I fear my behavior toward you has been less than consistent. I am not a woman of pretty words and conventional sentiment. I hope that you have come to know me well enough during the little time of our acquaintance to know this. I am sure that you are aware of my position and how it affects what I say and do--that is, the courtesan. I am not myself--I am not sure I know what myself is anymore. I have been too many others to have a true sense of who I am.
I do not understand why I write you thus. When first we met, I was certain that you were nothing more than an intriguing fling--a way to amuse myself. Besides, how many of our sort does one come across? It is rare indeed. When I saw you standing in front of the Manet, I was perfectly annoyed. When I saw you standing in front of the Manet, I hadn't any clue as to what would transpire between us. I found you thoughtless, arrogant. I wanted to tear you down a bit. I have a vengeful nature. I was hoping to conquer you that night, when you came to me. Women have few acceptable means of conquest, you know. We cannot wield the sword, we cannot argue in the forum, we cannot fight duels. So we take our lot, and use it to our advantage.
So I did as I have been doing for over half a century now. I tried to conquer with the charms which are particular to a woman. I am sure you know that to which I refer. It has become like a game to me. I sometimes like to see how quickly I can make a man go mad for me. What will he do on my behalf? Will he buy me diamonds? Will he fall on his knees and humiliate himself for me? Will he kill for me? I have learned that there is much a man will do to experience the charms of an adept woman. If I had had my way, I would have made you grow pale and tremble for me, like the opium eaters do when that drug is withheld from them.
But you have been patient with my madness. I could be wrong--indeed, I daresay I am wrong--but I sense in you an earnestness, which is difficult to find in this monde modèrne. There is so little of the courtier in you. I cannot say such things to you, however. I remember my dealings with the Duc and it freezes my heart. If I were to make myself an offering to you, you could make me your slave. You could kill me at your leisure. Would you? Would you take me to the priest? Would you finish what the other started?
I give you my blood because it is the only way I can speak to you, can share with you my generous feelings. It is perhaps a paltry gift, but it is the only one I am able to give you. In spite of my very nature, I will remain constant to you, even as I stray. But such are the musings of an addled mind. Do not pay them heed.
With ardent affection, Votre serviteur, With the kindest regards, I am,
M.
Having found a pen and some spare paper prior, as well as a secluded place in which to write, Marguerite stared at the letter before her. The more she looked at it, the more the words blurred on the page until they were nothing more than a mad jumble of black strings, heaped together. The task had been difficult for her, and painstaking, just as those other letters had been. The sudden isolation which she had experienced in the midst of the other souls within that strange house had had a dire effect on her nerves, and put her in a melancholy tone of thought.
Sometimes she was certain she had heard Mozart's Requiem playing somewhere distant. It was, she was convinced, being played for her, for her departure to Hell. But other than distant music, she had experienced very little of the house's quaint offerings. And this, besides, may have been the workings of her own dishevelled brain.
She turned her eyes away from the little note, her expression blank. The aria seemed to soar and sink within her. Her dainty hands crushed the paper, crinkling it, the still wet ink smearing. Her grip tightened around the paper, effectively crushing it. She closed her eyes and began shredding the sheet in her hands. Rising from the little chair in the child's room, where she had retired yet again, she opened the trunk and let the shreds of paper float into it, like a peaceful snowfall. She closed the trunk. Within two minutes she had rejoined the others as Mrs. Elizabeth Stoker. Nothing had happened.