He grew up. He learned what was expected and did it. Young men had mistresses; Camillo acquired a plump little Venetian who claimed to be a singer. Young men had occasional affairs with married women; Camillo courted a neglected matron and visited her discreetly. None of these liaisons had ever been very satisfying. He found adultery distasteful and often fantasized about dying nobly in a duel, redeeming his honor by refusing to fire at the wronged husband. (Ironically, these daydreams left a morbid, erotic aftertaste that often drove him back to the wife’s bed.) Courtesans were at least fair game, but his Venetian singer intimidated him, and he was happy to relinquish her to a rival after a year. He knew she was vulgar and greedy, and he wanted to despise her. But her expertise in bed made him worry that instead she would despise him—a man who still, after all her coaxing and instruction, preferred to make love with his shirt on, in the dark, in silence.
Camillo had occasionally pictured his wedding night. His bride would be a virgin; he would perform the sacrament of marriage upon her body as gently as possible, with modesty and dignity. Then he would retire to his own bed, and the next morning, after she had bathed and been tended by her maids, they would go to church and pray for a blessing on the consummated union. His bride would wear a veil to church so that no one could see her blushes. And in bed, Camillo would (for the first time) be the teacher instead of the student.
Once he decided to marry Pauline, the picture had to be revised slightly. Obviously, Pauline was not a virgin, and when the young officers who surrounded her at every public occasion stepped well over the line of what was proper, in their crude attempts at flirtation, she was more likely to laugh than to blush. He still envisioned himself carrying her reverently to bed, however. He still planned to sleep in his own room afterward and to escort his new bride to church in the morning. He still believed—and this, he admitted to himself later, was the most ridiculous idea of all—he still believed that he would take the lead in bed. Masterful and dignified. Those were his watchwords. Pauline was a butterfly, a tease, a party girl. He would show her the power and solemnity of married love.
The odd circumstances of the wedding created more deviations from the ideal in his imagination. For example, he had not anticipated spending his first night with his bride surrounded by her family. It was, frankly, a bit embarrassing to follow Pauline up to bed in her brother’s house, under the eyes of his mother-in-law. His own younger brother, Francesco, had come to Paris from Rome for the occasion. After one look at Letizia Bonaparte’s stern face and fiercely clasped rosary, Francesco had prudently abandoned the traditional toasts and songs he had prepared as his brother’s best man. Instead, he whispered as Camillo rose from the table, “Good luck, brother! Your bride looks well worth taming, but the ride may be rough!”
Pauline was waiting for him just inside their suite of rooms, looking demure. His spirits rose as he saw her expression, and he gave her a reassuring smile.
“Where are you going?” she said, puzzled, as he turned toward his own bedchamber.
“To get undressed. My valet is waiting for me.” He looked around. “Where is your maid?”
“I sent her away. And I sent away your man as well. We can undress each other.” Her demure expression suddenly did not look so innocent. A little flutter of panic rose in Camillo’s throat. No one had ever seen him completely nude. Nudity was for pagan statues. Nudity was for animals. Men wore clothing.
“Why don’t you get into bed,” he said, his voice a bit hoarse. “I will just be a minute.” He stepped into the adjacent room, trying not to look as though he was hurrying, and closed the door. She had indeed sent away his valet; the man was nowhere to be seen. Camillo thought of ringing for him, took a step toward the bell, then stopped. No, that would take too long. His hands were shaking slightly as he took off his jacket and waistcoat. His skin was cold, too, even though it was a warm August night. When his clammy palms brushed his belly and groin, he flinched.
Breeches, hose, and shirt were tossed onto the floor. His dressing gown was neatly folded on the bed; he wrapped himself in it gratefully and moved back toward the connecting door.
Then he stopped, paralyzed. What if he went in and she was still undressing? Should he knock? Would she expect him to knock? It was so much easier with a mistress! The married ones led you hastily into some dark room and pulled up their skirts; the kept ones played by your rules. Now he was wondering just what the rules were for a bridegroom whose wife was rumored to have made love atop a lead coffin.
Taking a deep breath, he knocked.
He heard her giggle. “Come in!”
His own room was nearly dark; only one lamp was burning by the fireplace. Her room was blazing with light. She had kindled every lamp and every candle in the place—sconces, candelabras, candlesticks, everything.
On the bed, on top of the coverlet, Pauline lay stark naked. She was on her side, facing him, one arm draped over her hip, the other propped underneath her head. Her breasts stood out like little round marzipan cakes, tipped with cherries.
“Welcome, prince husband!” she said gaily.
He froze.
Dignity, he reminded himself. But he could feel his face growing hot. Other parts, too.
Pauline hopped off the bed and danced over to where he stood paralyzed with embarrassment. Without any self-consciousness at all, she untied the sash of his dressing gown and pulled it off.
“You’re so tall!” she said, delighted. She squeezed his arm. “And rounded! Napoleon is like a stick, you know. He has the shoulders of his coats padded.”
Hastily, he grabbed back the dressing gown but then found himself torn: Who to cover, himself or her? Chivalry won; he wrapped the silk around her shoulders. The hem trailed on the floor.
“Why did you do that?” She wriggled impatiently, and the garment slithered to the floor.
“I—I thought you might be cold,” he stammered.
“Cold?” She gave him an incredulous stare. “If anything, it is a bit stuffy in here.” She looked down at her breasts. “See, I am sweating.”
Camillo was sweating now, too.
“Perhaps we could snuff some of the candles and lamps,” he ventured. “If you are warm, that is.” She had taken his hand and was tugging him toward the bed, kicking aside the crumpled dressing gown on the floor.
At this, she stopped and turned around to face him. “Don’t you want to see me?” she asked, her dark eyes open wide, lips pouting slightly.
Was she surprised? Offended? Teasing? He couldn’t tell. It would be cruel to insist on modesty now, he thought. They would consummate the marriage, he would retire to his own room, and in the morning, before church, he would explain that married women in Rome did not permit themselves this sort of license, even with their husbands. It was understandable that Pauline, a young and unworldly bride, might have unwittingly taken the customs of the West Indies as the norm. But here in Europe, she must conduct herself differently.
For example, she should not touch him there. Or squeeze it. Or move her hand underneath—
He closed his eyes and groaned.
“That’s better,” she whispered, feeling him grow hard. Her fingers were doing something outrageous and exquisite with his balls while she pulled his head down and kissed him, flicking her tongue deeper and deeper into his mouth. They stumbled up against the bed and collapsed across it, with Pauline on top. She wriggled provocatively against him and then pushed up on her elbows and surveyed him.
“My tasty prince,” she murmured happily. With a mixture of horror and delight, he watched her dot wet kisses down his stomach, down, farther down, surely she did not mean … only whores … a spasm of blissful agony shot through him as she took him in her mouth.
“No,” he gasped.
But his hands floated down to the top of her head, pressed the fine curls more and more urgently as she licked and sucked. He felt as though he was going to explode. With a superhuman effort, he pushed her away.
“Mmm
mm; too fast,” she said judiciously. “Your turn, then.” She stretched out next to him, hands behind her head, and smiled invitingly.
His turn! Oh, God, all he wanted to do was throw himself on top of her and pound into her until they were both senseless. But there were her breasts, right next to his hand. Her beautiful, soft, pale pink breasts, with their delicious nipples. Hesitantly, he reached out and cupped one breast. It felt wonderful. He slid the nipple through his fingers and watched it spring to attention.
“Mmmmmm,” she said again, in a very different tone.
Encouraged, he lowered his head and kissed it. Just a quick, gentle kiss. But when he pulled his head back, she arched her breast up toward him, asking for more. He lost himself for a long time nuzzling and licking and kissing—her breasts, her nipples, the delicate boned valley in between, the hollow of her neck, even her armpits. She was not touching him at all, but the sound of his own kisses and the taste of her sweat were sending pulses of heat through him.
He was losing the battle against temptation. In fact, he was on the verge of complete surrender. His body was not interested in dignity or the church’s teachings on marital duties. It had been waiting for its chance to try all the things that schoolboys whispered to each other in feigned disgust, all the fascinating poses in the Raimondi engravings. Just this once. Just once. He could confess when he went to mass tomorrow.
His kisses went lower, and lower still, and then his mouth was fastened on the most forbidden of female places.
Part of him was horrified, but that only added to the pleasure. He started out slowly, then licked harder and harder, pushing into her with his tongue and feeling her quiver at each touch. The pulses in his groin became flames, and then agonized, swollen, delicious torture. Gradually he went faster and deeper, until Pauline had her hands twined in his hair and was rocking furiously.
“Camillo! Oh, Camillo! Camillo!” she gasped.
He was the master now, and he knew it. He waited until she was nearly sobbing, and then, in one movement, pulled himself up, squared her hips, and thrust deep inside her.
She came almost immediately, with a trilling cry of delight that sounded like birdsong. As she shuddered beneath him, he rose up on his elbows and pumped into her, so forcefully that he shoved her up against the pillows and slammed the bed into the wall. She felt unbelievably good—every part of her, inside and out, so smooth and moist and curved. It was his turn to gasp and call her name. He forced himself to slow down, to move more gently, to try to make it last a bit longer.
Then, incredulous, he felt her quicken again beneath him. She began to moan and strain herself against his thrusts. As he lost himself in a final shower of delirious pumping, he heard the birdsong again, like applause.
They both lay there, panting, for several minutes. Pauline got up first.
“Would you like some wine?” she said, going over to the side table and pouring herself a glass. She seemed not at all disconcerted by what had happened.
Would he like some wine! Camillo was still trying to persuade himself that this was not some bizarre dream. Had he really licked her there and let her suck and kiss that? Had he really been as hard as an oak tree for nearly an hour? Had he, Camillo, really made the most beautiful woman in Europe come not once but twice?
She poured a glass for him without waiting for an answer and brought it back to the bed.
“You know,” she said, pushing the tangled covers aside and sitting down. “I always thought you were a bit of a prude. You certainly proved me wrong.”
Now, thought Camillo. Tell her now. I am a prude. No, that is the wrong way to think about it. I am simply a civilized man. And she is my wife and must behave like a civilized woman. This cannot happen again. He propped himself up on one elbow and took his glass. The wine tasted like honey. The whole world tasted like honey. He was floating on a tide of sated lust.
Pauline curled up next to him and laid her head on his chest. She dipped one finger into her wineglass and began sucking wine off her finger, drop by drop. Through his half-closed eyes he could see her head and shoulder, resting in the circle of his arm. He felt tender and protective and deeply content.
“I should go back to my own bed,” Camillo said drowsily.
“Why?” Pauline dipped her finger again, touched it to her lip, inhaled the drops of wine.
He dozed for a few minutes, with the faint sound of sucking in the background. Then he felt something cool on his skin and opened his eyes again. Pauline was painting lines of wine down the middle of his chest.
“Hey!” He started to sit up.
“Lie still, you’ll spill it.” She bent over and licked up the bits that were starting to run down his side.
“I should go back to my own bed,” he said again. But he didn’t move.
She smiled at him. “Don’t be silly.” She traced patterns in the little puddle of wine, pushing it out of the hollow of his breastbone and then letting it dribble back in.
He couldn’t possibly be here, in the light of a dozen lamps and candles, watching a naked woman paint wine on his chest.
She eyed the puddle of wine, considered, shook her head. Then she leaned over and licked it up. Slowly. He could feel himself harden at the first touch of her tongue.
“You must be tired,” he said.
“I’m not tired.” Her eyes rested on his returning erection. “I don’t think you are, either. Would you like to try doggy-style this time?”
“No,” he whispered. But he was already picturing her, head down, with her lovely white cheeks and white thighs pushed up behind her, waiting for him.
He never returned to his own bedroom.
They did not go to church.
Every few days, Camillo resolved to speak firmly with Pauline about her behavior. He said nothing. The weeks of September and October passed in a lust-filled haze, with the necessity of keeping the marriage secret from Napoleon adding a furtive thrill to their encounters. Each evening, he would escort Pauline to yet another glittering assembly. Paris throbbed with money, energy, and ambition, and Pauline—even in black—was the sparkling heart of every crowd. Each night, he would dutifully escort Pauline back to the Hôtel de Charost, kiss her hand, climb into his carriage, and return to his rented townhouse, the Hôtel d’Oigny, a few streets away. An hour later, he would return on foot, alone, slip into Pauline’s house through a side entrance, and stay until just before dawn.
At least now they were spending more time under the bedclothes; the nights had grown chilly. But Pauline still wanted to make love in the bright halo of two dozen candles.
“Don’t you want to see me?” she would say when Camillo started to pinch them out. She didn’t like it when he closed his eyes, either. “Look at me, look, look,” she panted, putting her hands on his face and trying to push his eyelids up. Or she would coax him. “Please, open your eyes. I love your eyes; they are such a beautiful brown, like polished wood, with a little green showing through.” He couldn’t help it; he would smile and open his eyes and see her laughing up at him. He had never before made love to a woman who was laughing.
They spent every moment together and would sometimes send regrets to state occasions, pleading illness, and escape in a hired carriage to one of the great parks or estates on the outskirts of Paris. Fondly imagining that no one recognized them, they would walk through the formal flower gardens or lose themselves on woodland paths. On one sunny October day, Camillo rented a little boat at Tivoli and rowed in lazy circles on the artificial lake, watching the leaves drift away from his oars. Pauline had taken off her bonnet and was curled up with her head against the bow of the boat.
“You’ll turn brown,” Camillo said, twisting around to look at her.
“No, I won’t,” she said. “I did in the West Indies, but the sun here is not strong enough.” She trailed one finger in the water, frowning. “Can’t you row facing me?”
“Not in this boat.”
“Let it drift, then.”
He sighed, shipped the oars, and turned himself around. “We’re heading for a stone wall,” he pointed out.
She turned her face up to the sun and closed her eyes. “You’ll stop us in time,” she said, yawning.
“You’re not even looking at me; why can’t I go back to rowing?”
“I’m looking at you through my eyelids.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
She sat up suddenly and smiled at him. “Do you know what I like best about you?”
“What?” he said warily.
“It’s so easy to tease you!” She burst out laughing.
That night, as he caressed her, he whispered, “Could you really see me through your eyelids?”
“I see you every time I close my eyes,” she said. “Whether you are there or not.”
The idyll came to an abrupt end on the sixth of November. On that day, Camillo and Pauline were married again, this time according to the laws of France. This wedding, too, was a small family affair. Napoleon had finally heard about the church wedding and stalked out of Paris in a huff, leaving Pauline and his mother to arrange the civil ceremony without him. Camillo was secretly relieved that the second wedding would not be an elaborate display; the engagement party hosted by Napoleon had been more than enough for him—a formal banquet for two hundred guests at the Tuileries. Pauline, however, was clearly out of sorts, pursing her lips during the ceremony and toying with her food at the meal that followed.
When she and Camillo at last retired to their room, she flung herself into a chair.
“I hate my brother,” she said, scowling. “Everything must be just as he says, just as he wants. His absence today is an insult to you and to me and to both of our families.”
“He is a general; there is a war underway. He was summoned to Boulogne,” Camillo said mildly.
The Princess of Nowhere Page 7
