by Anne Rice
"No, darling," she said. "Not on this our last night. I want to seek the dark corners of Paris again, the dark narrow lanes, the taverns and cabarets where I would never have dared to set foot in the past." She laughed. "I want to see all the dangerous places. I want to see the thieves eye us as prey and then instinctively, inevitably, as they always do, turn away from us--as if we were angels."
He smiled. He understood, as much as any man could understand, she thought. Any man, who had never known what it means to be a woman.
And off they walked together, away from the river, and towards parts of Paris unknown to them, two adventurers of which the mortal world knew nothing.
7
Monte Carlo
The Englishman made love like a Frenchman, and for this Michel Malveaux was blissfully grateful.
The waiters and croupiers in the casino had referred to the man as the Earl of Rutherford, and that was how Michel preferred to think of him now. The title was an elegant reminder of how different he was from Michel's other clients.
He'd taken Michel to bed with the same vigor with which he had played the casino's tables for several days now. The vigor of a man half his age. The vigor of a man half Michel's age, for that matter. There was no sense of hurried shame in his movements. Neither was there hesitancy or nervousness. Indeed, the handsome, blue-eyed aristocrat stroked and probed and tasted Michel's body with the same abandon as the young men Michel had experimented with in the vineyards behind his family's farm when he was a boy.
No, nothing at all like his other clients, those men and women who invited him back to their hotel rooms with furtive, coded signals. Who bid him a hasty farewell once the deed was done, but not before giving him the requisite gift. Money, jewels, or the promise of a fine meal, all intended to buy both his discretion and perhaps his return the next night under similar circumstances.
Even the room was different.
Michel had been inside most at the Hotel de Paris, but not this particular suite, with its wallpaper the color of a cloudless sky, its soaring windows so easily opened onto the sea, and its small balcony. And how fearless of the earl to leave the windows open, to allow the ocean air to kiss their naked bodies as they engaged in a passion most would find unspeakable.
But it was this very fearlessness that had first drawn Michel to the man several days before. The earl was one of the best gamblers he had ever seen. Possessed of an almost otherworldly ability to read the deck, the wheel, and the croupier's expressions. And at the very moment each day when it seemed he might draw the suspicion of the house, he would graciously push back from the table. Then he would generously tip the waiters, who had kept him well fed with a steady supply of the small nibbles that seemed to sustain him.
What were his tricks? Michel was desperate to know. For this was why he'd come to Monte Carlo years before: to learn the secrets of the best gamblers, to master luck itself, so that he could support his ailing, widowed mother.
His poor mother.
She believed he had achieved this goal. It would have broken her heart to know the money he mailed home came from servicing the private, sensual needs of the wealthy. He'd recently sent her an emerald ring encrusted with diamonds, and she'd written just the other day to tell him she wore it proudly and with great joy whenever her sisters came to visit. If she knew it had been gifted to him by a German general and his wife after he'd brought them both to simultaneous moments of release, she would be shattered, he was sure.
But he'd been a younger and more foolish man when he'd left home. And after only a few months of living in a crowded apartment with several croupiers, he'd been forced into realization. He was already an excellent lover, but it would take him some time to become a better gambler. No choice but to put his first gift to use while he sought to acquire the second.
But now there was so much more he wanted to know about this man, beyond his tricks at the tables. So very much more.
And when the earl brought him to climax, the cries that escaped from Michel sounded both pleading and ecstatic, and the Earl of Rutherford seemed to delight in them, for he increased his thrusts until the two of them lay in a heap in the tangled sheets.
Drowsiness overtook him.
His companion, on the other hand, didn't seem remotely tired. He stroked Michel's sweat-matted hair from his forehead.
"The Earl of Rutherford has many secrets and skills," Michel finally whispered.
"Perhaps after another moment like that, I can convince you to call me Elliott."
"You are a man of great mystery and skill, Elliott."
"Do you speak of my skills at the blackjack table or...?" With one finger, the man drew a slow circle across Michel's stomach.
"Both."
"I see. And so the whispered rumors of you are true, young Michel Malveaux."
"What rumors?"
"That you're skilled in the art of seduction. That it's made you a handsome living. Perhaps this is why I was so eager to show you the extent of my skills as well."
"Are we dueling courtesans then?"
Elliott laughed. "No, hardly."
"I'm sure. You have a title."
"And what exactly does this fact allow you to presume about me?"
"Nothing," Michel whispered. "I can presume nothing about you, for you have already defied my every expectation. You have none of the reserve of an English aristocrat and none of the pretense. At least when compared to the ones I've met."
"How many have you met, dear boy?" he asked with an impish smile.
"Be kind, Elliott. We have not all descended from great wealth. We do what we must to survive."
"To you I wish to be nothing but kind," he said, and gave him a gentle kiss, "repeatedly and with great enthusiasm."
"And so the rumors about me don't disturb you?"
"Not at all. My life is in a period of great transition. As a result, I have been freed from old restrictions and labels."
"Is your title one of these labels from which you are now free?"
"If it is my title that permits me to access beauty such as yours, young Michel, I wish to never be free of it."
"This fearlessness, Elliott. It defines you. Where does it come from? Do your skills at the tables give you this confidence?"
"You wish to learn my tricks, is that it? You think I've been counting cards?"
"I wish to learn many things about you, Elliott."
Ah, and there it was, a little crack in the man's facade, a suddenly distant look in his crystalline-blue eyes. Had he said too much? Was there too much longing in these words? Almost sympathetic now, the way Elliott grazed the side of his face with his bent fingers.
"You might say I am on a grand adventure. But I am also working to repay some debts. Now I'm privileged enough to combine the two endeavors."
"Repaying debts. With your winnings?"
"Yes."
"And soon you will move on?" he asked, hoping he had poured ice into his voice this time.
"Yes."
"To Baden-Baden, or the next casino, where you will employ your skills until you draw the suspicions of the house."
"You are a clever boy, Michel. It is clear you have seen much of the world."
"I have not. I have seen much of Monte Carlo. And much of the world now comes to Monte Carlo."
"Much of the world that has money comes to Monte Carlo. But there is much of the world that does not have money. And there is much of the world that remains shrouded in great mystery."
"How much of this mysterious world have you seen, Elliott?"
It appeared as if Elliott had suddenly been captured by memories so vivid they took his mind far from this beautiful hotel suite with its commanding view of the sea. Now Michel felt as if he were merely a screen Elliott was gazing through, and this wounded him more deeply than he wanted it to. It was a cruel reminder that they would soon part. That soon the Earl of Rutherford would become just another traveler whose generosity and attentions he had known for only a moment.
"My dear Michel," Elliott finally whispered. He had clearly forgotten himself and the words that came from him now were unbidden. "I have of late seen things in this world that defy all explanation. Things which have led me to question everything I once believed about life and death. All thanks to a king."
A king? But he said nothing. To do so would be to shatter the man's sudden, hypnotic candor. But Elliott remembered himself almost instantly. A fearful expression passed over his face. He sought to conceal it with a sudden, warm smile, but he was a second too late.
"Wash, and then we shall sit on the balcony and enjoy the view."
The temperature seemed to drop several degrees the second Elliott's weight left the mattress. It had felt like a dismissal, but at least the Earl of Rutherford had not asked him to leave. Michel was not being hurried from the room. Not yet, anyway. And so he washed, just as the man instructed.
When he emerged into the bedroom, Elliott was seated on the balcony outside. The smoke from his cigarette rose in a serpentine curl next to his head.
There was a letter on the dresser next to Michel's wallet, and even though he had no need of his wallet in this moment, for some reason, their proximity seemed like an excuse to steal a peek at the few pages of handwritten cursive.
Knowing that this blissful evening would soon be at an end, that these words were perhaps the only real glimpse he'd get inside the man responsible, Michel scanned the letter with what felt like desperate hunger.
The author was the man's son, an Alex Savarell.
He was grateful Elliott had finally cabled to give the date of his arrival in Monte Carlo. The sums of money Elliott had wired home for his family were much appreciated. As a result, their estate in Yorkshire had been reopened and they had added staff to it once again. It was there that they would host a betrothal party for a woman named Julie Stratford and her new fiance, a Mr. Reginald Ramsey.
On additional pages, he spotted repeated pleas for Elliott to return home. But there were no mentions of what exactly connected this Julie Stratford and Reginald Ramsey to the Earl of Rutherford and his son. References to a "grand, calamitous adventure through Egypt" but no other details, aside from the implication that Elliott was traveling, in part, to escape the implications of this "adventure."
A scrape of metal outside startled him.
He dropped the letter, stepped back from the dresser.
Elliott had simply braced one foot against the balcony rail so he could tip his chair back onto its hind legs.
His spying had gone unnoticed. Or had it? The man seemed to have a supernatural ability to read the gambling tables. Could he now detect Michel's furtive actions a few feet away?
He made a noisy show of sliding into his trousers.
When he stepped out onto the balcony, Elliott greeted him with a smile and gestured to the empty chair next to his.
The harbor below sparkled.
There were so many questions he wanted to ask the earl, Elliott of the beautiful blue eyes, so much he wanted to know, but he feared the effort would be the same as reaching too quickly for a falling balloon; a simple touch would send it floating away with sudden speed.
Things which have led me to question everything I once believed about life and death. All thanks to a king.
What could these words possibly mean?
And why was Elliott smiling at him now?
He knows, Michel thought, he knows I read the letter. He could sense it the same way he could sense what cards the croupier might deal next.
"You are young," Elliott finally said.
"Why remind me of this?" Michel asked.
"Because you wish to go with me when I leave. And so it is my duty to tell you that this would be a wretched idea. Splendid for me, perhaps, but terrible for you."
"And why is that?"
"Because you are young, my dear boy."
"And you have the confidence of someone as young as I."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because you assume I would leave here with you at a moment's notice." He managed a wry smile which Elliott returned.
"Tell me I'm wrong," the earl whispered.
He could not. Indeed, he could barely manage to meet the man's curious gaze, and he could feel himself blushing and pouting despite himself. "Your tricks at the tables. Perhaps that is all I'm after."
Elliott laughed warmly, unoffended. "Luck, my dear boy. That's all. Simple luck. The same luck that brought me such a lovely evening with the likes of you."
"You flatter me."
"No. I speak with greater directness than you are used to."
Yes, Michel thought. Because you are fearless, and it is the source of your fearlessness I wish to know. To savor.
"A wife is meeting you at your next port of call," Michel said.
"Not at all," Elliott said.
"She is. A wife and a family of small mewling children and it would be impossible to explain me as your new valet because I am so handsome and young. And French!"
"Ah! I knew it! You do wish to join me," Elliott responded.
"Your luck makes my tongue loosen, I fear."
"My wife and I have an understanding and separate lives, each lived with an appropriate degree of expectation of the other, and our only child is grown. And neither one is the reason I will have to bid you goodbye at the end of this night. But enough about me. What about you, Michel? Is there a special woman in your life?"
"I have made many friends in Monte Carlo."
"I see. But you prefer the company of men, don't you? I could feel it."
"Was it a feeling you enjoyed?"
"Very much so. But I can dance by the light of either the sun or the moon. If that's not the case with you, dear boy, you should feel no shame over it. But neither should you become smitten with the first man who doesn't make love to you as if it's a quick and shameful thing that must be dispatched promptly so as to avoid discovery."
"You believe you are this man to me?" There was a tremor in Michel's voice, and the presence of it turned his question into a statement, a confession. Yes. You have been this man to me, Earl of Rutherford.
"Do not allow me to be, dear Michel. This is what I ask of you. Take your memories of me and of this night, and allow them to inspire you."
"Inspire me in what way?"
"Inspire you to shun all those who would treat you as if you were something shameful."
Mustn't cry at these words. Must remain calm, poised. Professional, if such a concept could even apply to this night. After all, Elliott had not yet offered a gift, and Michel could not bring himself to ask for one. Indeed, this unhurried exchange, here on this balcony with its beautiful view, was gift enough.
"You are a complete mystery, Elliott, a mystery who says strange things about life and death and kings."
Elliott laughed and rose to his feet. When he cupped Michel's face in his hands, Michel could not help but gaze up into the man's dazzlingly blue eyes.
"Think of me as a mystery, then," Elliott whispered.
"A mystery soon to depart."
"The night is not over yet, and in your presence, dear Michel, I feel miraculously restored."
Astonishing. Could he really go again?
When Elliott threw him on the bed, Michel had his answer.
He thought suddenly of the statues of bare-breasted women that were part of the hotel's facade. They were only a few stories below them now, those statues, their arms spread like wings. For the first time inside this grand hotel, Michel felt as if he were literally supported by those bare-breasted stone women and their brazen and sensual courage.
*
It was not the first time he had walked home with the sunrise, smelling of another's skin. But it was the first time he had done so with a heart this heavy.
So he wasn't surprised it took him so long to notice the footfalls behind him.
It was their speed that finally drew his attention.
By the time he looked up, the woman
was walking directly beside him. She looked neither drunken nor disheveled. A jeweled clip held her golden hair in a precise bun atop her head, but her corset seemed loose beneath her blouse; her gored skirt made it appear as if she was ready to spend the morning dipping in and out of shops. But the shops wouldn't be open for hours. Indeed, only the faintest blush of dawn kissed the harbor's waters.
There was something off about her shoes. They were hard, durable, designed for something other than a leisurely stroll.
"I trust you had a pleasant evening with the Earl of Rutherford." She had a perfect British accent. It was the night for them, apparently.
"And who are you, mademoiselle?" he asked.
"Someone who notices things as well as you do, Michel Malveaux."
On another night, he would have sought to charm her, to seduce her. To channel her curiosity into a sensual experience she would then wish to keep secret. This would in turn keep anything she might have witnessed between him and the earl a secret as well. This was how secrets worked. But his departure from Elliott's room had left him shaken and raw. To say nothing of the fact that he was utterly exhausted by the man's insatiable desires.
"If you will excuse me, it is quite late, and I have no desire to discuss my evening at this time."
In an instant, she had seized one of his wrists. Her grip was powerful, astonishingly so. And the eyes he suddenly found himself staring into were as blue as the Earl of Rutherford's.
"Whether or not it's early or late is a matter of some debate, wouldn't you say?" she asked. "And depends largely on how one has spent the hours preceding this one."
It was not the first time he had been threatened. Customers had pulled knives on him, menaced him with empty liquor bottles. But always he had managed to find a way to charm them. This woman, on the other hand, possessed a focus and a malice that was neither drunken nor desperate nor lecherous. And so Michel saw only one choice: to lie.
"Regardless of the hour, my evening was my own. I do not know who this Earl of Rutherford is and I wish you to release my hand at once."
She did nothing of the kind. "And yet, when I first said his name, you expressed no confusion. You only asked me what mine was."
"And you have still not told me. Please let me go."
He yanked his wrist free from her grip. She released it with a smile and a pronounced withdrawal of her own hand. Both gestures suggested she could have easily maintained her grip no matter how much he struggled.