margot. Cette ballade,
affreusement pittoresque, eut assez de célébrité parmi les souteneurs de filles
et les piliers de mauvais lieux, pour qu’une hôtellerie de la rue Cloche-Perce
se soit donné l’enseigne de la Grosse Margot, qui subsistait encore à la fin
du XVIIᵉ siècle[103]. Du reste, il y avait dès lors, comme à présent, des
hôtelleries, des auberges, des garnis, pour toute sorte de clientèle, suivant le
proverbe du temps: Telle hôtellerie, telles gens. Il y avait même des
hôtelleries spéciales pour les voleurs de profession, vagabonds et gens sans
aveu: la maison de l’Enseigne verte, dans la rue Saint-Denis, était une de ces
hôtelleries signalées aux recherches des limiers du lieutenant général de la
police[104].
Aucune de ces anciennes hôtelleries où les voyageurs, les marchands
étrangers venaient loger à pied ou à cheval, n’existe plus sans doute à Paris,
du moins avec son caractère et son aspect d’autrefois; mais nous en trouvons
la description plus ou moins complète dans quelques vieux livres, comme le
Roman comique de Scarron, et dans quelques relations de voyageurs, comme
le Journal de deux Hollandais à Paris en 1657-58. On en a un tableau exact
et fort curieux dans une enseigne de marchand de vin qu’on voyait naguère
au quai du Marché-Neuf et qui représentait une vieille auberge, située près
de l’ancienne boucherie du Marché Neuf, construite ad hoc au XVIᵉ siècle, et
démolie en 1804 pour faire place à la Morgue, que les dernières
transformations du quai de la Cité ont fait aussi disparaître.
 Une petite pièce rimée du XVᵉ siècle, intitulée le Pèlerin passant, nous
fait connaître quelles étaient les principales hôtelleries du temps de Louis XI
ou de Charles VIII. Cette pièce est un monologue, que débitait, dit-on, sur le
théâtre, un seul acteur, et qui servait d’intermède entre une farce et une
moralité. L’auteur, ou peut-être l’acteur lui-même, se nommait Pierre
Taherie[105]. Le Pèlerin passant, c’est-à-dire le voyageur, en arrivant à Paris,
descend à l’Écu de France, qui était une hôtellerie assez convenable; mais il
ne nous dit pas où elle se trouvait située, et il ne donne pas davantage
l’adresse des autres auberges, qu’il va chercher ensuite dans différents
quartiers. Notre voyageur, jugeant qu’il dépense trop à l’Écu de France, s’en
va demander gîte à l’Écu de Bretagne, dont l’hôtesse, dame de bien, de
noble race et bien famée, ne reçoit que des gens de son pays. Le Pèlerin se
présente successivement à l’Ancre et à l’Écu d’Alençon, sans pouvoir tomber
d’accord sur le prix de son hébergement. Il s’arrête enfin au Chapeau rouge
et se félicite d’avoir rencontré la meilleure hôtellerie de la ville, du moins à
en croire les apparences:
Un grand logis, une grand’court,
C’estoit un paradis terrestre.
 Mais le difficile était d’y avoir une chambre; on y voyait une foule de
gens

Qui attendoyent estre logés,

Muchés (cachés) en un coin à requoi,
Tant du pays que des estrangé.

Notre Pèlerin n’a pas la même patience; il va frapper à la porte de l’Écu

d’Orléans, mais la porte était close et la maison déserte. L’hôte avait quitté
son métier pour entrer au service du roi. Force est donc de chercher gîte
ailleurs et au plus proche; c’est à l’Écu de Bourbon que le Pèlerin espère le
trouver: c’était

Une maison de grand abord,

Où aultre fois il a fait bon,
Mais l’hoste de céans est mort!

Notre voyageur, qui a l’estomac vide, se hâte de se transporter à l’Écu de

Châteaudun. Pas de chance; l’hôtellerie est pleine, et tout ce qu’il peut
obtenir, c’est la repue (le dîner ou le souper). Enfin il est admis à l’Écu de
Calabre pour y passer la nuit. Il y fut assez mal, puisqu’il en partit le
lendemain dans l’espoir de trouver mieux; il ne fut pas plus heureux, dit-il:
Quand j’eus couru longue saison,
Je m’en vais au Chef Saint-Denys,
Dont le maistre de la maison
En aultres estoit un fenys (phénix).

Mais il n’y resta pas longtemps, car cet aubergiste phénomène vint à
mourir, et la bourse du Pèlerin passant étant presque épuisée, il résolut de
retourner chez lui et s’embarqua sur un bateau qui descendait la Seine pour
faire escale à Saint-Ouen; là, il logea dans une auberge riveraine, au Port
Saint-Ouen, où sans doute on lui fit crédit; le lendemain, il voulut se faire
héberger dans une autre auberge, au Port Saint-Jore:
 Mais le maistre estoit à Rouen,
Ainsi qu’on me mist en mémore.
De là allay plus loin encore,
En un logis d’antiquité,
Qui se nomme la Trinité.

Était-ce encore une auberge de village ou une maison hospitalière, dans

laquelle le pauvre pèlerin trouva un asile sans bourse délier?
Il ressort du monologue de Pierre Taherie que les hôtelleries, au XVᵉ
siècle, avaient ordinairement pour enseigne l’écu d’armoiries d’un pays ou
d’un haut et puissant seigneur. Nous avons donné ailleurs la raison de ce
vieil usage, qui persiste encore dans quelques villes de France: «La raison en
est, disions-nous[106], dans l’appel que les hôteliers pouvaient faire ainsi à
tous les nouveaux arrivés d’un même pays, joyeux de venir prendre gîte sous
le patronage du nom de la province, et de se donner pour point de ralliement
l’enseigne portant les armes de leur seigneur.» Cet usage paraît avoir changé
dans le cours du XVIᵉ siècle, car le maréchal de Vieilleville dit, dans ses
Mémoires, que les enseignes des hôtelleries sont «au nom des saints et
saintes»[107].
Ces images de saints et de saintes furent remplacées par des croix,
lorsque le protestantisme eut mis à l’index les saints et les saintes. On
comprend que les hôtelleries, ouvertes à tout le monde, sans distinction de
croyance religieuse, devaient éviter d’éloigner le voyageur, à la seule
inspection de leurs enseignes. Les images de saints furent remplacées par des
croix, qui n’inquiétaient alors la religion de personne. Il y eut aussitôt des
croix de tous les métaux et de toutes les couleurs: Croix d’or, d’argent, de
fer, de cuivre; Croix blanche, rouge, noire, etc. La couleur verte étant vue de
mauvais œil, à cause du Bonnet vert, qui avait fait considérer le vert comme
la couleur emblématique des faussaires et des filous, nous doutons fort que
les honnêtes gens allassent loger volontiers à l’hôtel du Val de Gallye ou de
la Croix verte; mais Richelet, dans la préface de son Dictionnaire françois,
nous apprend que la meilleure hôtellerie du XVIIᵉ siècle était celle de la Croix
d’or.
Les voyageurs qui voulaient voir Paris et y faire un séjour plus ou moins
prolongé étaient assez nombreux pour assurer un bon revenu aux hôtelleries
où ils venaient descendre; aussi ces hôtelleries avaient-elles pour enseignes
les noms des grandes villes étrangères. Deux gentilshommes de Hollande,
qui firent un voyage à Paris en 1657[108], allaient prendre leurs repas dans
une auberge de cette espèce: «On y traitoit assez mal, disent-ils, et c’estoit
une de celles où il ne va que des estrangers: aussi a-t-elle pour enseigne la
Ville de Hambourg. Il y avoit sept ou huit Allemands assez bien faicts, et
nous nous estonnasmes qu’ils souffrissent qu’on leur fist si pauvre chère. La
pluspart de ces messieurs s’attroupent aux païs estrangers et s’adressent et se
logent chez ceux de leur nation. Par le premier, ils ne profitent guère et ne
connoissent que peu ou point la nation qu’ils visitent, et par le second, ils
sont trompez et maltraitez de ceux de leur nation dont ils se servent, qui
abusent du peu de connoissance qu’ils ont du païs où ils sont.»
Ces Hollandais, à leur arrivée, étaient descendus à l’auberge où s’était
déjà logé un de leurs compatriotes, au faubourg Saint-Germain, rue des
Boucheries, à l’enseigne du Prince d’Orange. Ils ne voulurent pas suivre un
de leurs compagnons de voyage, qui s’en allait loger «chez Monglas, en la
rue de Seine, à la Ville de Brissac.» Tallemant des Réaux, dans ses
Historiettes, a parlé de cette auberge: «L’hôte et l’hôtesse sont huguenots,
dit-il, et sont assez exacts; c’est une honnête auberge, et tout est plein de
gens de la Religion (réformée) à l’entour.»
Ce fut vers ce temps-là que les hôtelleries de Paris prirent le nom
d’hôtels, comme pour faire concurrence avec les habitations des grands
seigneurs. «Il y a à Paris, écrivait le docteur Lister en 1698, un grand nombre
d’hôtels, c’est-à-dire d’auberges publiques, où on loue des appartements. Ce
nom s’applique aux maisons des seigneurs et des gentilshommes, dont le
nom est le plus souvent écrit en lettres d’or sur un marbre noir placé au-
dessus de la porte[109].» Beaucoup de ces hôtelleries remontaient à une
époque très ancienne, et elles avaient conservé leur enseigne primitive, sur
laquelle on lisait encore, suivant les prescriptions de l’ordonnance de 1579:
Hostellerie, ou Taverne, par la permission du Roy. La plupart cependant
s’étaient soustraites, en prenant le titre d’hôte., aux règlements tyranniques
de cette ordonnance, qui enjoignait aux hôteliers de faire inscrire sur leur
porte, en gros caractères, les prix que les voyageurs auraient à payer; par
exemple: Dînée du voyageur à pied, 6 sols. Couchée du voyageur à pied, 8
sols. Sur beaucoup d’enseignes, on lisait: Icy on fait nopces et festins, et
cette inscription s’est maintenue, avec son orthographe, presque jusqu’à nos
jours. On lisait aussi cette autre inscription, qui ne sert plus que dans
quelques villes de province lointaines: Icy on loge à pied et à cheval. Les
hôteliers avaient ainsi à se débattre au milieu d’une foule de lois et de
règlements plus ou moins tyranniques.
Le Livre commode de Nicolas de Blegny[110] nous donne les noms et les
adresses des principaux hôtels de Paris à la fin du XVIIᵉ siècle, en indiquant
bien des enseignes; mais il ne nous dit pas que les hôtels qui portaient des
noms de pays avaient pour enseignes les armes de ces pays. Les noms de
province et de seigneurie commandaient toujours des écussons armoriés
pour enseignes; quant aux noms de ville, on a lieu de croire qu’ils
autorisaient les hôteliers à faire peindre au naturel, comme on disait alors,
sur les enseignes de leurs hôtelleries, une vue de ces villes françaises ou
étrangères. Venons maintenant à la nomenclature des hôtels de second ordre,
en différents quartiers. Le sieur de Blegny n’en cite que deux de premier
ordre: l’hôtel de la Reine Marguerite, rue de Seine, et l’hôtel de Bouillon,
quai des Théatins (actuellement quai Malaquais), dans lesquels on trouvait
des appartements magnifiquement garnis pour les grands seigneurs, anciens
hôtels princiers, l’un et l’autre, et qui, sans doute, n’avaient pas besoin
d’autre enseigne que leur grande notoriété alors qu’ils étaient habités, le
premier, par la Reine Margot, le second, par le duc de Bouillon. Les bons
hôtels, recommandés par le Livre commode, étaient les suivants: le Grand
Duc de Bourgogne, rue des Petits-Augustins; l’hôtel d’Écosse, rue des
Saints-Pères; l’hôtel de Taranne, l’hôtel de la Savoie et l’hôtel d’Alby, rue de
Charonne; l’hôtel de Lille, l’hôtel de Bavière, l’hôtel de France, et la Ville de
Montpellier, rue de Seine; l’hôtel de Venise et l’hôtel de Marseille, rue Saint-
Benoît; l’hôtel de Vitry, l’hôtel de Bourbon, l’hôtel de France et l’hôtel de
Navarre, rue des Grands-Augustins; la Ville de Rome, rue des Marmousets;
l’hôtel de Perpignan, rue du Haut-Moulin; l’hôtel de Tours, rue du Jardinet;
l’hôtel de Beauvais, rue Dauphine; l’hôtel d’Orléans, rue Mazarine; l’hôtel
du Saint-Esprit, rue Guénégaud; l’hôtel de Saint-Aignan, rue Saint-André;
l’hôtel de Hollande, l’hôtel de Béziers, l’hôtel de Brandebourg, l’hôtel de
Saint-Paul, et le grand hôtel de Luynes, rue du Colombier.
Le sieur de Blegny cite ensuite des hôtels d’un ordre inférieur, où l’on
mangeait à table d’auberge, c’est-à-dire à table d’hôte, pour 40 sols, 30 sols,
20 sols et 15 sols: 1º l’hôtel de Mantoue, rue du Mouton; l’hôtel de l’Ile-de-
France, rue Guénégaud, etc.; 2º l’hôtel de Château-Vieux, rue Saint-André;
le petit hôtel de Luynes, rue Gît-le-Cœur; à la Galère, rue Zacharie; aux
Bœufs, et aux Trois Chandeliers, rue de la Huchette, etc.; 3º l’hôtel d’Anjou,
rue Dauphine; le Petit Saint-Jean, rue Gît-le-Cœur; au Coq hardi, rue Saint-
André; à la Galère, chez le sieur Vilain, rue des Lavandières; à la Croix de
Fer, rue Saint-Denis; au Pressoir d’Or, et à l’hôtel de Bruxelles, rue Saint-
Martin; à la Croix d’Or, rue du Poirier; à la Toison d’Or, rue Beaubourg,
etc.; 4º à la Ville de Bordeaux, et à l’hôtel de Mouy, rue Dauphine; l’hôtel
Couronné, rue de Savoie; au Petit Trianon, rue Ticquetonne; à la Ville de
Stockholm, rue de Buci; à la Belle Image, rue du Petit-Bourbon; au Dauphin,
rue Maubuée, etc.
Les auberges où l’on mangeait à 10 sols sont même désignées dans le
Livre commode: au Heaume, rue du Foin; au Paon, rue Bourg-l’Abbé; au
Gaillard Bois, rue de l’Échelle; au Gros Chapelet, rue des Cordiers; à l’hôtel
Notre-Dame, rue du Colombier. Le sieur de Blegny n’oublie pas deux ou
trois auberges où il y avait trois tables différentes, à 15, à 20 et 30 sols: à la
Couronne d’Or, rue Saint-Antoine; au Petit Bourbon, quai des Ormes; à
l’hôtel de Picardie, rue Saint-Honoré.
Les restaurants et les restaurateurs n’existaient pas encore, mais on avait,
en différents quartiers de la ville et des faubourgs, des traiteurs et marchands
de vin, «qui font nopces, ou qui tiennent de grands cabarets, et où il se fait
de grands écots.» Dans ces maisons-là, on ne couchait pas, on ne logeait pas,
en général; on ne faisait qu’y boire et manger. Le Livre commode nomme les
propriétaires de ces établissements: Clossier, à la Gerbe d’or, rue Gervais-
Laurent; Blanne, à la Galère, rue de la Savaterie; Bedoré, au Petit Panier,
rue Tirechappe; Robert, au Cloître-Saint-Merry; Aubrin, à la Croix blanche,
rue de Bercy; Martin, aux Torches, cimetière Saint-Jean; Guérin, à la Folie,
rue de la Poterie; Payen, au Petit Panier, rue des Noyers; Cheret, à la
Cornemuse, rue des Prouvaires.
Nicolas de Blegny ne s’arrête pas là; il cite, avec leurs enseignes, d’autres
endroits où «on peut aussi boire et manger proprement et agréablement»: au
Louis, près le Jeu de paume de Metz; à la Porte-Saint-Germain, rue des
Cordeliers; à la Reine de Suède, rue de Seine; aux Carneaux, rue des
Déchargeurs; à la Petite Bastille, rue de Béthizy; au Petit Père noir, rue de la
Bûcherie; aux Trois Chapelets, rue Saint-André-des-Arts; à la Galère, rue
Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre; au Soleil des Perdreaux, rue des Petits-Champs;
au Panier fleuri, rue du Crucifix-Saint-Jacques-de-la-Boucherie; à la Boule
blanche, près la porte Saint-Denis, et au Jardinier, faubourg Saint-Antoine.
Mais les bons endroits que le sieur de Blegny recommande aux fins
gourmets et aux grands buveurs n’étaient, en réalité, que des cabarets,
quoique les auberges et les maisons garnies dans lesquelles il y avait des
tables d’hôte fussent cent fois plus nombreuses qu’elles ne le sont dans le
Livre commode; car, d’après les Annales de la Cour et de la Ville, pour les
années 1697-1698, t. II, p. 185, «il y avoit eu dans Paris un si grand abord
d’étrangers, que l’on en comptoit quinze à seize mille dans le faubourg
Saint-Germain seulement. Le nombre s’accrut encore bientôt de plus de la
moitié, en sorte que, au commencement de l’année suivante, on trouve qu’il
y en avoit trente-six mille dans ce seul faubourg.»
Nous n’avons pas l’intention de reconstituer l’état des hôtelleries, à
propos de leurs enseignes, sous le règne de Louis XIV; nous nous bornerons
à rappeler que si le nombre de ces hôtels et maisons garnies ne fit que
s’accroître avec le nombre des voyageurs qui venaient voir les monuments et
les curiosités de la capitale de la France, J.-C. Nemeitz, conseiller du prince
de Waldeck, qui visita cette capitale en 1715, bien que la traduction française
de son Séjour à Paris n’ait été publiée qu’en 1727[111], nous apprend qu’il y
logea lui-même dans une grande hôtellerie où se trouvaient, en même temps
que lui, des étrangers appartenant à dix nations différentes. Mais il ne songe
pas à signaler les principales hôtelleries; il constate seulement que les plus
agréables et les plus fréquentées étaient celles du faubourg Saint-Germain, et
il nomme l’hôtel Impérial, rue du Tour, qui n’est autre que la rue de
Tournon; l’hôtel de Hambourg, tout contre; l’hôtel d’Espagne, rue de Seine;
l’hôtel de Nîmes, dans la même rue; l’hôtel d’Anjou, rue Dauphine; la Ville
de Hambourg, au bas, rue des Boucheries; l’hôtel d’Orléans, rue Mazarine;
l’hôtel de Modène, rue Jacob; et d’autres hôtels, situés dans la rue de
Tournon, qui était la plus recherchée des voyageurs, à cause du voisinage du
Luxembourg: le grand hôtel d’Entragues, l’hôtel de Trévise et le petit hôtel
de Bourgogne. C’était dans les hôtels de la rue de Tournon que les
ambassadeurs et les seigneurs étrangers louaient de préférence des
appartements pendant leur séjour à Paris; l’hôtel officiel des ambassadeurs
extraordinaires ayant été établi dans cette rue, à l’ancien hôtel du maréchal
d’Ancre.
 IX

ENSEIGNES DES CABARETS ET DES MARCHANDS

DE VIN

L ES cabarets eurent longtemps, au moyen âge, la même enseigne que dans

l’antiquité. Cette enseigne n’était autre qu’un rameau de verdure, une
branche de sapin, une couronne de lierre, ou tout autre bouquet de
feuillage, qu’on appela bouchon, dès la première formation de la langue
française. Le bouchon de paille et la branche de laurier n’indiquaient que les
mauvais lieux. Au surplus, cabaret et mauvais lieu souvent ne faisaient
qu’un[112]. Comme le peuple, dans certains patois, prononçait bouchou, au
lieu de bouchon, bien des cabaretiers remplaçaient le rameau ou la branche
d’arbre par un chou[113]. Le cabaret lui-même prit le nom de bouchon, qui
est encore usité, mais dans le sens le moins favorable; on l’appelait aussi
buffet, qu’on transforma en buvette. La rue des Lombards était, au XIIIᵉ
siècle, la rue de la Buffeterie. On n’ouvrait pas un cabaret sans devoir un
droit de buffetage (buffetagium) au seigneur féodal de la terre où ce cabaret
pouvait être établi, et ce droit, qui se payait tous les ans, comprenait le droit
de lever bouchon, car il n’y avait pas de cabaret sans enseigne. Le Cartulaire
de Saint-Magloire, à Paris, nous apprend que les moines du couvent
prélevaient le buffetage sur les cabarets de leur domaine territorial[114].
Vers la fin du XIVᵉ siècle, l’enseigne ordinaire des cabarets avait changé,
parce que la plupart de ces cabarets étaient des caves, où l’on vendait du vin
au pot et au tonneau. Un cercel ou cerceau pendait à l’entrée de la taverne, à
la place du bouchon. Nous voyons, en 1362, un propriétaire autorisé à
suspendre à la porte de sa maison «un cercel à taverne, ou autre
enseigne[115]». Monteil cite, au XVᵉ siècle, plusieurs cabarets où pendait un
cerceau: on y vendait du vin de sauge et de romarin. Il y avait dès lors plus
d’un cabaret fameux, entre autres la maison du Chat (1340), rue aux Fèves,
dans la Cité; plus tard, ce cabaret avait modifié son enseigne et portait le
nom de maison du Chat blanc (1429-1497); c’est sous ce nom qu’il subsista
au même endroit jusqu’à nos jours. Lorsqu’il disparut, vers 1860, avec le
reste de l’impasse où il s’était maintenu pendant cinq siècles, il n’avait plus
pour habitués que des vagabonds et des voleurs, qui y venaient passer la
nuit. Le cabaret de la Pomme de Pin n’était pas moins célèbre, du temps de
Rabelais, qui le nomme avec d’autres où les écoliers de Paris tenaient leurs
assises; il fait dire par son écolier Limousin (liv. II, chap. VI de Pantagruel):
«Nous cauponisons (mangeons), ès tavernes méritoires de la Pomme de Pin,
du Castel, de la Magdaleine et de la Mulle, belles spatules vervecines
(épaules de mouton), parforaminées de petrocil (assaisonnées de persil).»
Noël du Fail, dans les Baliverneries ou Contes nouveaux d’Eutrapel, en
1548[116], cite deux ou trois cabarets qui avaient la vogue, notamment celui
du Croissant, rue Saint-Honoré,

MAISON DE LA:POMME DE PIN: MCC

et celui de l’Étoile, sans donner l’adresse de ce dernier. Pierre de l’Arrivey,

dans sa comédie de la Vefve, signalait encore, au commencement du XVIIᵉ
siècle, le renom des cabarets de la Pomme de Pin et des Trois Poissons: «Si
je vais au Palais, tous ces clercs sont à l’entour de moy; l’un me mène aux
Trois Poissons, l’autre, à la Pomme de Pin[117].» Agrippa d’Aubigné, dans
les Aventures du baron de Fæneste, nous fait savoir que la vieille renommée
de la Pomme de Pin n’était pas déchue et qu’elle balançait encore celle du
Petit More, qui avait la clientèle des poètes. Théophile fait l’éloge de ce
cabaret, dans sa Description du voyage de Saint-Cloud:

Tu sçauras donc qu’un soir, après qu’au Petit More

(Qu’à cause du bon vin tout biberon honore),
Nous eusmes fricassé, tout comblez de soulas,
Des perdrix et lapreaux.....

Il vante aussi, dans une satire, deux autres cabarets, qui n’eurent pas moins
de vogue sous le règne de Louis XIII:
 ..... Lors, par cinq ou six fois,
Il me prie à souper, ou que, si je voulois,
Nous irions, chez Cormier, au Cerf; au Petit More,
Ou chez Torticoly.....[118].

Vers cette même époque, un livre facétieux, dont l’auteur n’est pas
connu[119], passe en revue les principaux cabarets de Paris.
Un homme, que sa femme venait de battre pour l’avoir vu sortir d’un
cabaret borgne, vient «en Parnasse» supplier Apollon «qu’il luy pleust luy
donner une ample et entière congnoissance de toutes les maisons d’honneur,
que Bacchus possède dans Paris.» Apollon ne refuse pas de lui indiquer les
cabarets les plus estimés: d’abord la Pomme de Pin, sur le pont Notre-Dame,
«qui commence néanmoins à descheoir du crédit qu’elle avoit le temps
passé.» Mais, ajoute Apollon, «si vous avez nouvelle que la presse soit à la
Pomme de Pin, prenez la peine de vous transporter au Petit Diable.» Apollon
conseille à son homme, dans le cas où il passerait devant le Palais, d’aller
hardiment déjeuner à la Grosse Tête. Après avoir entendu la messe à Saint-
Eustache, celui qui aurait fait vœu de dîner en ce quartier-là ne doit pas
chercher d’autres rendez-vous qu’au renommé logis du célèbre Cormier.
Celui qui sort du théâtre de l’Hôtel de Bourgogne, encore tout échauffé par
l’éloquence admirable de M. Bellerose, ne saurait mieux faire que d’aller
rafraîchir aux Trois Maillets. Ceux qui se trouveront au faubourg Saint-
Germain, après avoir joué à la paume ou à la boule, seront tout portés, pour
prendre leur collation, à Saint-Martin, à l’Aigle royal, à la Pomme de Pin.
Mais Apollon les arrête ici, en leur criant: «N’allez plus à Clamar, si vous ne
voulez pas qu’on vous traite en crocheteurs; son maistre l’a fait rayer du
nombre des cabarets illustres.» Apollon recommande à ceux qui viennent de
solliciter leurs procès au Châtelet d’entrer ensuite au Grand Cornet, sans se
faire tirer l’oreille, ou bien à la Table du valeureux Roland, maison insigne et
fameuse; quant à ceux qui auraient peur d’être écorniflés par quelque recors
ou sergent, ils doivent aller, un peu plus loin, à la Galère ou à l’Échiquier,
«pour divertir la mélancolie qui n’abandonne jamais les pauvres plaideurs.»
Êtes-vous obligé de suivre la Cour et sortez-vous du Louvre à l’heure du
dîner, vous trouvez devant vous le premier cabaret de France, celui de la
Boesselière; mais il ne faut pas y entrer sans avoir au moins une pistole dans
sa bourse. Avez-vous une bourse moins garnie, on vous conseille de pousser
jusqu’aux Halles et de passer une heure aux Trois Entonnoirs pour y goûter
d’un charmant vin de Beauce. Si vous allez jouer au mail, vous ferez bien de
prendre des forces en buvant une bouteille de vin à l’Écu ou à la Bastille.
Celui qui va se promener avec sa maîtresse aux marais du Temple, peut
avoir une belle chambre au cabaret de l’Écharpe. Celui qui passe par la rue
des Bons-Enfants ne doit pas se dispenser de visiter l’hôtel du Petit Saint-
Antoine, un des bons cabarets de la ville de Paris. Quiconque se sentira
l’estomac indisposé pour avoir trop bu la veille, n’aura qu’à boire encore
pour se remettre le cœur, et s’il se trouvait par hasard aux environs du
cimetière Saint-Jean, il fera bien de s’arrêter au logis des Torches pour y
prendre une potion cordiale, capable de ressusciter un mort. Enfin voici le
plus friand cabaret, qu’Apollon nous gardait pour la bonne bouche, c’est
celui des Trois Cuillers, ou Cuillères, dans la rue aux Ours.
Tous ces cabarets avaient des enseignes peintes ou sculptées, quelquefois
dorées ou argentées. Les ordonnances de la Ville et de la Cour des Aides
prescrivaient aux cabaretiers, taverniers, logeurs et autres, qui vendaient le
vin en détail, de mettre des enseignes aux endroits où se faisait la vente. A
défaut d’enseigne, le vendeur de vin plaçait sur sa porte un bouchon, ou un
moulinet emblématique, annonçant que le vin fait tourner la tête. Les
gentilshommes, les plus grands seigneurs, allaient au cabaret pour faire
bombance et boire à tire-larigot. Pierre de l’Estoile, dans son Journal de
Henri IV (année 1607), affirme que la dépense était de six écus par personne,
au Petit More et à la Hure, rue de la Huchette. Le poète Théophile, qui
s’entendait en cabaret aussi bien qu’en poésie, nous a laissé cette peinture
d’un ivrogne qu’il rencontrait souvent au Petit More:

Quant au chapeau qu’il porte, il est tel, à le voir,

Qu’on diroit vrayement que c’est un entonnoir;
Le cordon qui l’entoure est fait à la marane,
Historié jadis comme le dos d’un asne;
Son oreille est semblable à celle d’un cochon,
Où pend le Petit More, en guise de bouchon[120].

Ce Petit More reparaît sans cesse dans les chansons bachiques, sous le
règne de Louis XIII:
 Sus, allons chez la Coiffier,
Ou bien au Petit More.
Je vous veux tous défier
De m’enivrer encore[121]!

C’était le rendez-vous des plus vaillants buveurs. La Comédie des

Chansons[122], qui fut peut-être représentée à l’Hôtel de Bourgogne avant
1640, en a fait un tableau assez peu décent:

Un jour, Paulmier, à haute voix,

Enivré dans le Petit More,
Tandis qu’on le tenoit à trois,
Desgobillant, disoit encore:
«Je veux mourir, au cabaret,
»Entre le blanc et le clairet!»

Pierre de l’Estoile place le cabaret du Petit More dans la rue de la

Huchette; mais il y eut sans doute plus d’un cabaret portant la même
enseigne, car nous en voyons encore un, dans la rue de Seine, à l’entrée de la
petite rue des Marais, aujourd’hui Visconti, et nous ne doutons pas que son
enseigne ne soit du XVIIᵉ siècle.
La même comédie nous a conservé aussi un couplet de chanson bachique,
sur le cabaret de Cormier, à l’enseigne du Cerf: