Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  And now let us leave Mademoiselle Danglars and her friend pursuing their way to Brussels, and return to poor Andrea Cavalcanti, so inopportunely interrupted in his rise to fortune. Notwithstanding his youth, Master Andrea was a very skilful and intelligent boy. We have seen that on the first rumor which reached the salon he had gradually approached the door, and crossing two or three rooms at last disappeared. But we have forgotten to mention one circumstance, which nevertheless ought not to be omitted; in one of the rooms he crossed, the trousseau of the bride-elect was on exhibition. There were caskets of diamonds, cashmere shawls, Valenciennes lace, English veilings, and in fact all the tempting things, the bare mention of which makes the hearts of young girls bound with joy, and which is called the “corbeille.” Now, in passing through this room, Andrea proved himself not only to be clever and intelligent, but also provident, for he helped himself to the most valuable of the ornaments before him.

  Furnished with this plunder, Andrea leaped with a lighter heart from the window, intending to slip through the hands of the gendarmes. Tall and well proportioned as an ancient gladiator, and muscular as a Spartan, he walked for a quarter of an hour without knowing where to direct his steps, actuated by the sole idea of getting away from the spot where if he lingered he knew that he would surely be taken. Having passed through the Rue Mont Blanc, guided by the instinct which leads thieves always to take the safest path, he found himself at the end of the Rue Lafayette. There he stopped, breathless and panting. He was quite alone; on one side was the vast wilderness of the Saint-Lazare, on the other, Paris enshrouded in darkness. “Am I to be captured?” he cried; “no, not if I can use more activity than my enemies. My safety is now a mere question of speed.” At this moment he saw a cab at the top of the Faubourg Poissonniere. The dull driver, smoking his pipe, was plodding along toward the limits of the Faubourg Saint-Denis, where no doubt he ordinarily had his station. “Ho, friend!” said Benedetto.

  “What do you want, sir?” asked the driver.

  “Is your horse tired?”

  “Tired? oh, yes, tired enough—he has done nothing the whole of this blessed day! Four wretched fares, and twenty sous over, making in all seven francs, are all that I have earned, and I ought to take ten to the owner.”

  “Will you add these twenty francs to the seven you have?”

  “With pleasure, sir; twenty francs are not to be despised. Tell me what I am to do for this.”

  “A very easy thing, if your horse isn’t tired.”

  “I tell you he’ll go like the wind,—only tell me which way to drive.”

  “Towards the Louvres.”

  “Ah, I know the way—you get good sweetened rum over there.”

  “Exactly so; I merely wish to overtake one of my friends, with whom I am going to hunt tomorrow at Chapelle-en-Serval. He should have waited for me here with a cabriolet till half-past eleven; it is twelve, and, tired of waiting, he must have gone on.”

  “It is likely.”

  “Well, will you try and overtake him?”

  “Nothing I should like better.”

  “If you do not overtake him before we reach Bourget you shall have twenty francs; if not before Louvres, thirty.”

  “And if we do overtake him?”

  “Forty,” said Andrea, after a moment’s hesitation, at the end of which he remembered that he might safely promise. “That’s all right,” said the man; “hop in, and we’re off! Who-o-o-p, la!”

  Andrea got into the cab, which passed rapidly through the Faubourg Saint-Denis, along the Faubourg Saint-Martin, crossed the barrier, and threaded its way through the interminable Villette. They never overtook the chimerical friend, yet Andrea frequently inquired of people on foot whom he passed and at the inns which were not yet closed, for a green cabriolet and bay horse; and as there are a great many cabriolets to be seen on the road to the Low Countries, and as nine-tenths of them are green, the inquiries increased at every step. Every one had just seen it pass; it was only five hundred, two hundred, one hundred steps in advance; at length they reached it, but it was not the friend. Once the cab was also passed by a calash rapidly whirled along by two posthorses. “Ah,” said Cavalcanti to himself, “if I only had that britzska, those two good posthorses, and above all the passport that carries them on!” And he sighed deeply. The calash contained Mademoiselle Danglars and Mademoiselle d’Armilly. “Hurry, hurry!” said Andrea, “we must overtake him soon.” And the poor horse resumed the desperate gallop it had kept up since leaving the barrier, and arrived steaming at Louvres.

  “Certainly,” said Andrea, “I shall not overtake my friend, but I shall kill your horse, therefore I had better stop. Here are thirty francs; I will sleep at the Red Horse, and will secure a place in the first coach. Goodnight, friend.” And Andrea, after placing six pieces of five francs each in the man’s hand, leaped lightly on to the pathway. The cabman joyfully pocketed the sum, and turned back on his road to Paris. Andrea pretended to go towards the Red Horse inn, but after leaning an instant against the door, and hearing the last sound of the cab, which was disappearing from view, he went on his road, and with a lusty stride soon traversed the space of two leagues. Then he rested; he must be near Chapelle-en-Serval, where he pretended to be going. It was not fatigue that stayed Andrea here; it was that he might form some resolution, adopt some plan. It would be impossible to make use of a diligence, equally so to engage posthorses; to travel either way a passport was necessary. It was still more impossible to remain in the department of the Oise, one of the most open and strictly guarded in France; this was quite out of the question, especially to a man like Andrea, perfectly conversant with criminal matters.

  He sat down by the side of the moat, buried his face in his hands and reflected. Ten minutes after he raised his head; his resolution was made. He threw some dust over the topcoat, which he had found time to unhook from the antechamber and button over his ball costume, and going to Chapelle-en-Serval he knocked loudly at the door of the only inn in the place. The host opened. “My friend,” said Andrea, “I was coming from Montefontaine to Senlis, when my horse, which is a troublesome creature, stumbled and threw me. I must reach Compiegne tonight, or I shall cause deep anxiety to my family. Could you let me hire a horse of you?”

  An innkeeper has always a horse to let, whether it be good or bad. The host called the stable boy, and ordered him to saddle “Whitey,” then he awoke his son, a child of seven years, whom he ordered to ride before the gentleman and bring back the horse. Andrea gave the innkeeper twenty francs, and in taking them from his pocket dropped a visiting card. This belonged to one of his friends at the Cafe de Paris, so that the innkeeper, picking it up after Andrea had left, was convinced that he had let his horse to the Count of Mauleon, 25 Rue Saint-Dominique, that being the name and address on the card. “Whitey” was not a fast animal, but he kept up an easy, steady pace; in three hours and a half Andrea had traversed the nine leagues which separated him from Compiegne, and four o’clock struck as he reached the place where the coaches stop. There is an excellent tavern at Compiegne, well remembered by those who have ever been there. Andrea, who had often stayed there in his rides about Paris, recollected the Bell and Bottle inn; he turned around, saw the sign by the light of a reflected lamp, and having dismissed the child, giving him all the small coin he had about him, he began knocking at the door, very reasonably concluding that having now three or four hours before him he had best fortify himself against the fatigues of the morrow by a sound sleep and a good supper. A waiter opened the door.

  “My friend,” said Andrea, “I have been dining at Saint-Jean-au-Bois, and expected to catch the coach which passes by at midnight, but like a fool I have lost my way, and have been walking for the last four hours in the forest. Show me into one of those pretty little rooms which overlook the court, and bring me a cold fowl and a bottle of Bordeaux.” The waiter had no suspicions; Andrea spoke with perfect composure, he had a cigar in his mouth, and his hands in the pocket of his top coat
; his clothes were fashionably made, his chin smooth, his boots irreproachable; he looked merely as if he had stayed out very late, that was all. While the waiter was preparing his room, the hostess arose; Andrea assumed his most charming smile, and asked if he could have No. 3, which he had occupied on his last stay at Compiegne. Unfortunately, No. 3 was engaged by a young man who was travelling with his sister. Andrea appeared in despair, but consoled himself when the hostess assured him that No. 7, prepared for him, was situated precisely the same as No. 3, and while warming his feet and chatting about the last races at Chantilly, he waited until they announced his room to be ready.

  Andrea had not spoken without cause of the pretty rooms looking out upon the court of the Bell Tavern, which with its triple galleries like those of a theatre, with the jessamine and clematis twining round the light columns, forms one of the prettiest entrances to an inn that you can imagine. The fowl was tender, the wine old, the fire clear and sparkling, and Andrea was surprised to find himself eating with as good an appetite as though nothing had happened.

  To his surprise the hostess herself came to his room to ensure his service was to his satisfaction.

  “My lord, do you find the lodging to your liking? Is everyone meeting all of your needs?”

  The hostess shifted to display her womanly assets to the greatest advantage and Andrea found that his stay was about to gain significantly from his last visit.

  “Madam, do you wish to join me for my meal?”

  She cast her eyes down as if she might shy away from him but still she sat next to Andrea and continued to display all her wares.

  She ate nothing and Andrea was content to watch her. The hostess was older, not a maiden most certainly but not so old that her experiences had begun to sour. Her curves were displayed artfully and without the censure of the young or naive.

  Once Andrea finished his meal the hostess poured some more of the excellent wine and resumed her seat as if waiting for Andrea’s explicit invitation.

  “Madam, might I interest you in dessert?”

  Knowing full well the house did not serve dessert at this hour it was enough to allow the lady the permission she needed to initiate something further between them.

  She inclined her head before sliding from the bench onto the floor. She lifted her skirts in order to maneuver into the space he created between his legs.

  Andrea always found it fascinating; the way the female sex could excite a man with a simple action. A lady on her knees always served toward that end for him.

  She deftly opened his trousers and released his growing manhood to her view. When her eyes widened appreciatively he trailed his hand down her cheek. Small wrinkles lined her eyes and the corners of her mouth but did nothing to detract from her beauty. Age was always an admirable thing on a woman as long as she remained amenable to all things that kept people young.

  “Taste it,”

  The women wasted no time dipping her head in order to close the distance between her mouth and his erect phallus. Each expert pull of her lips surprised and served to push him toward completion. The woman was no maiden nor was she innocent in the art of fellatio, a skill the brothels of France excelled in.

  She lifted her face after a few agonizingly sweet moments, in which Andrea spent in abject self-control, and asked, “Does this meet with your approval, my lord?”

  He groaned an incoherent sound and the woman continued her service of him.

  She enticed and allured with every sensual curve and he briefly mused on how much it might cost to have her in his bed for the few hours he would be at the inn.

  The lady bent at the waist in order to push out her bottom enticingly. Andrea accepted the bait and smoothed a hand down the lady’s curved back to cup her small but shapely bottom. Her moan of appreciation was all the encouragement Andrea needed.

  He gently pulled her mouth from his person and cupping her bottom easily lifted her onto his lap. An appreciation of ladies undergarments had long been a hobby of Andrea’s but the obvious fact that the lady wore no undergarments increased his arousal tenfold.

  It was an easy enough maneuver to position the lady exactly where she might be most useful. Suddenly, it occurred to Andrea he didn’t even know the name of his hostess.

  “I feel, as a gentleman, I should know your name before we might be further acquainted,” Andrea said as he smoothed an errant lock of hair from the lady’s forehead.

  “A gentleman? I don’t believe I’ve had one of those before. My name is Meggiry.”

  “Ah a lovely name. Now, back to business.”

  Andrea purposely did not supply his own name to his conquest and she being of some mind did not comment, but surely noticed.

  “My lady, tell me, how often do you find the opportunity to ride a horse?”

  “I can guess your meaning, my lord, if you shall allow me to position myself.”

  “Of course, Madam.”

  The conversation between the Meggiry and Andrea was perfectly cordial, almost as if they conversed about the weather or the state of the linens the inn used.

  She swiveled slightly before grasping his erection and sinking herself upon it expertly. Andrea smiled as the lady gripped his shoulders and began her ride. She took a hard and fast gait, one that would soon tire any of the equine race and Andrea found himself moving along with her, clutching her skirts around her hips as she rode.

  The lady had the seat of any experienced rider and Andrea was surprised how fast she took him to the edge of pleasure. He held himself in check waiting for indications the lady was close to her own precipice. Service or not he wanted her experience to be as enjoyable as his, just as a matter of pride.

  Meggiry’s pace quickened and Andrea just held on and let the lady take them both where they would eventually end up.

  “Love, are you close to your own end?”

  Andrea loved a woman who had no qualms about speaking to a man thus.

  “Yes, I am simply waiting for you.”

  Her brow furrowed as she took in his words and then she closed her eyes and rode him to her own completion. Each breath was heavy and hot against his ear and it was only a matter of seconds after she finished before he followed suit.

  She slowed her own pace and took them back from the edge. Andrea’s body was a mass of muscle and bone melted into a blissful heap. He could not have possibly moved if King himself stormed in and commanded it.

  After a length of time passed he gained the use of his limbs again and gently helped the lady up. She stood and swiftly kissed his cheek. He smiled and stood, stretching his legs as he closed his pants.

  “Madame Meggiry, it’s been a true pleasure now I must get some sleep.”

  He gave her a slight bow and she blushed before smiling, picking up the remainder of his dinner, and left.

  Andrea went to bed and almost immediately fell into that deep sleep which is sure to visit men of twenty years of age, even when they are torn with remorse. Now, here we are obliged to own that Andrea ought to have felt remorse, but that he did not. This was the plan, which had appealed to him to afford the best chance of his security. Before daybreak he would awake, leave the inn after rigorously paying his bill, and reaching the forest, he would, under pretence of making studies in painting, test the hospitality of some peasants, procure himself the dress of a woodcutter and a hatchet, casting off the lion’s skin to assume that of the woodman; then, with his hands covered with dirt, his hair darkened by means of a leaden comb, his complexion embrowned with a preparation for which one of his old comrades had given him the recipe, he intended, by following the wooded districts, to reach the nearest frontier, walking by night and sleeping in the day in the forests and quarries, and only entering inhabited regions to buy a loaf from time to time.

  Once past the frontier, Andrea proposed making money of his diamonds; and by uniting the proceeds to ten banknotes he always carried about with him in case of accident, he would then find himself possessor of about 50,000 livres, which
he philosophically considered as no very deplorable condition after all. Moreover, he reckoned much on the interest of the Danglars to hush up the rumor of their own misadventures. These were the reasons which, added to the fatigue, caused Andrea to sleep so soundly. In order that he might awaken early he did not close the shutters, but contented himself with bolting the door and placing on the table an unclasped and long-pointed knife, whose temper he well knew, and which was never absent from him. About seven in the morning Andrea was awakened by a ray of sunlight, which played, warm and brilliant, upon his face. In all well-organized brains, the predominating idea—and there always is one—is sure to be the last thought before sleeping, and the first upon waking in the morning. Andrea had scarcely opened his eyes when his predominating idea presented itself, and whispered in his ear that he had slept too long. He jumped out of bed and ran to the window. A gendarme was crossing the court. A gendarme is one of the most striking objects in the world, even to a man void of uneasiness; but for one who has a timid conscience, and with good cause too, the yellow, blue, and white uniform is really very alarming.

  “Why is that gendarme there?” asked Andrea of himself. Then, all at once, he replied, with that logic which the reader has, doubtless, remarked in him, “There is nothing astonishing in seeing a gendarme at an inn; instead of being astonished, let me dress myself.” And the youth dressed himself with a facility his valet de chambre had failed to rob him of during the two months of fashionable life he had led in Paris. “Now then,” said Andrea, while dressing himself, “I’ll wait till he leaves, and then I’ll slip away.” And, saying this, Andrea, who had now put on his boots and cravat, stole gently to the window, and a second time lifted up the muslin curtain. Not only was the first gendarme still there, but the young man now perceived a second yellow, blue, and white uniform at the foot of the staircase, the only one by which he could descend, while a third, on horseback, holding a musket in his fist, was posted as a sentinel at the great street door which alone afforded the means of egress.