"Well, what did he say?"
"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 8
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 woman, 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.