of the queen, her lips on the queen’s nether regions, while that lady flung herself backward, caressing her own upturned breast.
“So this is revolution,” I said. I doubted seriously that any woman would find that position comfortable, much less pose for an engraver. Nevertheless, it was intriguing. I had certainly never seen anything like it, not even in Italy during my remote childhood. The Dutch said that the French were depraved, and while I found it a bit hard to believe that Marie Antoinette had done anything of the kind, it said something about the audience that a printer found a ready market for things like this. A different world, I thought. Revolution has toppled every barrier. The idea was rather thrilling.
There was a discreet knock on the door, and I hastened to bury the pamphlet beneath the books on the table. “Come in.”
A sober valet stood there. “Madame St. Elme, General Moreau awaits your presence. If you will follow me?”
“Of course,” I said.
I followed him down the hall to the door on the other side of the dressing room from mine. It gave into a large room at the front of the house. The nearer part was arranged as a sitting room, while dark-red curtains framed the alcove containing the bed. There was a fire in the hearth and a table drawn up with covered dishes, a large armchair and a backless divan beside it. The floor was covered in a rich red Arabian rug. A bucket of ice held a bottle of champagne.
Moreau came forward to greet me as though we had just met after a long absence. “My dear Madame St. Elme! I am so pleased that you will share my little supper.”
The valet withdrew and shut the door.
“Won’t you sit and take some wine?” he asked, solicitously helping me to the divan.
“Thank you,” I said. I watched him open the champagne deftly and pour some for each of us.
He raised his glass. “To an interesting acquaintance, Madame.”
I touched my glass to his.
He looked at me over the table and frowned. “This will not do,” he said.
“What?”
“Your attire.”
I looked down at my dress. “I’m afraid it’s terribly wrinkled. But most of my clothes have not yet arrived.”
“It’s not a dress for a courtesan,” he said, getting up. “Not at all. That is the dress of a young and faithful wife. Which you are not.”
I flushed. “Victor . . .”
“Ah, now you call me by my name!” He smiled. “But you are not going to distract me. All my desires, as you recall?”
I nodded mutely.
“Then you will wear what I tell you.” He reached down and unhooked only the top hook on my dress, giving it just enough looseness in the bodice. Then he pulled the front straight down beneath my breasts, dress and chemise under it, down to the top of my corset.
I gasped.
He lifted each breast, stretching and pulling it over the top of the corset and crumpled dress, so they stood out pale and white. “Perfect,” he said. “Now stand up.”
I hesitated.
“Stand up.”
I did, feeling my pulse beginning too fast again.
He lifted my skirts, folding them about my waist with my petticoats. Of course I wore nothing beneath my chemise. One hand brushed against my bare hip, but he did not even look. “Sit down,” he said.
I sat down on the chaise. The satin was slick beneath my bare bottom. He tucked my dress behind me, leaving me covered only in a narrow strip from chest to hips.
“Now we will eat.” He lifted the lid on one of the dishes. “Chicken, Madame?” He resumed his seat.
To sit and eat like that, exposed and half-naked, was humiliating. To be expected to carry on normal conversation was surreal. We talked about books, and about plays that I had read, eating creamy chicken and fresh asparagus in a béarnaise sauce, drinking cold, crisp wine. And all the while, his eyes would go to my breasts, displayed there like sweets in a shop. I had never been so conscious of my body. I had never felt my private parts so keenly as when they rubbed against
“So this is revolution,” I said. I doubted seriously that any woman would find that position comfortable, much less pose for an engraver. Nevertheless, it was intriguing. I had certainly never seen anything like it, not even in Italy during my remote childhood. The Dutch said that the French were depraved, and while I found it a bit hard to believe that Marie Antoinette had done anything of the kind, it said something about the audience that a printer found a ready market for things like this. A different world, I thought. Revolution has toppled every barrier. The idea was rather thrilling.
There was a discreet knock on the door, and I hastened to bury the pamphlet beneath the books on the table. “Come in.”
A sober valet stood there. “Madame St. Elme, General Moreau awaits your presence. If you will follow me?”
“Of course,” I said.
I followed him down the hall to the door on the other side of the dressing room from mine. It gave into a large room at the front of the house. The nearer part was arranged as a sitting room, while dark-red curtains framed the alcove containing the bed. There was a fire in the hearth and a table drawn up with covered dishes, a large armchair and a backless divan beside it. The floor was covered in a rich red Arabian rug. A bucket of ice held a bottle of champagne.
Moreau came forward to greet me as though we had just met after a long absence. “My dear Madame St. Elme! I am so pleased that you will share my little supper.”
The valet withdrew and shut the door.
“Won’t you sit and take some wine?” he asked, solicitously helping me to the divan.
“Thank you,” I said. I watched him open the champagne deftly and pour some for each of us.
He raised his glass. “To an interesting acquaintance, Madame.”
I touched my glass to his.
He looked at me over the table and frowned. “This will not do,” he said.
“What?”
“Your attire.”
I looked down at my dress. “I’m afraid it’s terribly wrinkled. But most of my clothes have not yet arrived.”
“It’s not a dress for a courtesan,” he said, getting up. “Not at all. That is the dress of a young and faithful wife. Which you are not.”
I flushed. “Victor . . .”
“Ah, now you call me by my name!” He smiled. “But you are not going to distract me. All my desires, as you recall?”
I nodded mutely.
“Then you will wear what I tell you.” He reached down and unhooked only the top hook on my dress, giving it just enough looseness in the bodice. Then he pulled the front straight down beneath my breasts, dress and chemise under it, down to the top of my corset.
I gasped.
He lifted each breast, stretching and pulling it over the top of the corset and crumpled dress, so they stood out pale and white. “Perfect,” he said. “Now stand up.”
I hesitated.
“Stand up.”
I did, feeling my pulse beginning too fast again.
He lifted my skirts, folding them about my waist with my petticoats. Of course I wore nothing beneath my chemise. One hand brushed against my bare hip, but he did not even look. “Sit down,” he said.
I sat down on the chaise. The satin was slick beneath my bare bottom. He tucked my dress behind me, leaving me covered only in a narrow strip from chest to hips.
“Now we will eat.” He lifted the lid on one of the dishes. “Chicken, Madame?” He resumed his seat.
To sit and eat like that, exposed and half-naked, was humiliating. To be expected to carry on normal conversation was surreal. We talked about books, and about plays that I had read, eating creamy chicken and fresh asparagus in a béarnaise sauce, drinking cold, crisp wine. And all the while, his eyes would go to my breasts, displayed there like sweets in a shop. I had never been so conscious of my body. I had never felt my private parts so keenly as when they rubbed against
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