by Zoë Archer
Marco only nodded politely when the whores threw their gaudy solicitations at him. He could never bring himself to pay for sex. Better to be alone than know that it was his coin that gave him entrance to a woman’s bed and body. Besides, he was here in this neighborhood to work, not sample its human wares.
“Only fifty francs, monsieur,” one teenaged prostitute cooed.
“Just one hundred, and I’ll let the pretty mademoiselle watch,” another whore trilled. “Unless the mademoiselle wants to do more than watch.”
A bright red stain rose on Bronwyn’s cheeks. She pressed closer to him as they walked. He didn’t want to feel Bronwyn’s slim curves snug against him, tempting him with what he couldn’t have. For now, at any rate. Perhaps later. For a brief time.
He ducked into a doorway with a sign advertising, cheekily, CONFISERIES ET FRIANDISES—confectionery and sweets—pulling aside the curtain to reveal the darkened interior.
More women were here. Most of them in their underwear and negligees, some idly strolling back and forth across a shabby parlor, and others lounging on tattered chaises, reading periodicals or else staring into the air. One of the young women had her head in another’s lap, dozing lightly as her friend picked through her hair, pulling out lice and crushing the tiny insects between her fingernails.
Three men sat in the parlor, one with a girl beside him idly stroking her fingers beneath his open shirt, and the other two were busy playing cards with a couple of whores.
A man in a bright waistcoat and several layers of macassar oil on his hair approached. He glanced at Bronwyn curiously, but directed his question to Marco. “What pleasures would you like, monsieur?” he asked in French. “The confectionery caters to all appetites.”
“No pleasure but to find that rotten brother-in-law of mine,” Marco said stiffly, also in French. He let himself visibly tremble with outrage. “He isn’t my brother-in-law yet, not with the way he carries on at places like this.”
“August doesn’t know any better,” Bronwyn immediately said, speaking the same language. “You mustn’t be too harsh with him, Philippe.”
Brava ragazza. She didn’t miss a moment.
“That’s why we’re in this blasted mess—because no one in your family ever took that brat in hand.” He turned a put-upon gaze toward the pimp. “Her father insists we cannot marry”—he gave the word aggrieved emphasis—“until her brother is found and cleaned of his addiction to … to…” As if too ashamed to say the word, he only glanced at the bored prostitutes. A few of the women watched the scene unfolding with slight interest, since it was clear ladies like Bronwyn made infrequent appearances at Rue Saint-Denis brothels.
“To my beautiful girls?” the pimp asked with a smirk.
“Poor fallen souls,” Bronwyn murmured piously, almost making Marco smile. “Perhaps August merely wants to guide them in the path of righteousness.”
The pimp and some of the prostitutes laughed. Bronwyn looked mystified at their snide laughter, playing her part so well Marco would’ve thought her born to deceive.
“If this paragon of morality does spread his gospel here,” the procurer said, “why should I tell you? He could be one of my best customers.”
A hundred-franc coin suddenly appeared between Marco’s fingers. The pimp’s eyes rounded with greed.
“What does honorable August look like?” he asked, pocketing the coin quickly.
Bronwyn described Devere. The procurer sighed in a sham of sadness.
“Alas, mademoiselle, that chaste man hasn’t been shepherding my girls along the way of righteous living.”
“You aren’t protecting him, are you?” Marco demanded. “Pocket the money I gave you then tell that whoremongering cub we’re looking for him so he goes underground.”
Bronwyn gasped at his coarse language, as she was supposed to, but Marco assumed a man suffering from a case of swollen bollocks would be near his breaking point, and unable to stop himself from swearing.
“Let me think…” The pimp stroked his mustache, then stopped when another one-hundred-franc coin appeared between Marco’s fingers. He reached for the money, but Marco held it out of his grasp. “No, monsieur, I haven’t seen him.”
“Has he been in Rue Saint-Denis at all?” Bronwyn pressed.
“If he has,” the procurer said, “I haven’t seen him. Girls? Anyone see the gent the lady described?”
A tired chorus of “No” rose up from the prostitutes. Their pimp turned back to Marco and Bronwyn with a shrug.
“So sorry,” he said without any sincerity.
Marco tossed him the coin, which the procurer caught the way a snake would catch a rat. “There’s more if you do find him. Send a telegraph to the station at Boulevard des Capucines, and if your claim’s substantiated, I can promise you three times what I’ve paid you today.”
“More,” Bronwyn added. She sent Marco a melting glance that was so full of heat and promise, his groin actually tightened, though his brain knew it was all part of the role she played. “This waiting is intolerable.”
“I understand the burning urges of young love.” The pimp gave another mournful sigh that surprised Marco with its sincerity.
“What would you know of the purity of our feelings?” Bronwyn sniffed.
A cynical smile twisted the procurer’s mouth. “Nothing pure about anyone’s feelings, mademoiselle. Here’s a surprise for you—once, I wasn’t the old panderer you see before you. No, I was a young man with ambitions, dreams of love. That bitch called the world sends all bright plans to hell.”
“I…” The mask fell away from Bronwyn’s face for a moment, showing true regret. “I’m sorry.”
The pimp laughed again, brittle as frost. “Tears aren’t for me, mademoiselle. I may have lost my love, but I’m surrounded every day by beautiful, adoring women. Isn’t that so, girls?” The last question was given with an edge of threat.
“Yes,” and “Without a doubt,” the prostitutes answered.
“Remember, send a telegraph to Philippe Durant at Boulevard des Capucines if you see my future brother-in-law,” Marco said.
The procurer bowed. “Of course, monsieur. And if you need a place to ease some of the pressure until the wedding…”
With a huff of outrage, Marco stormed from the brothel, Bronwyn at his side. They emerged onto the street, where still more prostitutes called out their offers.
“At least we know he hasn’t spent my money on … that.” Bronwyn nodded toward the brothel. “If I knew I’d lost everything just so Devere could disport himself the way they did in those French postcards, I’d find him and use my new pugilism skills on his bland, moronic face.”
Her passion and fire grew from moment to moment. They were just as perilous as the mission was certain to become. More so. He could predict and plan the job.
* * *
Ushering Bronwyn into a cab, Marco called up to the driver, “Montmartre.”
She glanced over her shoulder, a pulse of shock moving through her. “Even I’ve heard of that place. Rather bohemian, isn’t it?”
“If by bohemian,” he said, “you mean it’s populated by writers, artists, prostitutes, dancers, thieves, addicts, and sundry riffraff, then yes, it’s that.”
By the time the cab reached the construction site of the new Sacré Coeur basilica, dusk had fallen over Montmartre, and gas lamps glimmered to life. The steeply canted streets were thronged with people the likes of which Bronwyn had never seen. Artists had proudly paint-stained fingers and shoes, and wore bright but shabby waistcoats and deliberately careless cravats. The painters wore their hair in long waves that brushed their shoulders, and draped themselves over café chairs to argue things that had to be very important, the way they waved their hands and pounded the tiny tables.
As Marco led her through the winding avenues, she soaked in the atmosphere of this wild place, so removed from the strictures and tight vises of society’s expectations. If anything, the citoyens of Montmartre reveled
in their outlandishness, laughing wildly, walking arm in arm with friends, and gesturing with bottles of wine.
“Is he drunk?” she asked as they passed a staggering man wearing a wide-sleeved shirt and hazy expression.
“Opium,” Marco answered. “The substance of choice for poets.”
“I wonder if his poetry is any good,” she murmured.
“Doubtful, if he needs opium to access his muse.”
A corner of her mouth turned up. “A literary critic, too!”
He made a rather rude noise. “Don’t know an iamb from a dactyl, but I know people. Everyone’s got their diavoli, chasing them, and everyone’s got a different way to keep those devils at bay. Our poetic friend loves the idea of being a poet, but he hasn’t got the talent he desperately wants, so a few draws on the pipe and he’s the next Baudelaire.”
She studied Marco, not the poet, since he was far more fascinating than the other. “It frightens me a little, how much you can see.”
He shrugged his shoulders, causing the fabric to pull across his lean muscles in an intriguing way. There really was nothing quite so pleasurable as a well-tailored suit on an able-bodied, fit man. And one who was so astute fascinated her even more.
“Always been in my nature,” he said. “It wasn’t Nemesis or my intelligence work that made me this way. All I have to do is look at someone, and it’s like they turn into a book. Sometimes the book is in another language, but soon enough I can translate it.”
She gave a shudder. “I’d hate to think of what you read in me.” She could already guess—naïve, unsophisticated, privileged.
But the look he gave her was far from dismissive. Something that came perilously close to respect shone in his dark eyes. “Your book keeps changing. It’s being written with every step you take, every procurer you fool.”
Shock still reverberated through her at what she’d seen. She knew such places existed, even in London, but it was a far different thing to actually be in one, and see the women who worked there. “People dream of traveling to Paris, and one of the first attractions you take me to isn’t Notre Dame or the Tuileries, but a brothel.”
“Devere’s not the sort who’s interested in sightseeing,” he answered. “A man like him cares about three things: money, gambling, and women.”
They turned down another narrow street, and were confronted with a set of precipitous stairs. Marco seemed to know where they were headed, and she let him hold her a little more firmly as they made their way down the steps. His grip was warm and strong, steady.
She felt a stab of gratitude that the flight of stairs was so long and steep, giving him a reason to touch her firmly. Guilt, like an oily slick on a puddle, followed immediately after. She was still in mourning. Even if her marriage to Hugh hadn’t been ripe with physical passion, she ought to remain true to his memory.
But the tendrils of desire for Marco uncurled through her, like the tenderest shoots following a long winter. She was a young woman, healthy and in her prime. He was, as well. And with each passing moment, he revealed more of himself to her, drawing them closer together. It was only natural that she might want more than Marco’s hand on her.
She misjudged the next step, and pitched forward. Bracing herself for a long and painful tumble down the stairs, she blinked when she barely moved. Marco had moved fast as a cat, and now stood on the step in front of her, holding her steady in his arms. The position not only made her potently aware of the strength in his tight, sinewy body, and the feel of his muscles beneath his clothing, but it brought their faces close together. This close, she saw the slight bristle on his cheeks, and the curves of his lips.
If she were to lean forward only a few inches, she could put her mouth on his.
They balanced like that for a few moments, in the glare of a street lamp, suspended in a breathless point in time. She could only stare at him, her hands gripping his forearms. He stared back, his eyes hooded, expression taut.
Do it. Cross these inches between us and kiss me.
Instead, he set her carefully upright and moved with deliberate precision back to her side. He still held on to her arm, but it wasn’t quite the same. The disturbing mix of guilt and desire swirled through her.
At last they reached the bottom of the stairs, and turned right down a café-lined street. After the sudden intimacy and heightened senses during the moment on the steps, the noise tumbling from the cafés blared painfully, and she shrank back from them.
But he pulled her relentlessly onward, until they reached one establishment called Le Perroquet Bleu. Tables spilled out onto the sidewalk, with a striped awning overhead. Colored lanterns hung from the awning, casting bright spots onto the patrons and the pavement. Banquettes lined the interior walls with bentwood tables and chairs arranged in front of them. Longer tables had been arranged in the center of the bright room. Mirrors hung on the walls, making the crowded space seem both bigger and also more thronged with men and, to her shock, women. And these women did not have the look of the prostitutes in Rue Saint-Denis. They were fairly respectably dressed, but drank and laughed just as freely as the men. As if they deserved their freedom. As if it were their right to be out in the world, rather than confined in the approved, narrow spaces designated by society.
It looked terrifying. It looked wonderful.
In the midst of this bohemian chaos, Marco managed to find them a table against the banquette. A waiter in a white apron and harried expression came over.
“Two absinthes,” Marco said.
Bronwyn raised her brows as the waiter hastened off to get their drinks. “Trying to drive me mad?”
“It’s not half as dangerous as people believe.” He stretched out his arm along the back of the banquette. “Besides, you’ve never had absinthe before. Today’s a good day to try. Your first brothel. Your first absinthe.”
She wasn’t surprised that he knew she’d never tried the drink, rumored to make people have strange and ornate visions.
He continued, “The widow I met in London isn’t the same woman who sits in front of me now.”
“Because I’m out of my weeds,” she noted.
“Partly. But some of the fear’s left your eyes, too. The set of your shoulders is straighter. So it seemed the right time to try something different from what you’ve known.”
He wanted her to explore. Encouraged it. How … unexpected … that he should care, given how confined she’d been for … her whole life.
“Aside from sampling the fabled drink,” she said, “what are we doing here?”
“Devere doesn’t visit brothels because he probably can’t afford all but the cheapest ones, which a man of his station would probably avoid. Even a dunce like him knows those prostitutes are likely to pick his pocket when he’s sleeping afterward.”
Would there ever be a point when she could talk about things of a carnal nature as candidly as Marco? They came from such separate worlds.
“Those women are likely rather … unhealthy,” she added.
“They get blamed for spreading disease,” he said, “but it’s their customers who bring the sickness to the women, then take it home and give syphilis to their wives. And their unborn children.”
Had Hugh been one of those men? Was she even now carrying the disease within her and didn’t know it?
“You’d realize by now if you were sick,” Marco said, as if reading her thoughts. Uncanny, this man. But it was a relief to know that, even if Hugh had visited a prostitute—the idea making her feel truly unwell—she was safe from illness.
“But Devere won’t go to that class of brothel,” Marco continued. “So he’d come to a place like this.” He gestured toward the lively café around them. “There’s female company available, and it’s not of the commercial variety.”
Turning in her seat, she surveyed the café. True to Marco’s words, women sitting alone or with groups of friends smiled and flirted with men. They touched the men’s arms, or stroked coquettish fingers along m
en’s faces and down their chests. For their part, the gentlemen leaned close and whispered things in the women’s ears that made them giggle. And if Bronwyn’s eyes didn’t deceive her, there was a gingery man in the corner sliding his hand along a blond woman’s thigh.
Sensual possibility hung ripe in the air, making the café warm and sultry, despite the cool evening.
She glanced back at Marco. He wasn’t watching the room as much as he watched her, focused intently on her face, her mouth. The moment on the stairs flashed through her mind. Was he thinking the same thing? Had he wanted to kiss her as much as she’d wanted him to?
The waiter appeared, breaking the spell. He set two glasses holding measures of green liquid in front of them, along with two slotted spoons, a bowl of sugar cubes, and a carafe of what appeared to be plain ice water. The waiter hurried off again.
“It seems rather complicated,” she murmured, examining all the paraphernalia on their table.
“If a painter can do it, anyone can. First, take the spoon and lay it across the top of your glass. Make sure the slotted part is over the absinthe,” he cautioned, as she followed his instructions. “Put a sugar cube on the spoon. Good. Now pour the water over the sugar cube. You’re looking for three to five parts water to one part absinthe. Excellent,” he commended as she continued the process.
“Oh, my,” she exclaimed. The green liquid turned white and cloudy.
“That’s called louche.”
“Shady,” she translated. “Like the people who drink it.”
“Including us.” He followed the same procedure with the sugar cube and the water, and soon they both had glasses of milky, anise-scented liquid in front of them. Lifting his glass, he said, “Salute.”
“To your very good health.” She clinked her glass against his, their gazes holding, then took a sip. She expected the drink to taste strong and bitter, but the surprisingly pleasant herbaceous flavor coated her tongue and warmed her throat.
She started to take another drink—a bigger one this time.
“Slowly, my good widow,” he said. “It might not be the madness-inducing danger everyone claims it to be, but it’s still alcohol, and I need your wits sharp.”
