***
Charles came to watch her every Wednesday, each time sending her orchids, and always taking the seat closest to the stage. She would anticipate the arrival of his carriage outside the theater. The swing of the black lacquered door, the quick grasp of his hand pulling her inside. She memorized the scent of the leather seats, a blend of sandalwood and hide, powerful and immediate. The Oriental perfume of his tobacco that floated in blue clouds from his pipe. She knew the sound of her skirt as it rustled under his searching hands. She knew the taste of his tongue as it touched her own.
For nearly six months, they used his carriage for their private nest, as his driver expertly led the horses through the quieter streets of Paris.
There was much one could do within the confines of polished wood and glass. She became an expert in acrobatics. Arching her back against the corner of the damask-lined walls, lifting her legs at half angles. Offering herself to him underneath the layers of her dress.
Her wardrobe was now an array of colorful silks and expensive laces. She made sure she wore his gifts—the gown from the Callot Soeurs and the black garter from the most expensive lingerie shop in Paris—both for his pleasure and for her own. Every Wednesday, she waited with anticipation until the curtain fell and she could be in his arms again, with the carriage wheels rolling beneath them and the moonlight highlighting those warm, white places of hers that he skillfully managed to expose.
***
The trip to Venice was the first time he had seen her completely naked. Her body released from her corsetry, her limbs finally free to move and stretch unhindered by the confines of his coach. He had gone to the bath while she lay in the bed. She waited for himwithout a peignoir, without even the flimsiest material between the linens and her skin. This time there would be no garter, ribbons, or lace. The surprise would be the lack of any veil; her body completely bare.
He pulled away the covers, and as the gas lamp flickered on the nightstand, she felt his eyes soaking in the sight of her. She sensed his desire in all its strength and undulations. The hunger. The thirst. The belief that she was wholly his to touch and possess.
She rejoiced to be loved, to be adored, to be touched by such gentle and refined hands. There was a new music to their passion. Beyond the breath and the small cries, emerged the unfamiliar pleasure of being two unknown travelers in an exotic city far from their own. Here, with none of his peers to recognize him, he allowed her to loop her arm around his own as they walked brazenly in the Venetian daylight. Here, he did not check his watch or leave her after his caresses had cooled from her body. Here, she was as precious to him in the day as she was to him in the night. And it thrilled her.
He had promised Marthe her own place upon their return, but she held her breath waiting to see if he would make good on his word. For she knew more than anyone that a man could take what he wanted, and then leave nothing in return.
But Charleshadfollowed through on his promise. He pressed the heavy bronze key in her hand and then led her through the rooms of her new apartment. The place was even more beautiful than she could have ever imagined, with one room leading into the next.
“It’s all for you,” he told her. She felt his voice like a caress, a wisp of air on the nape of her neck.
She had gasped when she first arrived in the bedroom. A large headboard upholstered in silk and embroidered with butterflies occupied most of the room.
On the left, a stream of bright light poured through the tall windows. Another carved fireplace. A large mirror with a frame madeof golden flowers. And, finally, the source of the perfume. On the mantel, five small vases. Each one filled with violets.
“For us,” she whispered back.
She felt his hands on her shoulders, then her waist. She felt him reaching for her as he did when the locomotive had churned beneath them. She felt her head dizzy from the fragrance. And the bed was soft as he pulled her near.
2.
Marthe
Paris 1888
He came the next afternoon with a birdcage painted gold and a canary, as yellow and as small as an egg yolk, chirping inside.
“To keep you company,” Charles told her. He dangled the gilded cage in front of her like a lantern.
She took it from him and placed a finger through the wire to touch the bird’s downy feathers.
“You spoil me,” she said as she kissed his cheek.
“It’s my greatest pleasure.” She watched as he removed his hat and gloves.
She was still in her robe de chambre, a gossamer silk confection edged in silver lace. Another gift he had bought for her during their week together in Venice.
She placed the birdcage down on the table, and she felt his fingers touching her wrist, the patch of skin hidden beneath her sleeve.
“My beautiful girl,” he whispered into her ear. He was behind hernow, his arms wrapped around her waist, his face buried in the curve of her neck. And when she lifted her eyes, she saw their embrace like a portrait moving within a golden frame.
He had placed mirrors throughout the apartment, and she wondered if this was done on purpose, so that they could share in the pleasure of seeing how they looked wrapped in each other’s arms. That this was part of what enthralled him, to see the art of lovemaking unravel before him. It was part of the parlor game. To take what was hidden and expose it. Reveal it like a pearl shucked freshly in his hand.
She felt the pressure of his chest against her as he peeled her robe off her shoulders, and watched as both of their eyes met at the sight of their reflection, every one of his caresses captured within the glass.
She had known about the demimonde, that half-world that she now occupied. A world that existed in suspension, between the warmth of a jewel box apartment and the cold of the streets. A world where beautiful women existed smelling of lavender and rose. Where they welcomed men into their smooth, scented arms for a few hours, before their lovers slipped from this world to the next.
