Destiny

by Sally Beauman

  “You can?”

  “But of course. You don’t think I’m going to send my little brother off without checking the services provided?” Jean smiled. “I had her the other afternoon.”

  “The other afternoon? But—Jean, you’re engaged now.”

  Jean-Paul grinned. He glanced at the door, then back at Edouard.

  “Oh, little brother,” he said slowly. “You didn’t seriously imagine that would make any difference? Did you?”

  Célestine Bianchon had first come to England in 1910, at the age of sixteen, to appear as a dancer and singer in Henry Pelissier’s Alhambra Follies. She was very pretty, with just the degree of plumpness then considered essential for beauty, she danced gracefully, and—untaught—sang with a naturally sweet high clear voice. She rapidly acquired her quota of followers, stage-door johnnies who would fill her dressing room with flowers, and who competed furiously for the privilege of wining and dining her after the show at the Café de l’Europe in Leicester Square. They would eat and drink champagne until three in the morning, surrounded by the writers, actresses, and young men of good family who made up this demimonde, and then Célestine would return in a hansom to the less glamorous environs of Finsbury Park: sometimes alone, more often not. She still looked back on those years of her life, which continued until the outbreak of the Great War, as the high point of her existence.

  But Célestine, of French peasant stock, was also a realist. Unlike some of her friends at the Alhambra, she accepted bouquets and presents, but did not expect proposals of marriage; such elevations, it was true, did occasionally occur, but they were rarities. Célestine was happy with a series of protectors; she had no wish to return to France. As the years passed, and the first bloom of her beauty faded, the protectors became less distinguished and less young, but Célestine accepted this. It was natural, inevitable, it did nothing to affect her spirits. As a girl she had numbered English peers among her admirers. Now, in 1940, she was forty-six, and her gentleman was a retired businessman living in Hove, who had invested his meager capital in a series of lodging houses in different parts of London and the Home Counties. This suited Célestine, because it meant he visited her only once or twice a week. And besides, he rarely questioned her as to how she spent the rest of her time. He was sixty-four, and Célestine was fond of him. He was less virile, but much kinder, than many of her past lovers; he paid for her small flat in Maida Vale; he bestowed on her a small allowance from which she was able to save a little each week against her old age; and he bothered to talk to her—she appreciated that.

  It had never occurred to Célestine that she was deceiving him. She regarded her afternoons with other gentlemen as something quite apart from this central arrangement, occasions which could cause no harm because they would never be discovered. Célestine had realized early that the less men knew, the better it was. They came to her for one purpose, and she fulfilled it to the best of her considerable abilities. It was good fortune for her that the war had brought so many Frenchmen to London, and that an afternoon with one French officer had since brought her a steady stream of satisfied military customers.

  Her small pasteboard card was now in the wallets of a number of General de Gaulle’s staff, and that pleased Célestine. It brought her a little extra money; a certain spirit of patriotism was involved; and besides, after all these years, it was pleasant to speak French again in the boudoir. When she passed the headquarters of the Free French, Célestine never failed to blow a kiss in its direction, and to wish the young men there a silent bonne chance.

  She had been honored to accommodate the dashing young heir to the Baron de Chavigny. She had been flattered when, at the end of some rampant lovemaking, he had explained to her as only a Frenchman could, the predicament of his younger brother. It was by no means the first time that she had performed such a role, and she agreed to it at once. She was curious to meet this young Edouard, and with a smile to herself, she wondered if, with her assistance, he could not become a far more accomplished lover than his energetic but unsubtle brother.

  She prepared for him carefully, knowing from experience that the kind of clothing—tight-waisted corselets in black lace that lifted her full breasts and left them exposed, garter belt, fine stockings, thin negligee—which appealed strongly to her older clients, was likely to terrify a boy. When she had finished preparing herself, she was pleased with the costume: it was erotic without being blatant, white rather than black, adorned with pretty ribbons and lace, the whole ensemble discreetly hidden beneath a dressing gown of pale blue crêpe de chine. She arranged her hair carefully, and slipped her tiny pretty feet into blue high-heeled slippers decorated with maribou feathers. Jean-Paul had thoughtfully provided a bottle of champagne for the occasion, and it was ready on ice. She also set the kettle to boil: some young men preferred tea the first time. Then she sat down to wait.

  Edouard had taken a taxi to the unfamiliar area of Maida Vale. He arrived there at two-fifteen and spent forty-five minutes pacing the streets in an agony of indecision. Several times he almost called another cab and returned home, but he knew that would have been cowardice, and he couldn’t have faced Jean-Paul. So, in the end, he presented himself at the door at precisely three o’clock and pressed the bell nervously.

  Jean-Paul had said five pounds. That seemed to Edouard not just mean, but graceless. So he had removed from the stores in Eaton Square a large box of French hand-dipped chocolates—impossible to obtain such things in London now—and had placed a ten-pound note inside it, then carefully rearranged ribbons and wrappings. He had also purchased a small bunch of roses from a flower seller, and he juggled roses and chocolates as he waited.

  He had never felt so uncertain and inadequate in his life, never so little inclined even to look at a woman. That feeling disappeared at once when Célestine opened the door, tripped up the stairs before him in her maribou slippers, and led him into her sitting room. Chattering gaily in French, she put him at ease at once. She poured him a glass of champagne, which he drank in one gulp, and then, to his great relief she simply sat down, as if they were old friends, and began to talk.

  Edouard looked at her, and he thought that she might not be young, but she was enchanting. She reminded him of certain Renoir paintings in his father’s collection, with her reddish-blond hair piled on top of her head, and the wisps that curled around her ears, and her soft throat. She had clear blue eyes, and the tiny wrinkles around them only increased the warmth of her smile. She needed, and wore, very little makeup, and her complexion still had the clarity and the delicate coloring of a much younger woman.

  He stared, riveted, as she gently swung one smooth leg, and twisted her ankle as if to admire her blue slippers. When she leaned forward to offer him a second glass of champagne, and he politely refused, her dressing gown fell open a little, and he glimpsed the luscious curve of her full breasts. That was enough; to his delight he felt his body start to respond. And Célestine seemed to know, because she stood up and gently led him into her bedroom, where, to his increasing delight, she first undressed him, and then allowed him to remove her robe. With sudden rash confidence he pushed her back onto the clean white sheets and began to kiss her passionately. Less than five minutes later, to his shame and mortification, he burst into tears.

  Célestine lay back on the pillows and held the boy close in her arms. He wept angrily against her breasts, and gently Célestine stroked his hair as a mother would, until the first spasm of anger and grief left him, and he lay more quietly in her arms. She looked down at the dark bent head, and her warm heart was filled with compassion. If only he knew, this handsome young boy, that it was almost always like this, the first time; that he was neither the first nor the last man to weep like an angry child at what he believed was his unique failure. Very gently, stroking his thick hair all the while, she began to talk.

  “Vas-y, mon petit. There’s no need for tears now. The first time it’s always like this, believe me. You are excited, you are impatient,
it is only natural—don’t worry. So you come quickly—too quickly, you think. You imagine I will be offended, maybe? I can assure you that is not the case. I take it as a compliment, mon chéri, a compliment—you hear me? It is good to know, when you are my age, that you can still please a young man so much. And besides, we have plenty of time, as much time as you want. And you will find, mon chéri, that at your age such an event is a trifle, over and forgotten the next minute. The next time, and there will be so many next times, it will be better, and then better and better—until eventually, you will teach me, it is you who will dictate, you who will—how do they say it here?—call the shots?”

  She smiled, and continued the soft stroking. “Do you imagine, chéri, that to make love is a skill we are all born with? That we know, men and women both, exactly what to do, and the best, the most pleasurable way of doing it, the very first time? I assure you that is not the case. One must learn, chéri. Gradually. It is a little like a lesson in school, hein? Only in this case, it is a pleasurable lesson. One everyone enjoys…”

  She smiled against his hair as she felt his strong young body grow less tense. Soon, she thought, in a minute, much more quickly than he realizes, he will be hard again, and ready to make love a second time. But meanwhile, she must not rush him. He was like a young animal, she thought, a shy young animal; anything too sudden, too direct, and she would startle and frighten him. No, she must be gentle and slow, very slow. And he was so beautiful! So beautiful. She had almost forgotten how beautiful a very young man’s body could be: the smoothness of the skin, like a girl’s, the tautness of the muscles. The tight curve of the buttocks, the flatness of the stomach, the strength of the thighs. She felt a slow pleasurable ripple of desire. Such eyes—that extraordinary deep blue; and that black, black hair…She stroked the wide shoulders. He was more relaxed now.

  Carefully she drew them both up to a sitting position. A certain practicality now, she thought. Yes, that might be the thing. “Chéri…” She lifted his hands, making her request quite casual and matter-of-fact. “It seems a little unfair. You look, so comfortable, so beautiful, and I—I am still in this stupid thing. And besides…” She teasingly caught his eye. “It is a little damp, hein? Would you help me to undo it? At the back there, that’s right, all those little hooks and eyes, so difficult to reach. And my stockings! Really, I think I have no need of my stockings…”

  He slipped the stockings off first. Then, with fumbling fingers, he undid the white lace corselet. Célestine was naked. She smiled at him, and Edouard gazed, enraptured. He had seen pictures, of course—Jean-Paul had shown him some—but he had never seen a woman naked before. He could never have imagined such opulence of flesh, such loveliness. Célestine had full heavy breasts with wide rosy-pink nipples. Her hips curved out from a still-small waist; between her legs there was a triangle of reddish-gold hair, curly, springy to the touch, startling against the creamy curve of her thighs. Almost without thinking, he touched her there, very lightly, feeling the crisp hairs, and to his astonishment and delight, Célestine gave a little moan of response.

  He looked up at her, startled, and her lips curved, the blue eyes sparkled.

  “But yes—that surprises you? It shouldn’t. It feels nice when you touch me there. It might feel nice, too, I think, if you kissed me. Just a little kiss, chéri…”

  Somewhat awkwardly, Edouard put his arms around her, and bent his face to hers. He gave her a chaste kiss on her closed lips, very gently, and Célestine gave a deep sigh.

  “Oh, so good. I like your kiss. A little more, I beg you…”

  This time, as his lips touched the soft warmth of hers, she parted them. Edouard touched them softly with his tongue, and she sighed again, and moved closer to him.

  “Comme ça, chéri. Ah, oui, comme ça…”

  She drew his tongue into her mouth, gently, persuasively, holding him in her arms so that he did not press too hard or too close, and just their mouths were joined. Edouard felt a shudder of delight pass through his body; she began to caress his neck and shoulders and back, and at once, immediately, he felt his penis leap and harden. He felt Célestine’s lips curve into a smile of triumph. She gave a low laugh, and drew back from him just a little, looking down.

  “Ah, but you see what has happened? So quickly? An instant and you are big again. So big and hard and strong. You are quite a man, chéri, you know that? With this, you can give a woman such pleasure, chéri, such pleasure…”

  She was careful not to touch him, and when he tried to push her back against the pillows again, she gently stopped him. She shook her head reprovingly, and to her delight she saw a teasing light come into his eyes. He could be amused—good! Then his confidence was growing.

  “Wait?” He smiled. “Not too fast?”

  Célestine took his hand.

  “For my sake,” she said softly. “You know that for a woman to make love is a wonderful thing. She wants it to last, to be slow. She cannot always be as quick as a man. She cannot always be as quickly aroused as a man. He has to help her.”

  She lifted his palm, and pressed it against her breast. “Touch me there, chéri. Oh, how I want you to stroke me, there, you see? Like that. Yes, like that…”

  Edouard slipped his hands under her breasts and felt their full weight. Then, almost before he knew what he was doing, he did the thing he had been longing to do, had dreamed of doing. He lowered his mouth, kissed the smooth flesh. Then he buried his head between the mounds of her breasts, lifted them, caressed them, took the soft pink nipples in turn between his lips. He teased them with his tongue, and felt their points grow hard. A tremor ran through his body, and Célestine held him.

  “Doucement, doucement, mon chéri. Pas trop vite…doucement.” He steadied, paused, felt the tremor subside. Then he looked up at her.

  “Comme ça? Tu aimes comme ça?” He took the nipple between his lips once more, and sucked. This time it was Célestine who trembled.

  “Mais oui. Tu sais bien. Comme ça, Edouard, comme ça…”

  Célestine could feel her own body responding, the pulse beating up through her blood, as if an invisible chain of nerves connected her breasts and her womb, and every one of those nerves sang out with pleasure. She felt herself grow moist, and it was harder for her to keep still. She wanted to part her legs, to let him touch her there. He was learning fast, she thought, very fast…

  He lifted his mouth from her breasts, and kissed her. “Mais, que tu es belle, si belle…”

  He muttered against her mouth, his breath coming fast, and Célestine fought with her own instincts, fought to make the kiss slow and gentle. Not too passionate, not too deep, not too long, not yet, not yet. His penis was hard against her stomach, and she moved slightly to free him, frightened that the pressure might make him come.

  “Doucement, Edouard.” She let her hands stroke the fine hard curve of his buttocks, and moved a little so their bodies lay side by side. When she judged he was a little calmer once more, she took his hand, and raised it to her lips.

  “You are so good. It feels so good when you touch me. You know that? You can feel, I think, that I like it, yes? You see—it makes my nipples go so hard when you touch me, when you kiss me there. That is the first sign, Edouard, but there are others…” Very slowly she drew his hand down, over the curve of her stomach to the triangle of gold hair. She let it rest there awhile, then she parted her legs.

  “You see? A woman’s secret place, the part of her only her lover knows. You see, chéri—how soft, how moist? That is because you make me want you, Edouard, want you very much…”

  Edouard let his hand be drawn down to the softness, the moistness. He parted the two soft lips, and felt a place of mystery, of folds and crevices, felt one tight hard bud. He touched it delicately with his forefinger, and to his wonderment, Célestine arched back with a little cry. He leaned forward and kissed her, a long slow sweet kiss, and all the time his hand gently stroked, gently explored. Célestine moved beneath him; she lifte
d her knees and parted her thighs wider, and she seemed to Edouard infinitely soft, infinitely pliant, infinitely and wondrously open. He withdrew his hand, and Célestine took it and kissed it, and for the first time in his life Edouard smelled the honied scent of a woman ready to make love, musky, slightly salt, like a sea creature.

  He slipped his hand down once more, Célestine moved slightly, and his finger slipped easily, gently, inside her. He groaned then, and Célestine knew she must be quick.

  With the deftness of experience, she moved so he was between her thighs. She withdrew his hand gently, and guided the full head of his penis to the soft entrance. One tiny lift of her hips, and he was inside her. She knew better than to move then; she kept still and quiet, though she was very aroused by his beauty and his gentleness, and she longed to move, to draw him down deep inside her. But she stayed still, and let him thrust; three, four, five times. Then he came inside her with a shuddering cry, and Célestine wrapped her arms tenderly and protectively around him.

  Less than an hour later, he was hard again, much more relaxed, clearly proud of himself. Célestine felt proud too. And she liked him, she thought, as she looked fondly down at him while he sucked at her full breasts. She liked the absence of bravado, the instinctive care and delicacy of his touch. Oh, he would make a fine lover, this man, she thought—perhaps even a great one, an extraordinary one, and there were very few of those. He would not be like some of them, such greedy animals, so coarse, so quick, and afterward so furtive. No, he would be sure, giving pleasure as well as taking it—open, responsive…

  “Tu seras—exceptionnel, tu sais…” she murmured, and the boy lifted his head. The compliment pleased him, but it also amused him, and she liked that. She liked his quick intelligence, his capacity for amusement. After all, lovemaking was not always a serious affair, that was very dull. Passion, yes, women wanted that, but also a little teasing. “Teach me—show me…” He hesitated. “I want to give you pleasure in return…”