madame_larousse (madame_larousse) wrote in v_nocturne_rpg, @ 2009-10-02 19:29:00 |
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Entry tags: | john abbott, marguerite larousse |
Unveiled (Part 2 of 2)
"Bertain, old man, I expect a visitor," Marguerite said quickly as she rushed up the stairs. She stopped on the landing, looking down at the serious retainer. He was frowning in fatherly disapproval, but he was well aware that he would say nothing. He (strangely enough) thought of her as a daughter of sorts, though he would not overstep his boundaries. "Do smile, Bertain. I am ready to say to the world as did Marie Antoinette, 'Let them eat cake!' And so shall this whole household!" With that, she ran back toward her bedchamber, leaving poor Bertain with a bewildered look and the words, "Very good, madame," on his lips.
This time Julie was wide awake, straightening things in her mistress's room. She curtsied as Madame entered, curious as to which mood she would bring with her tonight. Marguerite was bright and almost manic, her cheeks somewhat rosy from exertion and from the gastronomic delicacy of John's blood. Her eyes were fixed on a trunk in the corner of the room. It was this trunk which contained several of her more precious pieces of clothing, from her heyday in France. A playwright, famous at the time, had written an oriental play for her, giving her the title role as an exotic harem dancer who must kill her wicked Moorish husband that she might be with her good, foreign lover. It was obscured by more recent works now, but at the time it had been a sensation. Indeed, Marguerite had been toasted throughout the Continent for this part.
It was the costume which remained in this trunk, the rather skimpy bodice comprised of gold and precious gems. The skirt, long and flowing, wrapped around the waist in the fashion of the Eastern dancers, and was secured by a belt which matched the bodice. There was an elegant patterning on the skirt, with various flourishes and motifs, all stitched with various stones. The whole thing was very dear in price, but she cherished it because it reminded her of a time when she was not a stranger, and when she had been universally adored. It had been tailored specifically for her, and it was given her before she retired from Paris for the last time. It stirred memories, happy and melancholy, but she was determined to wear it nonetheless.
Ever a connoisseur of the theatrical, Marguerite ordered that Julie arrange a series of pillows on the floor while she took a bit of time washing herself at a basin in a little cabinet joining her room. The girl then helped her mistress into the heavy costume, scenting her with some subtle but costly perfumes. As Julie dressed her hair, Marguerite lined her eyes in kohl, rouging her lips as well. It had taken a bit longer than she expected, but she was soon lounging on the pillows at the foot of her bed. "Bring him here when he comes," she ordered, then waited, fiddling with the bangles about her arms.
After the courtesan let herself out of the dressing room, John sat a while longer. He scrubbed a hand over his mouth, the sharp planes of his jaw. Once drunk, blood came over like a fever, and he was intoxicated with her. With Marguerite. God, what a siren was she! He caught sight of himself in the mirror -- the bleary eyes, the chin propped in hand -- and laughed, leaning back until he might fall off the stool.
Feet shuffled beyond the door. It was a maid, he thought, anxious to tidy up after Madame Larousse's ablutions. He stood and surveyed the vanity, sucking the open wound on his thumb. John's head was a mess, and he had a compulsion to put ink to paper. Amongst her things, he found the means with which to leave a note. His penmanship was of good quality, the words carefully spaced on the page: 'Marguerite- It is I who bow before you, humbled by such ripe beauty. I am servant to a memory. An exquisite flush upon thy polished and perfect cheek. The juncture of parted thighs, and you, a flower mounting a stem, your petals soft, opening. I hear a thundering of hearts, of wings taking flight. I beat within thee. -John'
He was neither Keats or Byron, but the sentiment was written exclusively for her. John fanned and folded the note. He tucked it into the frame of her mirror.
There was time to drop by his apartment and tend to his own needs. When he arrived, he barely closed the front door. John shed his jacket, waistcoat, and shirt in order to shave. The razor cut a neat path through the soap. He nicked himself once, which he noticed when he smelled blood mixing into the froth. He stemmed the bleeding with a towel and got into fresh clothing. In an hour's time, he was on the doorstep of Madame Larousse's apartment. The butler allowed him entrance with minimal conversation.
At Marguerite's door, he knocked. It was oddly polite, considering he had let himself into her dressing room unannounced.
"Enter, do," commanded the voice from within. Much like the women of Ingrès, she reclined, her back against the pillows, idly fingering the intricate patterns on her skirt. A single branch of candles atop her vanity provided the only, dim, light. But it was more than enough for her. She had been in something of a daze during those few minutes during which she waited for him. She did not rise as the door opened, but shifted a little on the pillows, creating a melodious jingle with the bangles, bracelets and workings on the little bodice. Outside of the boudoir, outside of the theatre, her costume would have been beyond scandalous. But she wanted so to see the look on his face when such a sight greeted him.
"You are punctual as ever, John," she purred.
He leaned on the door, grasping the knob with both hands. "And you are ravishing." The sight and scent of Marguerite were an exotic feast for the senses. It was a torment to stand apart from her. However, John made himself wait. "How do you manage it?" It was not only her costuming that appealed, for many women would be beautiful in what she wore, but rather the way she wore it. He peeled the coat off his arms and hung it from a hook.
"It is something of an art form," Marguerite admitted, her eyes following him intently. "It has taken me decades to perfect. I was once a gawkish girl, you know. You would not have given me a second glance then. But it is the art, more than anything else, which draws the eye, which ensnares the mind...and the loins." As she spoke, she shifted to her hands and knees, and began crawling toward him. But she was capable of doing it in such a way that it resembled nothing so much as the predatory stalk of some large cat. Her motions were graceful, as though she kept time to silent music. Indeed, the little bells on the anklets which graced her feet intoned a steady rhythm.
"For some," she said softly, her eyes half-lidded as she slowly, slowly neared him, "the art lies in the paint brush. For some, in the pen. For others still, in the piano. For me, the art lies in the body. It is not merely to expose the inexpressible parts, no. It is to make everything titillating. Even the lobe of the ear might incite feelings in a man, if presented properly." Her finger slowly traced the outline of her ear to illustrate.
John crouched. His forearms draped his thighs. "You are wrong, I think." He reached out and slid two fingers into her hair, combing it from root to end. "I have a particular fondness for diamonds in the rough. I would have noticed you in a pinafore." He smiled. In the lamplight, his eyes were the color of warm amber. He tipped his head, an artist making an objective study of a figure. What he saw, his mind translated into glowing descriptors, none of which satisfied him. He thought language had yet to catch up with the female form.
"Marguerite." He tipped her chin. "With but a look you could have me, and yet you soar above expectations." John braced his fingers on the floor and leaned forward. His mouth journeyed, feather light, across her brow and down the bridge of her nose. He paused at her mouth. His eyes met the courtesan's. "I would see your seduction reduced to a schoolgirl's artless pawing, if it meant that I was the cause of your undoing. No woman should be left with senses intact."
"I see in this a challenge," Marguerite countered, meeting his eye with her own emerald gaze. She nipped at his nose playfully, then rose, her standing figure an impressive sight indeed. She turned from him then, and flung herself on the pillows, laughing into them. When she rolled over, onto her back, her hair veiled her face in coppery curls. She pushed it away hastily. She stretched a little, the muscles of her smooth, exposed belly undulating as she moved.
"Do you think, cher, that you can reduce me into a sensory puddle? You are speaking to a courtesan, and an actress to boot. I could be anyone for you tonight. The harem slave, the coquette, the bucolic milkmaid, the stern queen, the shy bluestocking. I am acquainted with each part. Cleopatra, la reine Antoinette, Hugo's Cosette, Flaubert's Madame Bovary, oh I know them well. So who shall fall first? Shall we make a bet of it? If I win, you must wear Yum-Yum's wig for me in private." Her eyes twinkled with girlish mischief. The very idea of him in that absurd wig brought laughter to her throat in a short burst.
John stood over her pallet of pillows and shed his outer layer of clothing. "A bet, you say? Well.. that is a bit of intrigue." He mulled it over and looked at the far window. The gray waistcoat sifted off her mattress onto the floor, where he left it in favor of unbuttoning his cuffs. "If I lose, I will wear your wig. But if I win, you will give me the honor of your presence at a social engagement of my choosing."
He did not have one in mind yet, but invitations came and went unanswered in favor of other dalliances. Perhaps John would make the effort, with the promise of the redhead on his arm. "I do hope you are not a sore loser, Marguerite." Leaving the shirt on but loosened, he went onto his knees next to her. Bending just so, he managed to keep his eyes on the courtesan's face while his tongue delved into her navel. "Tonight, I shall know the woman behind the role."
"Oh, monsieur is so sure of himself," Marguerite teased, lounging back and watching, her body slowly relaxing. She idly played with his hair, enjoying the feeling of the tight yet wild curls beneath her fingers. She liked looking into his eyes, so interestingly shaped and intense to behold. His darker, exotic looks made her wonder if he did not descend from the Romany. Perhaps, she mused, lips turning upward, she was being courted by a gypsy prince. "You will be wearing that wig soon enough!"
On his elbow now, John lounged alongside her. His teeth grazed her stomach. Reaching under the hem of her skirt, his fingers teased her calf, a delicate stroking upward that spoke volumes. "I must say, I admire your commitment," he murmured. "It's good to be in the spirit of things." The perfumes wafted from her body, coaxing him to explore with his nose until he found the source. There, he latched on with his mouth. He found that the places where scents worked best were also sensitive ones. "Admit it. You would be pleasantly surprised, were I to win this little game."
"A good politician admits nothing," Marguerite replied, her serious frown wavering from the barely suppressible mirth bubbling from within. "And I, good sir, am a politician when it comes to affairs of the heart. Disraeli pales in comparison, I assure you!" As she spoke, her fingers fiddled with the buttons on his shirt, plucking at them one by one until she had parted it to her satisfaction. She looked slyly at him, a single finger exploring the planes of his abdomen.
"Have your lovers told you how exquisite you are?" she asked, in an offhand manner, which contrasted with the passionate words. "In France there is a woman artist, Mademoiselle Claudel. She creates sculptures like the famous Rodin. Had I but a fraction of her talent, I should like to recreate you from clay, from stone, from bronze. I could not express you as you are now, for there is more to you than how you look, but I should like the memory nonetheless, of paying homage to every angle and subtle curve of you. Alas, I am a poor artist." She shrugged, her smile somewhat crooked, now sliding her hand up and down his belly, liking the tactile feel of his flesh and the little hairs which sprinkled it.
He pretended to scold her. "Surely you don't wish to know of other lovers." He maneuvered himself farther up the pillows, so that his mouth could envelop the roundness of her shoulder. A tickling gesture parted her knees and he nearly lost his concentration. He loved the subtle noises of lovemaking... thighs sliding open on fabric, an invitation to delve into a woman's secrets. He only hinted, however, drawing patterns on her leg. "I only care to know how my eyes see you, though with your popularity, such a hope is easily dashed, unless I wish to dwell with hands locked over my ears." He smiled and returned to her shoulder. "They call you 'Rita', when they want other men to believe they've had you."
His words gave Marguerite pause, and she wavered. Such things were never spoken to her, though she knew of them well enough. She knew, in the end, that to be the courtesan was to be a commodity to be bought and sold. As much as she tried to surmount this by killing and humiliating her patrons, by making them fall sick in love with her, it always came to this fact. It was rare that Marguerite would ponder on this subject. Generally her pride led her to delusions as to her worth to other men, and her sadistic nature made her wish to topple most of them, as a child might topple a block tower. But this gentle admission pierced her, made her feel somewhat vulnerable. Her hand stilled on his belly and she turned her head away, letting her hair fall into her face.
"They are forever boasting in the end." Her voice was tired, almost bitter. "It is the same as if they had purchased a fine racehorse, or a brood mare of prime blood. Such things are called conquests for a reason. I can only control things so far." It was an admission which she disliked very much to admit, and it brought on a wave of humiliation, as though she were lying there before him with no clothes at all, to be microscopically examined. "Do you tell them you have had Rita? Do you tell them how warm she feels beneath you? How easily her legs part?" There was no bitterness now, only the tired tone and a bit of girlish self-questioning.
John rested his cheek on his palm. "No gentleman would." He breathed in and sighed, for while respiration was unnecessary, it often proved a habitual gesture, especially in times of heavy thinking. "Those most eager to boast are often liars. I suspect it is a ploy to discourage the hopes of others. You may rest assured that men are sensible of such things." He left her legs alone and touched her cheek. "I have made mention of you to a trusted friend, though not by name or profession. I have only said that I met a woman of exquisite beauty, and that I was thoroughly bedded and utterly enchanted."
Perhaps too much was said, but John was in a post-coital fog. Simon was an observant fellow; he would've known something was afoot. However, John had stood up to the interrogation that followed. "I am capable of keeping secrets. You needn't worry."
"You are generous," Marguerite said. "Were you cruel you could have told each of them how you had not only my favors, but also my heart." It shocked her that she said such things. What cared she for matters of the heart? One didn't put oneself in such a position. Only tawdry tales and satire ensued. It must have been her madness seeping through. Though she rarely ever admitted it to herself, she knew that there were yet "owls and bats," builders in the roof of her mind. It would have been ill done of her to show her self-directed frustration at this juncture. Instead, she turned away from him, staring at the ceiling as though watching a scene in a play. "Would you say the girl in the harem is lucky with her lot? To dance for princes, to showcase her more subtle charms, to be famed and prized by the pasha, the sultan, the sheik?"
John despised himself for turning her mind to such a topic. It extinguished her spark. But a woman was difficult to dissuade, once her mind latched onto a particular thing. Attempting to lure her back with caresses would only make him seem callous. He glanced at the ceiling. "It is a gift to have beauty and riches, to be sure... To be celebrated by men." There, he stopped to consider what she proposed. He studied her profile, how her skin was a molten yellow in the candlelight. She considered the lot of an actress similar. She, too, was prized for performances, for hiding her true nature in them, for setting hearts afire. Marguerite had the freedom to give up such a life, unlike a harem girl, but he wondered if she saw it that way.
He could not be anything other than honest. "No... No, I do not think her lucky. It is better to be adored by one man, and have it be true." John picked up a lock of her hair. He inhaled its fragrance, let it linger at his mouth. "You think me self-serving for saying so. A pathetic romantic."
"You are silly," Marguerite admitted, the smile returning to her face, though this time more sincere than any of her more seductive grins. "You have brought me close, tonight. With but a little more effort, you might yet have won our bet. But you will find that you have weakened me little, and that I am yet ready for battle." She rose to a sitting position, leaning over him. With deft yet tender hands, she began to undress him, slipping his arms out of his shirt. She sat for a moment, looking down at him, drinking him in. Then she leaned forward again, her hand sliding just below his belly, subtly caressing and massaging there. Her lips chastely touched his chin, a stark contrast to the movement of her hand.
Mouth opening to give glimpse of his teeth, John watched her. How he loved a woman with a confident touch. A truly under-appreciated quality, in his estimation. He reached under her skirt and fondled her hip, one thumb making exploratory circles in the concavity of her abdomen. Each time it rounded, his palm crept towards the center of her. He wanted to peel back the layers of the courtesan, bodily and otherwise, until he had earned all of her secrets. Only then would he be satisfied.
"Take care, Marguerite. I haven't begun to try."