Italian Sonata: Noire - Volume Two

by de Maupassant, Emmanuelle

  ‘My dear, do look!’ declares the first Ms. Browne-Huntley, indicating a rising figure at the far end of the car: a woman in a travelling costume of stiff brown cotton, her jacket and skirt bearing an extraordinary number of pockets.

  ‘It’s the intrepid Ms. Flora McTavish,’ says the second, tapping Cecile’s hand excitedly.

  ‘Is it?’ says Cecile, doing her best to catch a glimpse. ‘I’ve read about her in The Lady. I thought she was traversing the Wadi deserts of Jordan and Syria, dressed as a man and riding a camel.’

  ‘She was indeed,’ replies the first, ‘But she’s lately been in London, delivering a series of lectures on the Bedouin tribes. No doubt, she’s now setting forth again, to new adventures.’

  ‘How marvellous,’ says Cecile.

  Her skin is far darker than is seemly for a lady, ponders Cecile, but that is the foreign sun, of course. I must be careful to always wear my hat.

  The great Ms. McTavish straightens her hat, and removes a last crumb from her mouth.

  If I truly were an adventuress, thinks Cecile, travelling to remote jungle villages, in the Congo, or to obscure places of spiritual mysticism, in the mountains of Tibet, perhaps I wouldn’t care if my nose came to be covered in freckles. I might, even, not mind wearing such drab colours. One must be practical I suppose, when travelling by mule and rickshaw.

  ‘Ah!’ announces one of the old ladies, ‘We’re approaching the outskirts. Time to ready ourselves.’

  Cecile makes her way down the dining car, still musing on where she might like to travel, were she to follow in Ms. McTavish’s footsteps, and how large one’s baggage might conceivably be under such circumstances. Entering the corridor to their compartments, she looks out, avidly, at the Paris skyline. How glorious it is, at last, to be in the city of which she has read so much, filled with chic Parisiennes, and their handsome beaux.

  Meanwhile, another passenger is approaching, from the opposing end: a passenger so tall that his hair, golden and curling abundantly from the crown of his head, brushes the ceiling, and so broad that his shoulders fill the width of the passageway. There will be no space for one to pass the other.

  His nose is pressed not to the view beyond the window but to a map, so that, as they draw level, and the train lurches, Cecile finds herself up against the solid, unyielding chest of this man. Stumbling, in her lost balance, she treads most heavily on his toes.

  To her surprise, the voice that speaks is American, and though Cecile has been brought up to consider her cousins from across the Atlantic to be vulgar and noisy, she finds this voice to be caramel-buttered, the vowels drawn out like the promise of summer.

  ‘Pardon my clumsiness, Ma’am,’ says the voice of sugared sunbeams. ‘Let me help you up.’

  And two great hands are suddenly beneath her arms. lifting her through the air to land once more on her feet.

  ‘You’re not injured, I hope,’ asks the honey-mouth. It’s a voice unlike any Cecile has heard before and, as she looks up at the man to whom it belongs, she finds that he is unlike any she has met before.

  ‘The name’s Lance Robinson. Pleased to meet you,’ says the handsome giant, and extends his hand to shake hers. Cecile’s teeth rattle a little in her head.

  ‘Short for Lancelot. My mother’s choice. She loved those tales of King Arthur and all those gallant knights of the Round Table, off doing good deeds. S’pose she hoped I’d turn out just the same.’

  ‘And have you?’ she asks, then blushes. ‘I mean… I’m sure she’s very proud of you.’

  Cecile finds that she’s craning her neck to look at him.

  ‘She is that,’ nods the American.

  If I were to marry, thinks Cecile. You’re the sort of man I might like to be married to.

  ‘My Pa, too,’ continues Lance. ‘He’s looking to expand into South America, to link the wide-open plains of Argentina with their capital, via railroad. It’s my duty, as a good Texan son, to help him in that great plan, and my honest pleasure too. I’ll be taking the SS Leviathan to Rio in three months’ time, and then onwards, to Buenos Aires.’

  ‘What a grand adventure that sounds, Mr. Robinson’ says Cecile.

  ‘I’m headed down through Europe, travelling the railroads, to meet various bigwigs. I’m learnin’ all I can.’

  ‘No galleries or museums? Not like a traditional ‘Grand Tour’?’ comments Cecile.

  He shakes his head and gives her a smile that sends her pulse into a most perturbing rhythm.

  ‘It’s all work for me, but I’m havin’ a mighty-fine time anyways.’

  Cecile looks at his lips as he talks, and wonders how they might feel pressed against her own. She can’t help but notice, he’s looking right back at her.

  They stand, just like that, until the door of Lord McCaulay’s compartment opens, and Cecile hears Henry’s voice, calling to her.

  ‘Well, it’s been so delightful to meet you, Mr. Robinson,’ she says, offering him her gloved hand. It’s upon the tip of her tongue to ask where he might be staying in Paris, but such forwardness is beyond her. No lady would ask such a thing…

  He gives her hand another solid shake.

  ‘Ma’am, the pleasure was all mine.’

  * * *

  Paris!

  The same sooty rain that commits London to sit in mud and dripping grime, bestows this city with glistening streets, which infinitely reflect the dazzle of its evening illuminations. Perhaps, it has the same perils and filth, the same overflowing sewers and excrement-smeared cobbles. And yet, our merry party sees only its glittering entertainments, and daring triumphs.

  Determined that his bride shall enjoy every comfort, Henry has booked the Suite Impériale, at the newly opened Hôtel Ritz, in the 1st arrondissement. Conveniently, there is a modestly-sized adjoining room for Cecile. It’s a home from home indeed, with endless hot water in the bathroom. From the ceiling of its grand salon, upholstered in red and gold, hang large chandeliers, their illumination reflected in the Baroque mirror between the windows, which look down upon the Place Vendôme.

  ‘This bed is said to be identical to that used by Marie Antoinette, in the Palace of Versailles,’ remarks Maud, in the early hours of their first night in the city, the coverlet drawn up to her chin. Sumptuous as the room is, the windows do rather let in a draught.

  ‘And we all know how Marie Antoinette kept herself warm,’ murmurs Henry, his hand moving to find the small of his wife’s back. As their hips meet, his mouth closes upon hers. His chin is bristling from the day’s growth. Rough on her cheek, rough on her collarbone, rough across her nipple. He descends beneath the covers and, with a contented sigh, Maud opens to take that rasping, hungry mouth between her legs.

  * * *

  Maud begins by taking Cecile to the Paris ateliers, provisioning them both with a wardrobe suitable for the warmer weather into which they are headed: dresses in light muslins and silks, their waists narrow, accented with a sash or belt, and broad-brimmed hats to keep off the sun, trimmed with ribbons and artificial flowers. Cecile looks longingly at those adorned with exotic feathers. Henry, being firmly against the slaughtering of birdlife, would be enraged.

  Afterwards, they lunch at the Café Anglais on the Grands Boulevards, ordering briny oysters and snails dripping in garlic-butter.

  How stylish the French are, muses Cecile. The women manage to look elegant even while eating with their fingers.

  In the evening, they venture to Voisin, on the rue Saint-Honoré, feasting on lobster thermidor and incomparable sole meunière, before taking their seats at a performance of Donizetti’s Lucrezia Borgia, at the Paris Opera.

  ‘A woman worthy of the name,’ Maud whispers in Cecile’s ear. ‘Intelligent, and cunning.’

  However, it seems that cunning is never enough. Cecile can’t help but wonder why women in such tales always come to a tragic end. Does any opera end happily for the heroine? she muses. If I were to write the libretto, I’d ensure a better outcome. Surely, every woman’
s story doesn’t need to end in misery.

  The next day, after touring the Louvre, they drive down the Champs-Elysées, taking the air in Le Jardin des Tuileries. Cecile sees that, as in London, the parading of one’s fashionableness is the prime intent. At L’Arc de Triomphe, Henry insists that Cecile have her photograph taken, a young man being ready with his photographic apparatus.

  She stands rather shyly. Cecile has had other portraits captured but none so publicly. She feels the eyes of passers-by upon her as she poses, directed to stretch out her arms, as if pushing against the pillars of the arch.

  Maud whispers in Henry’s ear and it’s suggested that the man bring his equipment to the hotel one evening.

  ‘I shall hire some oriental costumes and we shall play-act,’ she declares, her eyes twinkling, Cecile notices, with their customary mischief. ‘A tableau, Henry, don’t you think? Just as you saw once, in London? We might capture the fun upon this gentleman’s camera.’

  Cecile turns away in some embarrassment as her brother draws Maud to him and they engage in the sort of kiss that, Cecile feels certain, is not seemly in public.

  * * *

  Maud has insisted that Cecile be allowed to accompany them as much as possible, and be encouraged in new experiences.

  They spend an evening at Le Café du Dôme, where the famous (and soon to be famous) eat plates of Saucisse de Toluouse and mashed potatoes for a few Francs. The room is thick with cigarette smoke, and with Bohemians: sculptors and painters, poets, and writers. Models recline on purple velvet banquettes, profiles displayed to advantage.

  Another night, they dine at Maxim’s on La Rue Royale, and drink absinthe at Le Casino de Paris, on la Rue de Clichy.

  ‘Made from the flowers and leaves of artemisia absinthium, and sweet fennel,’ Maud explains, stirring with a spoon and adding a little water.

  Just like liquorice, Cecile thinks, sipping at the green liquid, and doing her best not to show she doesn’t like it.

  Henry kindly intercedes, ordering her a glass of Calvados instead.

  On a rainy Saturday evening, Cecile takes a table with them at Les Folies-Bergère, her eyes widening at the sumptuous and grandiose spectacles, of acrobats and jugglers and fire-eaters, not to mention at the lack of clothing on the beautiful young women parading past.

  ‘My goodness, they must be chilly!’ she remarks, but Maud assures her that all the dancing keeps them warm.

  For comparison, they try the Moulin Rouge, in the Jardin de Paris, with its red windmill on the roof and monumental elephant in the garden, around which tipsy revellers Can-Can, in emulation of the dancers in their titillating costumes.

  ‘Heavens!’ declares Cecile, her eyes even wider. ‘Who’d have thought one’s legs could do that!’

  It’s all diverting… though she cannot help but wonder at the ostentatious artificiality of these amusements. Both evenings, she surveys the audience, to see if she might recognize a certain tall gentleman, with golden curls, but there is no sign of Lance. She is part disappointed, and part relieved. For some reason, she wishes not to imagine him here, looking up the skirts of the audacious dancers.

  On their fourth day, Cecile begins to question whether she really likes the French capital.

  They ascend the Eiffel Tower and, while marvelling at the view from the top, Cecile is startled to feel a hand grope at the underside of her bustle. She spins about, and the perpetrator, face impassive, fades into the crowd. By the time she finds her voice, her assailant has truly disappeared.

  What use will it do, now, to make a fuss? she decides. People will only think that I’m drawing attention to myself, and it will be most distasteful.

  Again, in the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur, on Montmatre, with Christ and all the saints and adorers looking down, her head cast upwards to take in the detail of the frescoed ceiling, Cecile finds herself assaulted by a hefty pinch upon her derrière. This time, she turns to find no-one nearby but an elderly priest, clutching his prayer book.

  He smiles benignly and walks on.

  Europe, or what I’ve seen of it so far, Cecile thinks, is distinctly lacking in gallantry. By far the nicest man I’ve met is my Texan.

  Except, of course, that he is not her Texan.

  If it had been love at first sight, Cecile laments, he would have torn off the edge of his map and written me a note, before we parted: some address, or a meeting place. Now, we shall never see each other again!

  As her head rests on her pillow, she finds that her thoughts turn to Lance, wondering where he is, and what adventures he’s having. There’s no doubt in her mind that he will be having adventures. The question, now, is what sort of adventures are in store for her?

  It’s without much regret that she waves off Maud and Henry on their penultimate evening in Paris. She’s content to eat a light supper in her room, and spend time with the novel Maud has passed to her: an exciting read by Mr. Stoker, set in the dark mountains of Transylvania.

  Here is what she has been hoping for from their trip. She desires the mysterious unknown, and the grand, unmapped landscapes of remote regions. City life, as lively and surprising as it is, is less engaging than she’d hoped, and she feels the unwanted press of the city’s residents upon her.

  ‘Don’t tell Henry,’ Maud had said, leaving the edition on Cecile’s dressing table. ‘He doesn’t need to know everything.’

  * * *

  ‘Remember,’ Maud tells Henry, as they pass out of the doors of L’Hôtel Ritz, ‘You’re my escort, leading me by the hand as I indulge my wicked nature. Here to protect but not to subdue.’

  ‘Of course, my Mademoiselle Noire,’ he replies, dropping his kiss upon her hand. ‘Whatever amusements you seek, it’s my pleasure to assist you, and my honour to keep you safe in that pursuit. Few men are so fortunate: to marry not one enchanting woman, but two.’

  ‘Lord McCaulay!’ Maud laughs. ‘We each possess more than a single face. Dig a little, and you’ll find you’ve married a whole harem!’

  He takes her dancing, and buys her roses and orchids, so many that, in the morning, the hotel has to send out for more vases to accommodate them.

  They laugh, and dance, and, arm in arm, explore the glittering streets of the moonlit city.

  I’m in love, thinks Henry. I thought I was before, and I was, but, now, it’s something different.

  She smiles at him through eyes half-closed from too many glasses of champagne, sitting in a quiet corner booth, in la Brasserie de l'Espérance, on the Rue Champollion.

  ‘What shall we do tonight, my husband? Shall we pay for some company?

  Her fingers twist in the curls that rest upon his collar.

  ‘How many women would you like, my love? How many soft mouths?’

  He stiffens in his seat, wary that they may be overheard. However, the room is full of chatter.

  Maud leans closer, her voice seductive.

  ‘Or would you like a man to join us? Would you like strong hands on your body, his desire pushing against your stomach, his erection rubbing yours?’

  Henry’s mouth grows dry when she speaks like this, and her eyes darken. Then, he remembers her as the taunting Mademoiselle Noire, appearing again, to seduce and bewitch him.

  ‘Would you like him to grip your cock alongside his, and stroke both together?

  He shifts in his seat and lowers his eyes.

  ‘Do you want hands that will be rough with you?’

  Henry waves away the waiter who comes to refill their glasses.

  ‘When he’s ready, he’ll push you down and order you to kneel, to spread your legs.’

  Maud’s breath is on his ear.

  ‘From behind, he’ll push apart your buttocks, feeling with his fingers, his tongue…’

  Her hand creeps over.

  ‘You’ll beg him to do whatever he wants.’

  Maud’s fingers deftly unbutton Henry’s trousers and she drapes the edge of the tablecloth to conceal his lap.

  ‘To push that tong
ue inside you, until you open, like a woman.’

  She reaches inside the fabric, her hand encircling him.

  ‘Beg him to enter you. Beg him to stretch you.’

  Maud strokes the thickness in her palm.

  ‘You’ll ache for him to thrust deeper.’

  Henry has grown so large that Maud’s fingers, long and elegant as they are, no longer meet around the circumference.

  ‘When you think you can bear no more, he’ll groan and judder, piercing you all the harder as he spurts. He’ll pull out, and the thick, salted cream will run between your cheeks.’

  She works more rapidly, working Henry’s slick tip, and he is reminded of another hand, gloved, lingering upon his body, to inflame him: the hand of Mademoiselle Noire, provoking and awakening.

  A few moments more and Henry’s eruption covers her hand.

  Everything she says is true. He does wish it, and he loves her for knowing.

  * * *

  They pay the bill and head to Le Chabanais, where the Prince of Wales has been known to spend an evening. In the Japanese room, where delicate bamboos and willows fill the pale green walls, Maud removes her crimson taffeta evening dress. She lays back upon the bed, naked, Henry watching, as one girl after another is sent up, each given their turn to please her. He watches her arching back, her legs parting, opening to receive pleasure.

  His cock aches for her but he knows he must wait.

  ‘Find me a man,’ she says, at last, her voice low and her eyes at their darkest.

  Henry knows what Maud wants.

  Not him. Not yet. Nor an evening-suited diplomat or financier, though there are plenty of those to be found at this establishment.

  It doesn’t take him long, just a few minutes’ walk.

  He brings back the most uncouth he can find. As broad as a shire horse and provisioned, it turns out, with an organ worthy of the same. Rough in speech and manner, and foul of mouth. Hair thick upon his chest, back, groin and buttocks. Eyebrows and beard matted, like a pirate king. Hands as large as dinner plates and teeth rotten, displayed in a lecherous grin. His breath reeks of cheap rum.