My new bachelor flat was cosy, with all the usual mod. con., and situated in what still savoured of a select Dublin address--Stephens Green.

Although it had been empty for only a week, the odour of mothballs had already asserted itself. I opened the windows, gave a cursory glance through wardrobes, drawers and built-in cupboards, tried the gas stove and turned on the "hot and cold." The only clue to the identity of the previous occupant came from two coloured postcard views of Paris, half-tucked behind the mirror on the mantelpiece.

My landlady, a cheery Northerner from Tyrone, volunteered the information that the Jacques of the postcards had been a trainee at one of the top five hotels.

At the end of the first week the postcards were still in their place. They were, in fact, really good colour reproductions, and I had come to accept them as a permanent part of the decor. Of the departed Jacques no thought lingered, until he turned up one evening in a new guise, not in person but between the pages of an emerald green morocco-bound address book which I unearthed from the deep recesses of the armchair.

The inside cover bore the quaint legend: "If some think BAD arrive please to notifie...." and there followed an address in a village in the Haute Savoie.

Curiosity aroused, I flipped through the pages and, appetite keenly whetted, I began a more methodical perusal from A to Z. Here was evidently a compilation of rare value--a cryptic, synoptic story of a Gallic amatory Odyssey in Ireland--shades of d'Artagnan and Maupassant, and clear echoes of Casanova.

Alphabetically indexed was a list of Irish names--feminine gender. There were Maureens and Sheilas, Unas and Brigids, Mollies and Kathleens, and the occasional Edna and Fionnula, in many cases complete with telephone numbers.

The appearance of a Clotilde and a Zizi perhaps testified to the emigrant's hankering after the fruits of his native soil. There were even some rank outsiders from London and Liverpool and Glasgow, and a single American.

The most intriguing feature of this address-book-cum-diary was that each name was accompanied by a few words of description. In unconscious homage to Caesar, the crusading Jacques had catalogued the results of his campaigns into three parts -- "Oui" -- "Non" -- and "Peut-être".

My school French [memories of "Paddy" Canon Kerr, see St. Eunan's College--Years and years and years ago] was just adequate to interpret the general drift of the comments. I rushed out and rashly invested in the best French dictionary I could find so as to better appreciate the nuanced judgments of this new-found Casanova. And with the dictionary as an aid, the pages of that little green book revealed themselves as "The Amorous Punter's Complete Guide to Form".

Sheila was broad in the chest, slender in the withers--a classic runner. Eily from Malahide was a promising novice--good for a sprint but inconsistent. Peggy was a slow starter but a good stayer. Kate, true to her name, was somewhat shrewish.

Maureen from Tullamore was dismissed with an emphatic "Non", underlined three times, while the charms of Nora from Skerries earned a detailed description which can only be expressed as a long drawn-out "Ooo-la-la".

Though he suffered the occasional reverse, Jacques led home a surprising string of winners. My bachelor flat was no longer the solitary abode of a hermit. I shared it with name after musical name, each conjuring up a picture of Irish girlhood/womanhood in all her moods. The hitherto elusive Jacques took on substance and a soul. What a man! I had grown up in Ireland, but what did I know of Ireland's many-splendoured beauties compared with the extensive knowledge of this French invader?

And yet a question remained unanswered. What had become of Jacques, the trainee chef? Did he leave hurriedly and in his haste failed to notice that his little green book was missing. Was he rousted so precipitously that he only had time to stuff it in the armchair? Had he returned to France to open a Gaelic Coffee Bar is some cobbled alleyway in Montmartre? Had he finally mastered the intricacies of real Irish stew?

You may ask what use did I make of the little green book? As I say, you may ask.

Note: "Casanova in Ireland" is based on actual fact. The address of the bachelor flat where I lived for a number of years was 99 St. Stephens Green, next door to the Russell Hotel, then one of Dublin's finest. Mrs. Christie was the landlady's name.

This was not the only story to come out of No. 99. The gas meter was required to be fed with shilling pieces. For one prolonged period, extending over months, it didn't require any, providing gas galore for hot water, cooking, and the fire in the grate. Unlimited heat, unlimited hot baths, and this in winter. Janey Mac, for a time I lived in gas heaven! And at the same time I worked in Dáil Éireann, known to generations of Dubliners as the Kildare Street Gas Works.
John Ward