The Romance of Violette (vintage erotica) Page 7

  “He said it would be better for you to have three or four lovers than to do what you do when you are alone!”

  Florence pouted as if in disgust.

  “I do not like men!” said she, inhaling the perfume of the bouquet.

  “Will madame sit down while I pull off her stockings?” asked Mariette.

  Florence sat down without replying, her face almost hidden in the flowers.

  She allowed Mariette to take off her boots and wash her feet with perfumed water.

  “What scent will madame have in her bidet?”

  “The same. That which poor Denise liked so much. Do you know that I have now been faithful to her for six months?”

  “Yes; at the expense of your health.”

  “Oh! I think of her when I do that… and when the pleasure comes… murmur, 'Denise!… Denise!'…”

  “Will you say Denise again tonight?”

  “Hush!” said Florence smiling and putting a finger on her lips.

  “Does madame require anything else?”

  “No!”

  “If madame is unwell tomorrow, she will not say it is my fault?”

  “If tomorrow I am unwell I will not hold you responsible Mariette, I promise you. Good night, Marietta.”

  “Good night, madame.”

  And she made her exit grumbling the while like a spoiled maid, or worse still, like a maid in possession of all her mistress' secrets.

  When she was alone in front of her cheval glass, Florence listened till she no longer heard the retreating footsteps of her maid, then she went barefooted and on tiptoe to fasten the bolt of her bedroom door. She then returned to the looking glass, read again the note of the Countess, kissed it, and laid it on the dressing table within easy reach, unfastened the bouquet, and, undoing the ribbon knot of her chemise, she rested her lips on her body and allowed the chemise to slip to the floor.

  Florence was a magnificent brunette, with large blue eyes always encircled with a dark tinge. Her long hair reached down to her knees and half covered a form rather thin and spare, but of magnificent proportions in spite of her state of emaciation.

  Mariette's words have given us the explanation of this emaciation. But she could not have accounted, deep as she was in her mistress' confidence, for the abundance of hair which adorned the whole front part of Florence's body.

  This curious ornament reached up to the breasts, where it slipped up like the point of a lance. Then it ran downwards in a thin line which joined the mass which covered all the lower part of the abdomen, disappeared between the thighs and reappeared slightly at the lower part of the back.

  Florence was very proud of this ornament, which seemed to make of her a compound of both sexes. She tended and perfumed it with jealous care. But what was most remarkable was the fact that her brown but splendid skin did not bear anywhere else the slightest trace of capillary vegetation.

  She began by surveying herself with extreme satisfaction, smiling at her own image, then with a soft brush she smoothed down all the charming fur. She then selected the most beautiful flowers in the bouquet and formed them into a crown, which she placed on her head; sprinkled her whole body with tuberoses and jonquils; turned the mount of Venus into a rose garden connected to her breasts by garlands of Parma violets, and thus, covered with flowers, intoxicated with their strong perfumes, she languidly reclined on a long easy chair placed before her cheval glass, so as to be able to survey her whole form. At last, with half closed eyes, her head thrown back, with quivering nostrils, lips curled up, one hand on one of her round breasts, and the other slipping down gradually, as if moved irresistibly to the altar where, as a selfish solitary priestess, she was about to consummate the sacrifice, her finger slowly disappeared among the roses. Nervous motions began to agitate this beautiful statue of pleasure; these involuntary motions were soon followed by unintelligible words, suppressed sighs, then deeper sighs, in the midst of which was muttered no longer the name of Denise, but the no less sweet name of “Odette”.

  CHAPTER VIII

  On entering her mistress' room next morning, Mariette cast an investigating glance on all sides. She saw the easy chair before the cheval glass, the carpet is sprinkled with flowers, Florence lying quite exhausted in bed and awaiting her bath.

  Mariette shook her head and said:

  “Oh! Madame! Madame!”

  “Well, what next?” asked Florence opening her eyes.

  “When I think that the handsomest gentlemen and the prettiest women in Paris would like to be your slaves!”

  “Do I not deserve it?” asked the actress.

  “Oh, madame! I do not mean that. Just the reverse.”

  “Well, you see, I can very well do without them.”

  “Madame will not be amended. But really, in her place, were it only out of self-respect, I should have a lover.”

  “But I cannot bear men. Do you like them, Mariette?”

  “Do I like men? No, I do not. But I should certainly like one man.”

  “Men only care for us from selfish motives-to exhibit us if we are pretty, to show themselves in our company if we are clever. No! If I gave myself up to a man, he would be such a superior being that I should admire, if not love him.

  “Alas! my poor girl, I lost my mother before I knew her; my father was a mathematician, who taught me to believe in nothing but straight lines, squares and circles He used to call God the 'Supreme Unity', he called the universe 'the great whole', and death, 'the great problem'.

  “He departed this life when I was only fifteen years old, leaving me penniless and devoid of any illusions. I became an actress, and now of what use is my art to me? To despise the work which I act; to find naught but historical heresies in dramas.

  “Of what use to me are my intellectual powers? To find in dramas of the heart the shortcomings of sentiment; to shrug my shoulders at the conceit of the authors who read their productions to me. The major part of my success I reproach myself with as I would a bad action, or an encouragement of bad taste. At first I wished to speak on the stage as one speaks in everyday life-I produced no effect. I ranted when speaking-then I gained applause. At first I composed my own parts rationally, poetically, in masterly touches-they said: 'Good; very good'. I then overdid the part and showed the whites of my eyes; I shouted, I screamed-and there were thunders of applause in the house. The men who pay me compliments do not praise my merits, but my faults; and women do not understand my notions of beauty.

  “A compliment which misses its mark hurts one as much as any criticism which does hit the mark. But, thank heaven, I make enough money not to need the favours of anybody.

  I had rather die than owe anything to a man and have to say to him: 'Here is my body, repay yourself with it!' No, I had rather die!

  “I can only bear women because I domineer over them; because I am their master, their lord, their spouse. But they are wayward, wilful and devoid of intellect. With a few exceptions, they are inferior beings, created for submission. I see no merit in subduing a woman. And then she will complain of being tyrannized, and will deceive you.

  “No, no! Look you, Mariette, the ideal of domination is to be one's own mistress-to give nobody the right to say: 'You shall obey me.' Nobody has this right over me. I am twenty-two; am a virgin, like Herminice, like Clorinda, like Bradamante, and if ever I get tired of my virginity, I shall sacrifice it to myself. I shall have both the pain and the pleasure. I will not allow a man to be able to say: 'I possessed that woman.' “

  “It is madame's taste, there is nothing to be said.”

  “It is not my taste, Mariette. It is the outcome of my Philosophy.”

  “As for me,” rejoined Mariette, “I know I should feel much humiliation in dying a virgin.”

  “That misfortune will certainly not be yours. Come and dress me, Mariette.”

  Florence left her bed languidly and sat in the easy chair in front of the cheval glass.

  Florence, as we said before, was not exactly a pretty wo
man, but she had most expressive features. She had never loved except in imagination, but could render excellently the utmost violence of passion. Her peculiar talent was one rarely met with, such as that of Dorval or of Malibran.

  She took her bath, breakfasted on a cup of chocolate, glanced over her part, read the Countess' letter a dozen times, grew excited over it, dined on some consomme, a couple of stewed truffles and four crawfish a la Bordelaise.

  Then she went to the theatre in a state of great excitement.

  The handsome young man (or rather the Countess) was in his box, and had a large bouquet on a chair close by.

  At the fourth act in the course of a pathetic scene, the Countess threw the bouquet.

  Florence picked it up, looked for the note inside, and read it without taking time to return to her box.

  The note ran thus:

  “Have I obtained your pardon? My impatience is such that I have come in person to seek for an answer. If you have forgiven me, place one of the flowers of my bouquet in your hair. In this case I shall be the most tender of lovers, the most happy of women; and I shall wait for you at the stage door with my carriage, for I hope that instead of going home sadly alone, you will do me the pleasure of supping at my house.

  ODETTE.”

  Florence, without a moment's reflection, plucked a red camellia from the bouquet, put it in her hair, and returned to the stage.

  Odette almost threw herself out of the box to applaud, and Florence managed to kiss her hand to her.

  Half an hour later, the Countess' carriage, with drawn blinds, was stationed in the rue de Bondy.

  Florence hastily got rid of her rouge and stage ornaments, put on a Caucasian dressing gown, and rushed out of the theatre.

  The black groom opened the door of the carriage and resumed his place on the box, the coachman put his horses to a rapid trot.

  The Countess took Florence in her arms. But the reader is already acquainted with the latter's views concerning her own dignity. Instead of accepting the place which the Countess had provided for her in her arms and on her knees, she seized the Countess in her vigorous grasp, lifted her like a child, and with one movement of her strong arm, like a wrestler who lays low his adversary, she placed Odette across her knees, pressing her lips to hers, put her tongue in her mouth, and her hand between her thighs.

  “Surrender, my handsome cavalier, rescue or no rescue!” said Florence, laughing.

  “I surrender!” said the Countess, “and I only ask one thing. I do not wish to be rescued, I wish to succumb and die by your hand.”

  “Then die!” said Florence, with a kind of fury.

  Indeed, five minutes later, the Countess, almost in a swoon murmured:

  “Oh, dear Florence, how sweet it is to expire in your arms! I die… I die… I die…”

  She heaved the last sigh just as the carriage stopped at No…

  The two women went up leaning on one another and quite panting with their exertions.

  The Countess had the key of her apartments. She opened the door and closed it after them. They crossed the ante-chamber, which was lighted up by a Chinese lantern. Thence they entered the bedroom, which received the light from a lamp of rose-coloured Bohemian glass, and at last the Countess opened the door of a dining room, with a table ready served.

  “Dear love,” said she “by your leave we will be our own attendants. I should be glad to keep on my gentleman's attire in order to wait upon you, but it would be inconvenient. I will therefore lay aside that horrid masculine dress, and appear in my war harness. Here is the dressing room. I believe it has every convenience, and that you will find all that is necessary.”

  We have already been introduced to the dressing room of the Countess. It was the very same to which she had taken Violette. A slab of white marble bore bottles of the finest scents from Dubues, Laboullee and Guerlain.

  Five minutes after, Odette joined her friend there.

  She was nude; at least very nearly so, for she had kept on her rose-coloured silk stockings, blue velvet garters, and slippers of the same material and colour.

  It goes without saying that the whole place was heated by a well-regulated warming apparatus.

  “You must excuse my dress,” said the Countess, laughingly, “but I wish to make a toilette which you rendered necessary, and ask you what scent you prefer.”

  “Can I make my own choice?” said Florence.

  “Please yourself,” replied the Countess.

  “Well, I perceive there a bottle of eau-de-Cologne. What say you?”

  That is not my business,” said the Countess. “Let your choice be guided by your own taste.”

  Florence poured out the contents of an immense water bottle into a charming bidet of Sevres porcelain, mixed a fourth part of the bottle of eau-de-Cologne with it, and proceeded to the Countess' toilette.

  “Well,” asked the latter, laughing, “what are you doing?”

  “I am looking at you, my beautiful mistress, and I admire you!”

  “So much the better for you, since I am yours, all in all.”

  “What marvellous hair! What teeth! What a neck! Oh, let me kiss those pretty nipples. You will think I am hideous, I am sure. I shall never dare to undress in your presence. What a satin-like skin! I shall look like a negress! And all this beautiful fiery-coloured hair! How marvellous! I shall look like a sweep in comparison.”

  “You are joking; but do not make me wait. If my hair is the colour of fire, it is because the house is on fire! Now, you must put it out.”

  The Countess bent forward and her lips met those of Florence, whom she clasped in her arms, then, suddenly rising and resting both hands on her shoulders, she brought her streaming and perfumed body on a level with her lips.

  Florence at once pressed her lips to that second mouth, more perfumed still than the other, and which presented itself so unexpectedly; then advancing on her knees while the Countess walked backwards, she pushed the latter to a couch where she fell back, like one of the gladiators of old, with all the gracefulness required in such circumstances.

  However little the Countess was used to playing a passive part in encounters of this description, she quickly understood that the dark complexioned and thin woman was endowed with a power of manhood superior to that which she herself possessed. She surrendered in this instance with the same readiness as before, and as the new agent of pleasure was more active and more complicated than its predecessor, she acknowledged its superiority by motions of her body which could not possibly leave Florence in doubt as to the intensity of the pleasurable sensations which she gave the Countess.

  For a few seconds the two beautiful women remained motionless. Everybody knows that, in this peculiar mode of procuring Love's pleasures, the sensations of both giver and recipient are alike.

  Florence was the first to recover from her trance. She remained for some few seconds on her knees before the Countess, and her eyes, her countenance, her smile, her arms, which in her exhaustion, hung motionless by her sides, all seemed to bear witness to her delight.

  Wholly insensible to beauty in man, because she was almost a man herself, Florence worshipped beauty in women; however, she now felt a little uneasy fearing that her type of beauty might not be altogether to the taste of the Countess, a circumstance which the proud girl would have deemed very humiliating.

  Thus, when she had recovered, and when the Countess began to disrobe her, Florence set herself to tremble in all her limbs, like a virgin whose unsullied body is about to be defiled by eyes other than her mother's.

  But the Countess was impatient. The delightful emanations from Florence's body got into her head and seemed to intoxicate her.

  “Come!” she said with a feverish impatience: “Art thou not a woman? Art thou a flower? So be it; then, instead of drinking I shall inhale. Oh! the beautiful, curious thing!” she exclaimed, when she saw Florence's naked body. “Why, that is like silk, like perfumed silk! What is the meaning of it?”

 
Thereupon the Countess began covering with kisses the charming ornament, which, as we said before, rose to a point as far as the breasts, getting thinner on the stomach and wider lower down, and on which when leaving her box, Florence had scattered a whole bouquet of newly gathered violets.

  “Come!” said the astonished Countess; “I confess I am vanquished. Not only are you far more handsome than I am, but you are much prettier!”

  Then she led her to the dining room. Both naked, they entered the palace of mirrors, where a thousand crystals reflected at once their beautiful forms and the lights of the chandeliers and lustres.

  They looked at one another for some little time, their arms encircling each other's waists; each proud of her own beauty and that of her companion; then they took two white haicks, one with gold stripes, the other ornamented with silver, as transparent as woven air, and they sat down to supper. All the dishes were most dainty. The iced champagne sparkled in muslin-like decanters, and they began to sip the exhilarating beverage from the same glass, and often from each other's lips.

  CHAPTER IX

  At first they were attentive to one another as lovers would be together, helping one another to small dainties and tidbits, intermixed with burning kisses on the arms, shoulders and lips. Then, after supper, they rose, letting their haicks fall to the floor, the Countess like the goddess Pomona, bearing away some fruit in a basket of golden filigree, and Florence holding in her hand a cup brimming over with sparkling champagne.

  They approached the bed with arms encircling each other's waists. Then they looked at one another, as if to say: “Who is going to begin?”

  “Ah!” said the Countess, “I think I must begin.”

  No doubt Florence was satisfied with the reply, for she pressed her lips to those of the Countess, imprinting a burning kiss on her mouth, and she lay on the bed in a posture full of abandon.

  The Countess gazed for a moment on the strange form, in which were combined the virility of the man and the gracefulness of woman. She took from her hair the golden comb studded with diamonds, and laid it as a crown on the charming representative of the mysterious Isis, who, foremost of all goddesses, was worshipped under the name of Saunia.