The Awakening, Zuleika and the Barbarian (11 page)

"But your parents were killed," Beau said.

"They could not be saved. François would tell you that himself. He is Tante Renée's majordomo here. She took him in when Napoleon fell and he left the army. Of course, it has been years since they were lovers. He protected her during the worst, and freed her to go her own way afterwards. She gives him a home in his old age. I think he would have married her, but that he felt she was above him socially, which of course, she was. Would you like more wine, Beau?"

"Did you love your husband?" he asked her.

"Yes, very much. Did you love your wife?" she countered.

"Yes. Elisa, however, was too young to be married. In retrospect I am not certain she would have ever been mature enough to be a wife. She was beautiful and loved her pleasures, but she was not happy to learn she was with child. It meant she could no longer ride, or go to balls, or even appear in public in New Orleans. She sulked for months."

"Perhaps," Marguerite suggested, "she had a premonition that her confinement would end unhappily."

"My beautiful Elisa only thought of her own pleasures, Marguerite," he said. "A premonition would have been too deep a consideration for her. While I loved her, I quickly realized I had made a great mistake in marrying her."

"What of your son?
Pauvre petit sans sa mama,"
Marguerite sympathized. "He will never know his mother. At least my Emilie will always remember her English papa."

"My son is safe on my plantation, watched over by my sister, who has come from her Convent of the Sacred Heart in New Orleans while I am away." He tipped her face up. "You have a kind heart," he told her. Then his lips gently touched hers. "You should not be here," he said quietly.

"I arrived less than a week ago," Marguerite said softly. "In that time I have been used several times by your cousin and the other men who call Chez Renée their
club
. I am long past the pale, Beau."

"Take your hair down for me," he said in reply.

Reaching up, Marguerite pulled the pins from her hair and lay them aside. Her tresses poured over her shoulders, and down the back of her gown. "Does it please you, Beau?"

The dark green eyes looked deeply into her cornflower blue ones. His hand gently reached up to caress her face. "You are so very beautiful," he told her. He caught a curl between his fingers and kissed it almost reverently.

To both her shock and horror, Marguerite felt herself reacting to Beau d'Aubert in a way she had not reacted to any of the other men in her aunt's house. She blushed, and suddenly found herself at a loss for words with this man.

"Tomorrow is Sunday," he said. "I am told that your aunt does not receive visitors on Sunday. May I call on you, Marguerite?"

"Call on me?"
Mon Dieu!
You would have thought he was courting her by his elegant behavior.

"I thought perhaps we might have a picnic," he explained.

"A picnic?"
Sacrebleu!
She was starting to sound like a perfect fool. She pulled herself together. "I am sorry, Beau, but on Sunday I visit my daughter at her convent."

"I will escort you there, wait, and then escort you home," he replied.

"Impossible!" Marguerite cried. "I am taking Emilie to the Bois. It would confuse her if I arrived with a gentleman escort so soon after her papa's death."

"She will never see me," he said. "I will bring you to her convent, and return afterwards to walk you back to Chez Renée."

"If you do not want to fuck me, I must go back downstairs," Marguerite said, standing up abruptly. This man was treating her with respect, and he was confusing her.

"Oh I do want to fuck you, Marguerite, but not tonight. However, you need not return downstairs. It is almost midnight, and Madame's guests are required to depart at midnight on Saturday, my cousin tells me. We are not allowed to return until Monday evening. Your aunt, César says, is very strict about it. It is, he says, one of her rules." He drew her back down to the settee. "I am going to kiss you," he said, and then he did. This time, however, his mouth displayed far more experience, pressing firmly upon hers as he pushed her back against the arm of the settee.

Marguerite's heart began to hammer wildly. What was happening to her? Her lips softened beneath his, and she kissed him back with genuine feeling.
But she shouldn't!
A good courtesan never involved her emotions, never entangled them with her enterprise. The kiss was warm, demanding of her, yet tender.
Oh, so sweetly tender
. His mouth moved from hers to kiss her closed eyelids, her face. Kisses trailed down her throat, finally reaching her chest, where he inhaled the fragrance from between her shadowed breasts, kissing the tops of them, as she half swooned in his embrace.
This was magic! It was heaven!
And then the porcelain clock on the mantle began to strike midnight.

With a final kiss on her lips, Beau d'Aubert arose and bowed to her. "What time shall I come tomorrow?" he asked her.

"At noon," she said weakly.

"Bonsoir
, Marguerite."

"Bonsoir
, Beau," she responded.

With another small bow he turned and left her seated, closing her bedroom door behind him as he went.

Marguerite sat silently. The only sound in the room came from the crackling fireplace, and from the mantle clock, ticking. Then she heard the gentlemen in the street below going off in their carriages. She heard François locking the entry to the passageway leading to the street that lay below one of her windows. And then the question arose in her mind. What did Beau d'Aubert want of her? He hadn't been like the other gentlemen. He had treated her like the widowed Lady Abbott, not Marguerite, the newly fledged courtesan at Chez Renée. It had been a totally unnerving experience. She had to speak with her tante. Getting up, she hurried downstairs to Renée's bedchamber, knocking before she entered. One never knew with Renée. Renée was alone except for her elderly maid, Bertilde, who was putting away her jewelry.

"Ahh,
ma petite,"
she said. "Did you enjoy the young
Americain?"

"He did not treat me like the others," Marguerite replied, seating herself upon a small, velvet chair.

"What did he do?" her aunt asked. "He was not bestial, brutal, or cruel, was he? I shall have him banned from my house if he was!" She peered closely at her niece. Marguerite didn't look as if she had been abused. In fact, she looked distinctly bewildered. "What is it,
chérie?
Bertilde!" She turned to the servant. "Go and find us something to eat. Bread. Cheese. Fruit. Do not stand there listening to us! Meddlesome old creature," she grumbled fondly as Bertilde shuffled out the door.

"We did not. . . " Marguerite began, then stopped. "He did not. . . " She thought a moment. "He behaved,
tante
, as if I were who I used to be instead of who I am. We kissed, nothing more. He wishes to escort me to St. Anne's tomorrow. He will not take no for an answer."

"Indeed," Renée said thoughtfully. "He is widowed, César says. You made it clear that you have known other men since you came here to my home? He understood?"

"Yes,
tante
, I made it very clear. He says he wants me, but we will first get to know one another."

"Interesting," her aunt noted. "Do you know how the wife died,
ma petite?"

"Childbirth," Marguerite said.

"So it is unlikely he is a man who loves men," Renée mused.
"Chérie
, I do not know what to say. The men who visit here are usually direct in their desires, but some men prefer to play a game of courtship. Monsieur d'Aubert will be here the entire winter. Perhaps this is what he wishes to do. If he continues to evince interest in you, Marguerite, I shall allow him to have your exclusive company as long as it pleases him. I shall ask him tomorrow when he comes to escort you to St. Anne's."

"Are you not coming with me?" Marguerite asked her aunt.

"Do you wish me to come,
chérie?"

"But of course,
tante
. Emilie adores you. You are like her
grandmère
. She would be very disappointed if you did not come. Besides, Monsieur d'Aubert is only going to escort me to the convent. I would not allow him to be with Emilie under my current circumstances."

"You are right," her aunt agreed.
"Très bien!
I shall go with you,
chérie
. Now, tell me what else it is that is troubling you."

"When he kissed me, my emotions became involved. They have not with the others. With them I am able to divorce my body's pleasure from my thoughts. But not when the
Americain
kissed me,
tante."

"Sometimes it happens," Renée shrugged fatalistically. "You are not, after all, made of stone. Once in a while a man will attract you more than you want him to do. But,
chérie
, it is nothing, and you must not distress yourself over it."

"This is all so different, and so new for me. I never really understood,
tante,"
Marguerite admitted.

"The men and their attentions? They are pleasant for you?" Renée wondered.

"I never knew that men could be so different, and yet all the same," Marguerite said with a small laugh.

"You have pleased every man who has had you,
ma petite
. I believe that despite my reservations you may have a bright future. Both the duke and the two princes praise the skill of your lips and tongue. Where on earth did you ever learn? Certainly not from Charles!"

"It seems to be a natural talent,
tante,"
Marguerite said, blushing. "When the duke told me what to do, I did it, and gracious, it did seem to please him. Then the twins wanted me together, and as I do not like being taken via Sodom's entrance, I used my mouth. They seemed quite pleased."

"Indeed,
my petite
, they were. I will have to be careful that they do not try and kidnap you from me," she said with a chuckle. "Ahh, here is Bertilde with a little nibble for us. Come,
chérie
, and pour us some wine. You have done very well in your first week with me, and I am indeed pleased with you."

Marguerite stood up, and going over to the table, she poured them the wine. Turning, she handed her aunt a crystal goblet. "It is certainly a different life from anything I ever imagined," she said.

"And you are not unhappy?" Renée inquired.

"Non,
tante
, I am not unhappy," Marguerite said.

"But neither are you happy," Renée observed.

"One cannot have everything," Marguerite said.

"And why not?" Renée replied. "I do, and I want it for you as well,
ma petite."

"Non, tante
. I do not believe I shall ever really be happy again now that my husband is gone. My only concern is for Emilie. I do not want her becoming what you and I have become. But how can I assure she remain respectable without becoming a victim to her husband one day? Emilie must be both proper and independent. It will not be easy."

Beau d'Aubert had spent thirty-two of his thirty-eight years in the New World. While he was French by birth and spoke the language, he considered himself an American, particularly since when he was twenty, the United States had purchased the Louisiana territories from the French government. As he had told Marguerite, he was as different from his cousin, César, as night was from day. The
ancien régime
into which he and César had been born was long gone, swept away by the winds of war and the shifting times. However, with a restored Bourbon king on France's throne, César did not accept these changes, but Beau, from his American perspective, did.

He had not been back to France since his childhood. Much had changed, and yet nothing had changed. The nobility who had survived peopled the royal court, along with the new nobility who had been created in Napoleon's time. It was all very interesting, but Beau knew he did not belong among them; that once he returned to his plantation, he would not come back to France again. With his wife dead, he had taken the opportunity to revisit the land of his birth, where he hoped to find a new wife to go back with him.

As the first cousin of the Duc de Caraville, he was welcomed in all the best salons. He met any number of eligible young women, but they were all too much like Elisa. Spoiled, charming, and much too soft for a life three thousand miles from Paris and twenty miles upriver from New Orleans. Eighteen- to twenty-year-olds who were world-weary, and oversophisticated. He sighed. And there was no one at home either. But then he had seen Marguerite in her aunt's salon. The drawing room of a brothel, and César had imparted her history, relishing the fact that he would be the first to debauch her.

It was indeed sad, his older cousin admitted, that a young woman of such respectable lineage should be brought so low, but the poor creature had no other choice. So why should the duke not take advantage of the situation? And afterward when he had had her, César had bragged that he had brought the beautiful Marguerite to
la petite morte
not once, but several times.
And
, the duke noted, she sucked cock better than any woman he had ever known. "You must have her too, cousin," the duke had enthused.

So Beau had taken Marguerite upstairs to her bedroom, but as much as he desired to make love to her, he needed to get to know her first. Unlike César, who frequented several fine brothels, taking his lovers easily and without a care for any of them, Beau d'Aubert had never made love to any woman with whom he was not involved on another level. And there was something about Marguerite that made him want to protect her. He had seen the blankness in her beautiful cornflower blue eyes when she had offered herself to him. She did what she had to, and it almost broke his heart, especially as he now saw the reason why she had joined her aunt.

He had arrived at Chez Renée at noon. Marguerite and her aunt had been awaiting him, but he was not even allowed past their front door. They came out to him, and together they walked to the Convent of St. Anne. Marguerite looked particularly beautiful, he thought, in her crimson velvet pelisse with its beaver collar and matching beaver Valois hat atop her head. Renée wore a dark blue velvet greatcoat and a blue satin Bourbon hat with pearl fleur de lis trim. Marguerite was quiet, but Renée chatted easily with him.

"How handsome you look,
mon brave
. Do not tell me an American tailored your clothes, for I shall not believe it," she teased.

"No, Madame Renée, like César, I have a French tailor," he admitted. "But his shop is in New Orleans, not Paris."

"This New Orleans, is it as beautiful as Paris?" she demanded.

"There is no place as beautiful as Paris, but New Orleans is very lovely," he told her.

"I live here year after year but for my Augusts in Brittany," Renée said. "When Marguerite was little, we went there each summer. In the years she was in England, we went to Cornwall. They are quite similar."

"You speak English then?" He was surprised.

"Of course," she said. "I was sixteen when the revolution changed my life, but before that I was a well-educated, and well-brought-up little aristo like so many others. Marguerite's guardian in England, a duke, and his friends made several trips to France to rescue innocents. I helped them. I did not waste my time as the mistress of a prison governor, nor did I entirely betray my class. But neither did I, like my overproud and foolish brother, Marguerite's father, martyr myself to a dead past. Now, what is it exactly that you want of my niece?"

The suddenness and the directness of her question surprised him, but then he laughed. "Her exclusive company for as long as I am in Paris, Madame Renée. I don't want her being offered to any other man. I realize I have come into your house as my cousin's guest, but since I will be here for several months, I should like to pay a year's worth of dues to Chez Renée in exchange for the privilege of your niece's company. I hope I have not put it badly. I mean no offense."

"I shall be delighted to take your money, Monsieur d'Aubert. You have not offended me in the slightest. As for Marguerite, you must ask her if she is willing to give you her exclusive company. I am content to abide by her decision," Madame Renée said. "Wait, however, until you escort us home later."

"And if she agrees?" he asked.

"Then you may come on Monday evening, and we will discuss your fees, eh?" Renée smiled pleasantly at him.

"Merci, madame," he responded.

"Ahh," the older woman said, "here we are at St. Anne's." She patted his arm. "Return for us in four hours,
monsieur."
Then with Marguerite she turned away from him.

He bowed to both women politely, and continued on down the street until he thought it safe to turn about again. They had disappeared, and so he took up a position in a doorway to watch and to wait. He was rewarded several long minutes later when Marguerite, her aunt, and a little girl exited through the doors in the convent walls. They started down the street to the park near the river. Beau d'Aubert followed them at a discreet distance.

It was a bright winter's day. There was no wind, and the February sun shone down on the raked gravel paths of the park with its leafless trees. There was an old chestnut vendor hawking his wares, and the women stopped to purchase a paper cone of the hot nuts. After they had walked a short distance, they sat down upon a marble bench, sharing the nuts with the little girl who accompanied them. And when the treats were all gone, Marguerite arose, and together she and her daughter tossed a brightly colored ball back and forth.

The child was charming, Beau thought. Her hair was a mass of ringlets, its darkness being broken by a bright yellow silk ribbon. And she was very fair like her mother. She wore a rather severe little greatcoat of an indeterminate gloomy color, but when she ran and her dun-colored skirts blew, he could see her dainty white pantalets. She was like a wild creature let out of its cage, dashing about, chasing her ball, her cheeks growing bright red with her exertions. There was not, he suspected, a great deal of activity other than one's studies in her convent school. That she adored both her mother and her great-aunt was obvious. The afternoon began to wane when suddenly the little girl fell, crying out sharply. Almost at once Renée and Marguerite were at her side.
And so was Beau
.

Marguerite's startled eyes met his. Then she turned her full attention to her daughter. "What has happened, Emilie?"

"I have twisted my ankle,
Maman,"
the child replied.

"Let us get you up," Madame Renée said briskly, but no sooner had Emilie attempted to put weight upon her foot than she cried out again, collapsing onto the grass, sobbing.

"I will carry her," Beau said quietly. "Neither of you ladies is strong enough, and it is a distance back to Mademoiselle's school." He bent, and said to the child, "Now put your arms about my neck, Emilie."

"How do you know my name?" the little girl said as she slipped her arms about him.

"I heard your maman call you by that name. Is your name Emilie? Or is it perhaps Cinderella?" He lifted the little girl up easily.

Emilie giggled. "I am Emilie," she said. "You are funny like my papa used to be. My papa is dead, you know."

"I am sorry, Mademoiselle Emilie, to learn that," Beau told the child, "but he is certainly in heaven with the angels, and watching down over you."

"That is what Soeur Marie Regina says when she wants me to be good," Emilie confided. "I am not always good, but I do try."

"I am certain that you do," Beau answered her gravely as he carried her from the little park and down the street leading to St. Anne's.

Watching him chat so easily with the little girl, Madame Renée had a sudden blinding thought. The American was a widower. Her niece was a widow. True, Marguerite's behavior of the last few days would be considered completely unforgivable by polite society.
But only if polite society knew about it
. And Monsieur d'Aubert did not intend remaining in Paris, or in France. He had come to find a new wife, but obviously no one in the elegant salons of Paris had caught his eye.
But Marguerite had caught his eye
. The duke? Could he be silenced if his cousin chose to make Marguerite his wife? The others did not worry her. They were of no importance.
But the duke!

Mon Dieu, mon Dieu
, but she was getting ahead of herself. There was a chance, just the barest chance, that Marguerite could escape this life she had never been meant to lead. When the American came to see her on Monday, Renée decided, she would not accept his money. She would wave it away, and tell him that it was not necessary, that Marguerite was his for as long as it pleased him. Then she would light a thousand candles to St. Jude if the American fell in love with Marguerite. And if he fell in love with her niece, he would certainly want to marry her.
Dare I hope?
Madame Renée asked herself silently.

Marguerite walked by Beau d'Aubert's side, murmuring encouragement to her daughter. He had obviously followed them to the park, but why? Yet thank goodness that he had been there. And he was being so kind to Emilie, and Emilie obviously liked him. He didn't have to be kind to her child, Marguerite considered, to gain her favor. She would do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and any way he wanted it because she was a courtesan, and he was paying for her favors. His cousin, the duke, she knew, would not have been as kind to her.
Had not been
. César d'Aubert was interested only in exerting his power over her, and exhibiting his sexual prowess as a lover.

They reached the school, and Marguerite tugged on the bell outside the doors, which opened almost immediately.

"Sacrebleu!"
said the ageless-faced nun who had opened the portal. "What has happened?"

"I fell and twisted my ankle, Soeur Anne Marie," Emilie volunteered. "This gentleman, he is an American, sister, carried me all the way from the park."

"I will take her,
monsieur,"
the nun said, reaching out for Emilie.

Beau transferred his burden to the religious women, then bowing to them, he departed down the street.

"She will be all right, Lady Abbott," Soeur Anne Marie said reassuringly. "May we expect you next Sunday?"

"Mais oui,"
Marguerite answered. She reached out and brushed a tangled curl from her daughter's cheek. "Next time do not run so fast," she said softly, a small smile touching her lips.

"Non, Maman
, I won't," Emilie replied.

"Say
bonsoir
now to your
maman
, and your
grand-tante,"
the nun instructed the little girl.

"Bonsoir, Maman. Bonsoir, Grand-tante Renée
. The chestnuts were very good.
Merci,"
Emilie said sweetly.

"Bonsoir, chérie,"
Madame Renée told the child, and she kissed her forehead. "I shall come next Sunday with your mama."

"Bonsoir, ma petite,"
Marguerite said, and she, too, kissed Emilie. Then with a deep sigh she turned away with her aunt, and together the two women began their return to Chez Renée.

As they reached the corner and turned into the next street, Beau d'Aubert joined them. "She will be all right, the little one?"

"Yes," Renée said quickly before her niece might answer. "Just a childhood mishap. You should not have followed us,
monsieur,"
she scolded him gently, "but thank heavens that you were there for us."

"Yes," Marguerite agreed, taking her cue from her aunt.

"She is going to be as lovely as you one day, Mademoiselle Marguerite," Beau told her.

"Pray God she is not like me," Marguerite said, tears springing to her eyes. "My aunt knows I mean her no disrespect, but I do not want my child ending up a courtesan as I have." Then she quickened her gait, almost running up the street away from them.

Renée put her hand upon Beau d'Aubert's arm. "She was not meant for this life,
monsieur
. You understand?"

He nodded. "I do," he said.