“Théophile Gautier,” Dumas said. “The man I was telling you about, my dear. The drama critic for La Presse. Théo is an esthete. He writes poetry and that sort of thing, but he’s a fine fellow nevertheless. He has enough sense to realize he’s got to make a living while he’s worshipping art and beauty, and so he works for the newspaper. This is Elena Lopez, Théo. Isn’t she stunning?”
“Stunning,” Gautier agreed.
“Théo wants to write a piece about you,” Dumas told me. “Be charming to him. Enjoy yourself. I’ve got some business to attend to, and must get back to it.”
“I wonder what business he has to attend to?” I asked as Dumas hurried off.
“If I’m not mistaken, her name is Thérèse. She’s a minor actress with the Comédie Française. That young woman in yellow standing by the window. Dumas has a particular fondness for obscure young actresses.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Gautier smiled and took my empty champagne glass. I tried to relax, tried to forget the stares, the open curiosity of the others around us. Gautier noticed my uneasiness and arched an eyebrow.
“I’m honored that you want to write about me,” I told him. “I’m familiar with your work.”
He looked surprised. “Indeed?”
“Not your journalistic work, I’m afraid. I read your novel, Mademoiselle de Maupin.”
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t know anyone had read it! That was published ten years ago and promptly banned. It was ahead of its time, I like to tell myself. How did you happen to read it? Were copies of it smuggled to Spain?”
“England,” I said. “I’m English, Monsieur Gautier. All those stories you’ve read about me—most of them were pure invention.”
Gautier nodded and smiled an understanding smile. “The public demands color, mystery, a touch of the exotic. You were smart enough to give it to them. Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”
“You’re very generous.”
“Are you going to perform in Paris?”
“I may.”
“You may? You must! We’ve all been reading about you for months. I understand that your debut in London was so successful that George Dorrance extended your engagement not once, but twice?” It was true. By the second extension the whole show featured my dancing alone. With no opera to get in the way, every performance was sold out. At least Tony had told me that much.
I smiled and nodded my affirmation, but said nothing.
“You’re much too modest. I know that your tour was a sensational success, too, breaking records in theaters all over England. Tell me, did the students in Oxford really riot in the theater?”
“Let’s just say they gave me an enthusiastic reception.”
Gautier asked me innumerable questions, encouraging me to talk about myself. His manner was amiable, persuasive, understanding, but I was still unable to relax completely. We had conversed perhaps ten minutes, when a man came over, slapped Gautier on the back, and asked for an introduction. Another man soon followed, then another, and before long I was completely surrounded by a group of admiring males.
I tried to be gracious, but I felt trapped and wished I had never agreed to come. The men were suave, debonair, two or three of them strikingly handsome, and in their midst I found myself thinking about Anthony, wondering where he was, what he was doing. Sadness swept over me again, though I fought it. I fought it desperately. Why should I pine? I could have any man I wanted. Damn Anthony. Damn him. I didn’t need him, not at all. I listened to the compliments. I laughed an unconvincing laugh. I touched the pink camellia in my hair, smoothed the folds of my creamy satin skirt, playing the role I had played so many times, but all the while I longed to flee.
Accepting another glass of champagne, I immersed myself in the role, playing it well now. While Elena charmed the men and flirted lightly, another part of me observed her and wondered why she made the effort. I wanted only to be alone. Suddenly, there was a stir of excitement in the gathering. Conversation ceased abruptly. Everyone turned toward the door. Most of the women wore a look of rapt expectation. Most of the men looked disgruntled and resentful. I wondered what had come over them. Footsteps rang loudly in the foyer. A woman in blue gasped and placed a hand over her heart.
An extremely tall man in a long brown velvet opera cape stepped into the room, pausing just inside. He surveyed the gathering with cynical eyes and sighed wearily, resigning himself to the tedious adulation that was his daily fare. The woman in blue gasped again, and several others began to murmur. Even my heart seemed to leap. I had never laid eyes on him before, but I knew him immediately. I was supposed to have had a wild affair with him, and I had seen his picture innumerable times. Those features were unmistakable. His cheeks were lean, his lips thin, his nose an aquiline beak. His eyes were dark, and his hair was a thick, tawny gold mane brushed back from his forehead and falling almost to his shoulders.
“Franz!” George Sand cried.
She hurried over to him, a smile on her lips. Giving her a curt nod, he removed his cape and tossed it across the back of a chair, a dramatic bit of business that caused even more murmurs from the women. He wore a dark tan suit, a brown silk neckcloth, and a waistcoat of brocade almost the tawny color of his hair. Well over six feet tall, with a lean, lithe build that suggested the strength and the grace of a panther, Franz Liszt was an imposing figure. The face was too lean to be really handsome, the nose too sharp, but that didn’t matter at all. His effect on people was positively hypnotic; he radiated an overwhelming magnetism that seemed to crackle in the air about him.
The Hungarian pianist-composer was said to have a kind of demonic power over women. When Liszt gave a concert, women swooned in their boxes. When he dropped his handkerchief, fans tore it to shreds and divided it among themselves. Women carried his portrait in their lockets, made off with the stubs of cigarettes he had smoked, literally threw themselves at his feet when he appeared in public. His aloofness, his disdain of their worshipful adoration drove them into an even greater frenzy. Now, as I looked at him, I could believe all those stories, and I could understand them, as well. If ever a man was irresistible, this man was. His presence was that of an arrogant god.
George Sand took his hands. They spoke quietly for a moment, and then there was a fluttering noise like butterfly wings beating and half a dozen women rushed over to him, their silken skirts rustling. They all began to talk at once, and Liszt sighed again, accepting the attention as his due, bored with it already. The woman in blue seized his hand and kissed it. A young actress in pink clung to his arm. A languorous brunette turned pale when he looked into her eyes.
“Damned fellow!” one of the men grumbled. “This always happens when he shows up.”
“George shouldn’t have invited him,” another remarked. “It’s unfair to the rest of us. I say, Elena, you Aren’t going to rush over there and make a fool of yourself, are you?”
“Certainly not,” I replied. “I’d adore another glass of champagne. Would one of you be an angel and fetch it?”
The party continued, but there was a new tension in the air. Liszt was surrounded by women. I was surrounded by men. Everyone seemed to be waiting to see what would happen. Ignoring the tall, magnetic Hungarian across the room, I continued to talk with the other men, but I could feel him staring at me over the heads of his admirers. I turned once. Our eyes met. He nodded at me, a curious smile playing on his thin lips. I lowered my eyes and turned to answer a question, but my pulse seemed to stop beating and I grew so weak I felt sure my knees would give way at any minute. I had never felt such panic.
He had read the stories. I was certain of it. Why had I ever let Anthony and David release them? According to the papers, Liszt and I had had a fierce, passionate affair marked by explosive quarrels and outbursts of physical violence. He had locked me out of our hotel room, and I had seized a knife and ripped his clothes to shreds in revenge. Once he had attempted to strangle me in a fit of insane jealousy,
and on another occasion I had slashed him across the face with a riding crop. I had been “quoted” in the papers, calling him a coward and saying that his reputation as a lover was highly exaggerated. What were the exact words? “Zee meekest of my Cossacks could best zee great Franz Liszt when it comes to passion.”
When I turned to look at him again, Liszt had started across the room toward me, brushing away his circle of admirers as though they were so many insects. The men around me tensed, and then, grumbling, moved away, realizing competition was futile. By some miracle I was outwardly composed, betraying not the least flicker of emotion. The room, the people in it seemed to melt into a blur of colors, a hazy backdrop for the tall, godlike figure who moved toward me. He stopped in front of me and slowly lifted one brow, his eyes full of sardonic amusement.
“I think it’s time we left,” he said.
His manner was laconic, and there was a smile on his lips, but I knew he would not be refused. It didn’t enter my mind to oppose him. I nodded meekly, and he took my hand in his and started toward the door. I felt I should speak to Dumas and thank George Sand for inviting me, but my will was no longer my own. Dumas had his young actress to amuse himself with, and George would certainly understand the lack of social niceties. Liszt’s strong, sinewy fingers crushed my own, and I moved along beside him, oblivious to everything else, in a kind of daze. He picked up his cloak and slung it over his right shoulder without losing a step. A moment later we were moving through the foyer with the dull red walls, and then we were outside, the night air cool on my bare shoulders. Liszt let go of my hand.
“My apartment isn’t far,” he said. “We’ll walk.”
I took a deep breath. The cool air revived me, and I seemed to come to my senses. Liszt noticed my hesitation, and he smiled again, aloof, amused, content to let me make my own decision now. I looked at him, and in that instant I knew that although I might regret it if I succumbed to his hypnotic allure, I wasn’t going to turn and flee as every instinct told me I should. The sadness was still inside, and the alternative was yet another night of grief and unbearable loneliness. I couldn’t face that.
“Well?” he challenged.
“We’ll walk,” I replied.
Liszt smiled, and then he stepped behind me and placed the brown velvet cape over my shoulders, his long, beautifully shaped hands lingering for a moment. A light breeze caused the leaves of the plane trees to rustle overhead, and moonlight and shadow danced on the pavement before us as we started down the street.
The night was lovely, bathed in silver, rows of houses white and gray, brushed with blue-black shadows. The air was scented with perfume from the flowering trees. Within a few minutes we were moving across an arched stone bridge, boats with small, bobbing lights passing below. The massive Cathedral of Notre Dame loomed in the distance, dark stone gargoyles crouching in the darkness. Sounds of merriment drifted from the cafes down the river, but the noise was barely audible here. We walked down a broad avenue and then turned into a labyrinth of narrow, twisting streets. Here it was still and silent; our footsteps were the only sound. This part of Paris was fast asleep.
We eventually reached an old, very beautiful building standing at the end of one of the streets, a small courtyard in front. It was all mellow elegance in the moonlight, rubbed worn with time, evoking a glamorous past. I fancied it might once have been the residence of a royal favorite, now remade into an apartment house. The foyer was unlighted, faintly aglow with moonlight that intensified the shadows, but Liszt moved with confidence, leading me up three flights of stairs. He unlocked the door to his apartment, led me inside, and closed the door. I stood in darkness while he lighted a lamp. The light blossomed slowly, pale yellow flickering, struggling to drive back the black. I realized we had hardly exchanged a dozen words since he first approached me in George Sand’s drawing room.
“Home,” he said.
The room was large, with very high ceilings. A grand piano dominated one corner, sleek rosewood gleaming in the lamplight. There were two oversized chairs covered in worn tapestry and a sofa in blue velvet, its nap shiny with age. Heavy blue velvet curtains covered the windows. The air was chilly, and I shivered. Liszt moved over to the soot-stained white marble fireplace and busied himself making a fire. In a few minutes the flames were devouring the logs. He put out the lamp then, so the fire provided the only light.
“Wine?” he asked.
I shook my head. He stepped into the adjoining room, leaving me alone. I removed the brown velvet cape and rubbed my arms, shivering again, but not from the chill. It wasn’t too late to leave. He was dangerous for me, dangerous for any woman, perhaps even cruel, and consumed with a genius that left little room for anything but his music. Watching the flames leap, I decided to remain. I moved over to the fireplace to warm my hands, deliberately thrusting aside reason and common sense. It was time for folly.
Liszt returned wearing a dressing robe of dark red silk brocade, the sash tied loosely at his waist. He was naked beneath it. He gazed at me, a deep frown creasing his brow, as though he wondered how I came to be here, and then he padded across the carpet on bare feet and sat down at the piano with a distracted air. I moved over to the sofa, my satin skirt rustling softly as I settled back against the cushions. Liszt scowled and flexed his fingers. His hands were lean, powerful, as strong as steel, yet when he touched the keys they were graceful, imbued with a life of their own, it seemed. He touched the keys as though in deep reverence, and then, throwing his head back, straightening his shoulders, he began to play.
The music, a soft, subtle whisper of sound at first, gradually swelled into a lovely, poignant melody that floated lightly, receded, repeated, louder than before. It was one of his own compositions, and surely it had never been played with such sensitivity, such feeling. His face was stern, his thin lips held tight, and in the light of the flames that thick, tawny mane gleamed golden-bronze. Watching him, strange emotions stirred inside me. As those strong fingers touched the keys with such tenderness, stroking gently, evoking loveliness even as his face retained that stern expression, I felt a warmth suffuse my body that had nothing to do with the leaping fireplace fire.
He continued to play, an even lovelier melody following the first, and as he raised his eyes to look at me, a sardonic smile flickered on his lips. Then I realized that he was making love to me already, making love with music. His eyes held mine, and the music changed, gentle melody giving way to a sensual throb that grew louder, thundering, a passionate barrage of sound that plunged and plundered and ravished my soul with its fury. Back and forth he moved, shoulders hunched, his hands rising, falling, flailing the keys. His eyes flashed and penetrated my soul. I was breathless, besieged by the music that rose to a shattering crescendo.
The silence was abrupt, as shattering in its way as the music had been. The whole room seemed to throb with silent echoes, the fierce passion of the music vibrating still. Liszt sat at the piano, looking at me calmly, his passion pouring from him in invisible waves. I trembled when he stood up; the red silk brocade robe, covering his body loosely, swayed as he moved toward me, the cloth rustling with a provocative silken sound. He stood directly over me and looked down with dark eyes that calmly assessed me. Liszt smiled again. He caught hold of my wrists and pulled me to my feet. I felt powerless, caught up in the spell he had woven with such expert deliberation.
He led me over to the fireplace. A thick rug was spread out in front of the hearth. Placing one arm around my waist, holding me against him loosely, he looked into my eyes. I tilted my head back to meet his gaze. He cupped my chin with his free hand, and then he leaned down to kiss me. I curled my arms around his back, rubbing my palms over the smooth, slippery brocade, and as his lips grew more demanding I caught my fingers in those long, thick locks. I felt myself spinning into a void of sensation sweet and searing, and when he removed his lips from mine and raised his head I was surprised to find that I was still conscious.
Liszt turned me around, and
unfastened the back of my dress, so the bodice fell loose in front, my breasts almost exposed. He planted his lips on the curve of my shoulder, and then both his hands were on my breasts, caressing, kneading the flesh, causing me to gasp. I arched back against him, and he caught the lobe of my ear in his teeth, biting it with tiny bites, not gentle, not quite painful. He turned me around and crushed my bare breast against his chest. Moments passed, each an agony, each bliss. He unfastened the pink camellia from my hair and tossed it aside, and he helped me undress, the creamy white satin falling to the floor, and when I was completely naked he removed his silk brocade robe, spread it over the rug, and pulled me onto it.
I lay on my back, looking up at him. He stood with legs apart, his hands resting on his thighs, and in the firelight his tall, lean body was superb, his manhood erect. The silk was smooth and cool beneath my buttocks and back. I could feel the warmth of the flames, the warmth inside me spreading, every fiber of my being aching for fulfillment. Liszt kneeled over me, the velvety tip of his rigid manhood touching my stomach as he leaned down to kiss my temples, my mouth, my throat, his lips burning my flesh, it seemed, yet cool, firm, pliable. He kissed each nipple, caressed my thighs, my stomach, my breasts, and then his knees slid back and he was atop me, his body heavy, hard, smooth.
Then he began to play again, a new kind of music, a new instrument employed with the same beauty, the same finesse. He entered, strong, masterful, tender, playing gently, gently stroking, and I rose to meet him, moving to the music that filled me. The tempo changed, building, building, growing fast, furious, thundering now, tearing my senses asunder. He was a master of every movement, even in his own urgency employing that magnificent finesse. We reached the crescendo together. I cried out, and Liszt grew taut, his whole body taut as a bow drawn tight, and then he shuddered convulsively, finally spent. I wrapped my arms around him, shaken, senses still in shreds. His body was dead weight now, and I cushioned it with my own, his warmth a part of me still. His head rested on my shoulder.
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