I squirmed under him and said breathlessly, “Oh, Monsieur—do not!—what are you?—oh!” He stopped my mouth with persistent kisses and caresses until he felt me relax again.
“I want you. I want to see you.”
His voice was hoarse. I heard it only faintly, as if from a long distance. A heaviness seized me. I felt that I couldn’t move my limbs, that I couldn’t raise my head. He undressed me with the gentlest care, and I uttered not a syllable of protest. I was floating on a buoyant cloud of champagne and desire, and I wanted to be lifted higher, still higher. And Seth was like a relentless tide; I didn’t have the strength or the wits or the will to resist him.
I lay naked under him. He was naked, too, looking massive and bronzed in the lamplight. He ran his great hands over my body. I lifted my eyes to his face and touched his cheek very lightly with my fingertips. I was too embarrassed to look lower. One glimpse of the heavy swollen member jutting out from between his legs had confused and shamed me.
“Are you afraid, Gypsy?” he whispered.
“Will you hurt me, like my uncle?” I asked.
“What if I did?” He buried his fingers in my hair and moved his lips over my throat. “Would you cry?”
“You know I would not. I am Gypsy.”
His embraces became rougher, his kisses more demanding. I could feel the tension and desire in him and it made me dizzy. The tendons in his neck were like tightly drawn cords. A fine mist of perspiration covered his forehead and upper chest. His lips seared my flesh wherever they touched. They were hot and biting and painful, and I was reminded of a hungry wolf attacking a fallen reindeer.
My body was glowing, yearning for him. Gently I urged him upwards and held him close and kissed him as he wanted to be kissed. He parted my thighs and slid that terrible swollen appendage into my deepest darkness, and I felt no pain, only wonder that I could bear the whole weight of his body on mine and feel no discomfort.
Ah, I wanted to make him happy, to make him love me. Although I felt a bit overwhelmed by his size and power and hunger, I wasn’t frightened. This wasn’t like that time in Moscow, with Alexei. Then I had wanted to break free, to escape, but now I wanted never to break free. I could feel his passion building and building, and I wanted nothing more in the world than to satisfy him and to please him. He taught me his rhythm and we moved together, surging and rising and falling as though we were being borne along on the same waves in the same sea of pleasure.
Our motion grew more violent. Finally, with a great shuddering sigh, he gripped my hips and released his power. Then he lay still, breathing hard, while his heart pounded like a horse at gallop.
I gazed at him, lying so close to me with his eyes closed. Two tears slid down my cheeks. I wasn’t crying, really. He hadn’t hurt me and I was not sorry for what I had done. We were not married but I was certain that we would be, very soon. But I was so awed by the enormous power that had possessed him, that had possessed us both, that I could not hold those tears back. I held him close and smoothed the hair away from his forehead and kissed him softly. I even felt a little proud of myself, as though I had single-handedly managed to tame a ferocious beast. In a sense, that is exactly what I had done.
He stirred and opened his eyes. “Well?” he said. “Did you like it?”
“Oh, yes,” I said reverently. “Yes. It wasn’t like— when my uncle Alexei—you know. It was wonderful. You are wonderful. My Seth.” I sighed regretfully. “I am sorry that I wasn’t a virgin for you, Seth.”
“I’m not,” he grunted. “Virginity is more of a nuisance than anything else.”
I felt a little shocked by this attitude but I said nothing. Perhaps civilized people felt differently about this than Gypsies. No Gypsy would marry a girl who had belonged to another man. On the morning after the wedding night, the Gypsy bridegroom carries the stained sheets from the marriage bed to his family, to show them that his wife was truly an honorable girl. But apparently Seth didn’t demand that his wife be a virgin. I was glad.
“And this, this is what married people do?” I asked. “It’s not all they do,” he said with a short laugh. “There are infinite permutations and combinations.”
Those big words meant nothing to me and I didn’t ask him to explain. There would be time later, I reasoned. Lots of time. I felt sleepy and happy. And loved.
6
Wisdom Gained
I STOPPED IN the middle of the curving staircase. A bald-headed man was on his knees on the black and white marble, picking up scattered pearls. He looked up.
“Oh? Ah.” He got to his feet. He was wearing a long black apron over black trousers and a white shirt. A butler. “Good morning, Mademoiselle.”
I came down the stairs slowly, holding the banister tightly. Bright sunlight streamed in through the long windows near the front doors. I shaded my eyes and blinked rapidly.
“Good morning,” I said. My voice sounded faint and far away in my ears. “Can you—can you tell me where I am, Monsieur?”
“Where? But you are in the house of Monsieur Seth Garrett, Mademoiselle,” said the man politely. His tone implied that I should have known that much.
“Yes, yes,” I said a trifle impatiently. “But I don’t know where it is, where the house is located. I must go back—”
“Ah.” His face showed comprehension. “I will call Boucher, the coachman. He will take you home, Mademoiselle. If you will wait just a few minutes?” He nodded at a straight-backed chair that stood against the curving wall, then he went out.
I sighed and sat down heavily on the bottom step. My head was aching horribly and I felt slightly nauseous. A quiver of apprehension travelled through me, making me feel even worse. I thought about the naked man I had left sleeping upstairs. I remembered my shamelessness the night before and I closed my eyes to the picture. We had made love twice more: once before we slept and again at dawn. Then Seth had slept again and I had lain awake and thought and thought. I felt some elation, a little regret, and a great deal of surprise at the speed with which it had all happened. I needed to go to Madame Odette at once, to explain. Of course I would live with her until the wedding—to do otherwise would be most improper. Ah, there was so much to think about and my head throbbed so painfully—.
After a while I heard the rumble of wheels on cobblestones. The butler reappeared. “The carriage is ready. Mademoiselle. This way, if you please?”
He opened the front doors and followed me out of the house. The carriage was waiting at the end of the path. I remembered the coachman from the night before, but barely. I saw him and the butler exchange glances. I thought they were staring at my loose hair. I would have braided it and pinned it up, but I seemed to have lost all my hairpins, and I didn’t really want to think about where they had gone.
Boucher opened the door for me and assisted me into the carriage, and I gave him Madame Odette’s address on the Rue de Vaugirard. When I looked back at the house, I saw the butler standing on the path, shaking his head sadly.
Marie-Claire opened the door to me. She gave me a sour look and said, “She’s still in bed. She doesn’t want to see you.”
“Oh. I knew she would be angry—. I must see her, Marie-Claire. I want to explain.”
The maid sniffed. “It’s going to take a lot of explaining. I’ve never seen her like this before. Just don’t be surprised if she throws something at you.”
I picked up my skirts and walked slowly up the stairs to Madame Odette’s room. I found her propped up in bed, and her face looked drawn and pasty under her vivid red hair. I had never known her to look so old, and so weary.
Before I could open my mouth she snapped, “Get out! I never want to see you again!”
“Oh, Madame,” I said softly, approaching the bed. “I know you are angry, but I have such good news! I am to be married, just as we planned!”
“I don’t care what you do!” Tears of anger and sorrow coursed down her wrinkled cheeks. She didn’t bother to wipe them away. “I don�
�t want to hear what you did or where you went or what new shame you have brought upon me. I just don’t want to know! You abandoned me last night. After your disgraceful performance I went upstairs to lie down, and you never once came to inquire about me. You are selfish! All you cared about was having a good time and creating—scandal! I heard about what you and that miserable scamp Seth Garrett did to Simone and Pierre Delacroix. Are you mad? Didn’t I tell you over and over again until I was hoarse that you had to watch your behavior every minute? And what happened? You made a scene, disgraced yourself, and if that wasn’t bad enough, you ran off with that scoundrel, that vagabond, that immoral—cad!”
My mouth felt dry. “But I thought—he was your friend.”
“Friend? That man? Do you think he inflicted you upon me because he was fond of me? He doesn’t care about anyone, that man. He is as cruel and cold and vicious as anyone I’ve ever known.”
“Oh, no!” I cried. “He was very kind to me, very kind! He—we are going to be married!”
Madame Odette looked at my happy, hopeful face. “Oh, you little fool,” she said. “Did he tell you that? Did he ask you to marry him?” I opened my mouth but no sound came out.
“I thought not! He ruined you, and you’re stupid enough to think that being used and disgraced is tantamount to a marriage proposal! You are worse than a fool! You have managed to wreck whatever chance you might have had to make a good match. Do you think that anyone will want you now, after you have been soiled and discarded by the most notorious womanizer in Paris?”
“But—you never told me,” I said weakly. “You—he said—I thought he was your friend! You are wrong about him, Madame! He is not—what you say!”
But as I said those words a picture flashed into my mind: Seth Garrett, naked, pounding at the wriggling, squealing landlord’s wife. I felt sick.
“He is everything I say and more!” the woman said with heat. Her old fingers plucked at the coverlet on her lap. “And if you think that all of Paris isn’t talking about what you did last night—! Well, you are his whore now. I want nothing more to do with you. I never want to see you again! Leave my house at once! Your lover will take you in. He’ll have to. And do you know what will happen to you then? He will use you. He will spend your youth and beauty freely, until they are gone. And then he’ll throw you out. Into the gutter, back where you came from. He did it to Simone, and to I don’t know how many others, and he’ll do it to you. You think you’re any different? You think he loves you? He’s laughing at you this very minute, because you were simple-minded enough and stupid enough to fall into his snare. No decent man will want you now that he’s ruined you! Little Gypsy fool. And I’m—I’m not sorry!”
“Madame,” 1 said sorrowfully. I sat on the edge of the bed and touched her hand. “You are wrong, I know it. He is not like that! He will do the honorable thing, I know he will.”
Madame Odette snorted and jerked her hand away. She turned her head on her lace-edged pillow and said in a dull, dead voice, “Oh, get out. Take your things and leave this house. I wash my hands of you. You will never be anything but a dirty little Gypsy. I should have known it. Seth Garrett knew it, or he would not have used you as he did. Go!”
I stood and said, “I will take nothing from you. I came with nothing and I leave with nothing but the dress I am wearing. If I had my Gypsy rags, I would wear them.”
“Such pride!” sniffed Madame Odette without looking at me. “Hang on to it as long as you can, girl. When he’s through with you, you won’t even have pride to fall back on.
“Good-bye, Madame,” I said softly. “May God stay with you.”
She gave no sign that she heard me. She lay on her bed, defeated, a stalwart little galleon whose final voyage had ended in shipwreck.
I left the house without taking anything from my room and without saying a word to anyone. Marie-Claire watched with satisfaction as I came down the stairs and left the house. She closed the doors firmly behind me, and I heard her say tartly, “Good riddance!”
I walked up the Rue de Vaugirard to the Boulevard Saint-Michel, and I stood at the busy intersection for several minutes while the passers-by jostled and stared at me. To be sure, I was an odd sight that morning, in my sweeping ball gown that was already collecting grime from the streets, with my hair rippling around me like a madwoman’s. I had no money for a carriage. I would have to walk. Having only the vaguest notion of where I wanted to go, I followed the Seine, crossed the Pont Alexandre to the Right Bank, and headed west towards the Bois de Boulogne.
Many hours later, weary and dishevelled, I reached a street named the Rue de Montmorency and I recognized Seth’s house. I hadn’t seen anything of the neighborhood the night before, and that morning I had paid only scant attention to landmarks when Boucher drove me away. But after wandering aimlessly for half the morning, I finally found the place.
The house stood well back from the cobbled street. The lawns were spacious and well-manicured, and ancient trees lent generous shade. The structure was built of the same greyish stone as the Louvre, and like the Louvre it had a square mansard roof that was covered by scalloped grey slate shingles. The center portion of the house was three stories high, and it was flanked by two lower wings. Low black iron railings guarded all the windows except those on the first floor, which opened onto a brick terrace that ran around the entire building.
I lifted the brass knocker, a graceful thing in the shape of a woman’s hand. The highly polished oak doors flew open and I was confronted by the butler, now wearing a black coat and a black stock at his neck.
“Mademoiselle!” His eyes widened. He hesitated only a moment, then stepped back to allow me to enter.
“Where is Monsieur Garrett?” I asked.
“He—ah—if you would care to wait I will announce you. Mademoiselle, ah—?” He waited for me to supply my name.
“I will announce myself,” I said steadily. “Please tell me where I can find him. Is he in his room?”
I started towards the stairs. The man hurried after me. “No, wait, Mademoiselle. He is in the study, down here. If you will follow me?”
He passed through an elegant drawing room just off the foyer into a small, square, book-lined room. Seth sat in a leather chair with his feet propped up on a highly polished Louis XIV desk. He was smoking a cigar and reading a newspaper. A glass of whiskey stood at his elbow.
He looked up when I entered. “Oh.” He lifted one black eyebrow. “You’re still here? I thought you’d gone home.” He gazed at me briefly, taking in my less-than-elegant appearance, then gave his attention once more to the newspaper.
I looked around at the butler, who was standing silently behind me. He gave me a sympathetic look and backed out of the room, pulling the double doors closed as he went. “I have been home. To the Rue de Vaugirard, I mean.”
“Oh?” He turned the page and puffed his cigar.
I swallowed. “Madame Odette was very angry about last night. She told me to leave her house. I did not know where else to go, so I came here. She said that you—that you were not really her friend.”
“That’s too bad.” He didn’t look up.
“I must know, Seth,” I cried, stepping closer and resting the palms of my hands on the desk. “You are going— you will marry me, won’t you? Madame Odette said that you would not, but she was very upset, very angry. You will marry me, I know it!”
“Marry you?” He looked up. His expression was one of vague surprise. “Marry you?” he repeated. “Why on earth would I do that? Go back to Odette, Rhawnie. She’ll forgive and forget.”
“I do not understand,” I whispered through a tight throat. “After last night—”
“What about last night?” He sounded bored.
“You made love to me! We did—” I paused to moisten my lips, which felt numb and dry, “we did as married people do! Now we must marry! It is the honorable thing!”
Seth Garrett twisted his mouth into a pitying smile. “My dear little G
ypsy, I never do the honorable thing. Run along now, back to Odette.” He lifted the newspaper in front of his face, shutting himself away from me behind a wall of print that I could not, in my illiterate ignorance, penetrate.
Somewhere in the room a clock was ticking softly. Each stroke seemed to reverberate in my ears, louder and louder: dishonor, betrayal, disgrace. Dishonor. Betrayal. Disgrace. I couldn’t breathe. The room felt uncomfortably close and warm. My hands were heavy, leaden.
A brass paper knife lay on the desk, within my reach. I snatched it up, and holding it blade down, like a dagger, I threw myself at him over the top of the desk.
He was unprepared for my attack. The knife slashed through the newsprint. He moved his body out of the way, but not before the blade tore a hole in the soft black velvet jacket he was wearing. Then he grabbed my wrist and twisted until I dropped the knife. The chair fell over and we rolled on the floor. He pinned me under his body and rested the tip of the knife under my chin.
“Kill me now," I told him. “Kill me or I swear I will try this again, and the next time I will not fail.”
He glowered at me. Our postures were very like the ones we had assumed the night before, in love. But there was no love or desire between us now. Only fury and hatred.
“I am not afraid of your knife, gorgio,” I said, drawing my lips back from my teeth. “I am no coward. You are the coward. You! If I had a father or brothers to defend me, you would pay for what you have done!”
“Get up.” He tossed the knife aside and jerked me to my feet, keeping a tight hold on my arm.
The doors burst open and the butler said breathlessly, “Monsieur, are you all right? I heard—”
“Everything’s fine, Jules,” Seth said curtly. The anger left his eyes and a slow smile spread over his face. “Prepare a room for Mademoiselle. And send Boucher to the Rue de Vaugirard for her things. The old bitch won’t have any use for them.”
“Yes, Monsieur.” With a bow and a curious look at me, the butler left the room.
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