Chapter 10 Arabella ‘Then’ #2
“Then you are a woman of far more intelligence than I.” He holds his stomach and makes a face. “I had three slices.”
“My condolences to the person who cleans your privy.”
Gideon holds out his hand. “Do you have more enchantments to weave on stage tonight, or may I buy you a drink?”
In my mind, I tell him that I’m working, that if he wants my company he must pay for more than a drink, and that he is an infernal annoyance who is no longer welcome at my theatre, but what happens is that my mouth opens and one word slips out: “Yes.”
I blame the scent of his blood, hot and sweet and eager.
I lead Gideon to one of the unoccupied VIP booths and order cocktails from Séraphine.
He settles himself onto the plush Louis XV chair opposite me, looking every bit like he deserves to be here.
Our drinks arrive – a cocktail of blood and tomato juice, because I’ve deduced that Gideon doesn’t drink alcohol, and I have a theory I want to test. We sip.
Gideon makes a face and sets down his glass.
“I don’t know why Lucien loves the bartenders here so much.” Gideon coughs into his hand. “This drink tastes like an abattoir.”
Interesting. He still doesn’t know we’re drinking blood.
I swipe his drink from the table and gulp it down. Gideon makes me feel untethered. I need the blood to bring me back to myself. “More for me. Your master isn’t with you.”
“I’m by myself tonight.” He inclines his head towards me in a mock gentlemanly manner. I study the smooth skin of his neck. “And Lucien’s not my master. He’s a client. I’m my own man.”
He’s delusional.
This can only end badly.
I stand. “I’ll need you to return to Monsieur Manet’s table.”
“Pardon? We haven’t finished our drinks.”
I wave two empty glasses in his face.
“Fine, you finished our drinks. But that’s only because they were disgusting.”
“Taste is subjective.” I wave my hand at the door. “Except for my taste, which is immaculate and above reproach. As were these cocktails. Now go. We reserve these rooms for our more distinguished, paying guests. If Lucien is not joining you—”
“Please.” Gideon grabs my wrist midair. My skin sizzles where his fingers touch. I haven’t felt the warmth of a human body for a long, long time. “Indulge me. I can pay you.”
I twist my arm, breaking his grip and grabbing his wrist. I slam his hand down on the table, hard enough that I may break fragile human bones.
“There are many pleasures for sale at La Petite Mort, Monsieur Rougon.” I fix him with one of my withering glares. “I am not one of them.”
“Understood.” His eyes bug out as he tries to free his hand, but a human man cannot compete with my strength. “I didn’t mean that you were for sale. I merely meant that I know a lady’s time is her own, and I would not presume to take up yours without adequate compensation.”
“I have work to do.” I feel myself wavering. It’s those eyes like jewels, that voice of blood and honey.
I could devour him.
I want to devour him.
“You are a courtesan. I find it difficult to believe that you are backstage sweeping the floors. Come.” He gestures to the seat, then winces at his hand. “Sit with me. Smile at me again and I might let you break more of my fingers.”
There are a million reasons why I should deny him, or snap his wrist, or drive the silver-inlaid knife I keep in my corset through his palm. And yet…
“Fine.” I tilt my chin as I release his hand. “But any part of you that touches me again, I’ll cut off.”
“That seems reasonable.”
We settle into our chairs, facing the stage. Séraphine arrives with another round of drinks, setting down first an elaborate glass and a gold fountain filled with ice water, and then a fresh apple juice for him and a bloodsinthe for me. Gideon eyes my drink with interest but does not comment.
Good boy.
I set my glass beneath the fountain and turn on the faucet, allowing the ice water to slowly drip onto a sugar cube, melting it into my drink and turning the absinthe a milky colour – la louche. Once the glass is three quarters full, I pour in the shot of blood.
We clink glasses. I watch the stage as our cancan chorus enters.
This high-energy, raunchy dance style is taking over the Paris theatres, but as always, La Petite Mort adds our twist to the spectacle.
Our dancers’ bodies are painted with white bones.
Their peacock feathers are adorned with white paint, and instead of being lively and upbeat, the music is haunting and surreal. They are the danse macabre.
I glance over at Gideon, expecting him to be enthralled by the mostly naked women prancing across the stage. Instead, I have to suppress a delighted shudder when I see that his eyes remain fixed on me.
“An interesting theme for a cancan,” he says, that obnoxious left eyebrow arching like a gothic cathedral roof. “The danse macabre. Is this your choreography?”
“It is.” I lift my chin.
“You have quite the fascination with death.”
“Death is the last great equaliser,” I answer. “Poet or politician, fisherman or king, we will all meet death in the end. It is up to you whether you run screaming from your fate or greet Death with a smile and a curtsey.”
Or, in the case of some of us, cheat Death of his prize.
I touch my finger to my collar, a symbol of the life I carved for myself with bloody, broken hands, the life that I stole from another who didn’t deserve it.
Gideon regards me as he sips his drink. I ask him about his work.
Men come to places like La Petite Mort to talk about themselves, to feel for a few precious moments as though they are so powerful and clever that they can be adored by us.
One of the first lessons my mother taught me was that behind the walls of our boudoir, women hold the power.
But Gideon brushes off my questions. “I want to know more about you, about this place.”
I tell him the usual story that suffices for humans in polite company – that I followed a lover to Paris, was entranced by the stage, and left the lover but not the city.
It does not satisfy Gideon. He picks at each detail, turning them over in his mind and asking ever more deep and probing questions. It concerns me that I might reveal a hole in my story, a chink in my armour through which this human man might undo me.
Thankfully, Zola and Renoir get into a fistfight over Zola’s opinion of Renoir’s new work, which Zola is declaring looks like an elephant threw up onto a gooseberry bush.
He’s not wrong, but I’d never say such a thing to Renoir. Artists can be so temperamental.
Still, at least they’re not as bad as poets.
Gideon leans over the balcony and calls down encouragement as Renoir and Monet get Zola into a headlock and threaten to dunk his head in the privy until he admits that Renoir is the greatest artist of all time.
By the time they’re done with their shenanigans, the room is in uproar, and Jacques has to circle in an intimidating manner to restore calm.
“My brother would love it here.” Gideon waves at his friends.
His eyes flutter closed briefly, long eyelashes tangling together.
“He had dreams of being an artist. He is good, very good. He could submit work to the Salon or find a wealthy patron, but he spends far too little time with brush in hand and far too much time with his head in a bottle or between some grisette’s legs. He takes after my father like that.”
Ah, so that is why Gideon doesn’t touch alcohol.
I understand all too well how vice turns men into monsters.
“You should send him here. We have plenty of amusements for men with bottomless purses and little ambition.”
Gideon looks away, his mood suddenly sombre. I find myself wishing to pull him back into my aura, longing for that cheeky human who looks ready to fall to his knees for me.
“I am no artist,” I say. “I prefer to be a muse.”
“I don’t believe that for a second. I saw you dance.”
I scoff. “Dancing is a profession. It’s a mask you wear to entertain, to tell a story. It’s not art the way Monsieur Manet and his friends do it.”
“I watched you, Arabella.” Gideon leans forward, his eyes dancing.
“You had this expression on your face I’ve only seen before on my brother when he’s in the middle of a painting.
You went somewhere else. You transcended.
You may have conceived that dance for the audience, but you perform it for you. ”
Never before has someone stripped my desires so bare, nor cared enough to correct me on a lie.
“I’m visiting the Louvre tomorrow,” he says, not waiting for me to answer. “Would you like to join me?”
“The museum is only open during the daylight hours,” I say.
“And?”
“During the day, I sleep.” I gesture to myself. “All of this happens while I sleep.”
“You cannot make an exception?”
“I cannot.”
No matter how much I might wish to.
“As you wish.” Gideon leans back in his chair, that carefree grin back in place. This time, it looks a little uncertain, as if he’s realised for the first time that he’s playing a game and he’s unlikely to win. “Perhaps another time.”
I don’t reply. There will never be another time for me and the daylight.
Gideon moves on, his mind whirring over a series of topics so fast that I can barely keep up.
He talks about arriving in Paris from his family’s country home, about his brother’s financial woes, about what he was doing during the brutal suppression of the Commune (cowering in a cowshed outside of the city, probably eating rats), about Sarah Bernhardt and how she should be our queen, and about me, peppering me with questions that leave me breathless.
I thought I’d left behind such petty, human emotions, but Gideon’s candour makes me long for my youth, when I believed in things like love everlasting, family loyalty, and men who were kind and good.
Too soon, Séraphine pokes her head into our private room and informs me that the curtain has come down and did I wish her to put out the oil lamps?
I rise from my chair. I hadn’t even noticed the musicians stopped playing. “No, you go on home. I will see to it. Please escort Monsieur Rougon to the entrance.”
“I would like to walk you home,” Gideon says. “It’s dangerous out on the streets for a lady.”
I crack my knuckles. “I am more concerned for the safety of anyone who crosses me.”
“I believe that.” Gideon takes my hand in his and brings it to his lips, brushing a kiss over my knuckles. “You are a formidable, evil temptress, Arabella. You may be the queen of sin, but I wish fervently to be your favourite.”
I bow my head, not giving him an answer. I don’t trust myself to speak.
It’s always better to keep a man guessing, hoping for another scrap of your attention. I’ve already broken too many of my own rules tonight.
Gideon’s hand slips from mine, and I have to fight the urge to grab it again and press it to my cheek.
He heads downstairs with Séraphine. She tosses her head back and laughs at something he says. A bolt of jealousy pierces my chest. Séraphine will happily lie on her back for a bit of extra cash, and I doubt Gideon Rougon can resist her charms.
It’s for the best, I tell myself as I listen to Séraphine’s grating laugh. I will break him. This unnatural hunger gnawing at my stomach will drain him dry.
And if I took him to bed, there’s a tiny chance… a faint possibility… that he could break me.
I won’t allow that.
The door closes behind them. I’m alone.
I brush my fingers over my collar. My eyes flutter closed, and I remember the queen who last wore these jewels.
Cleopatra fell in love, gave up her power to a man, and her story ended in tragedy. I cannot allow that to be me. I won’t lose my empire over pretty aquamarine eyes.
A great weariness overcomes me. I dart downstairs and step backstage, heading for the dressing-room. I’m eager to return to my lodgings and bathe. Maybe I can wash the scent of Gideon from my skin—
What is that?
I’m drawn to a bouquet of lilies sitting on my dressing table. Jacques must have placed them there for me, from one of my admirers. My head swims as a cloying sweet scent touches my nostrils.
I must truly be going mad. How can I smell Gideon when he’s no longer here?
I take a step closer to the bouquet. A note hangs from the ribbon, and it says only one word.
MINE.
My heart thuds.
The flowers look wrong. My hand flies to my mouth as I see—
They are drenched in blood.