Slumming

Kristina made sure to wait a good twenty minutes past the time appointed to meet Etienne de Coucy, before putting her hand to the brass-trimmed, cut-glass door of the Bretano. The head waiter looked her up and down several times before giving her the barest of polite bows. "We have no tables for single ladies tonight," he said, glancing around and behind her, as if waiting for some invisible gentleman to appear.

"I'm not here as a single lady. I'm meeting the Comte de Coucy in his private room."

His eyes narrowed to glittering black slits. Once again he scanned her dress, her hair, everything, and plainly she didn't measure up.

"One moment, Mademoiselle," he said as he spun away on his heel. He stopped to whisper to another waiter, and the phrase, "He's slumming tonight," came through quite clearly.

Kristina had come to this restaurant for quick luncheons in between rehearsals, but never in the evening. Her grey nun-like dress faded into obscurity against a riot of teals, mauve, pinks, vermilion, and fur, everywhere furs of all different shades and types. Near the door, a fat man in a tuxedo sat with two women, each with a fox piece draped around her neck. They made the sharp-muzzled heads with their glittery eyes play-fight with each other over the mountain of the man's stomach. He leaned back, and the two women ran the little dangling feet of their fur pieces up and down his Jovian slopes.

A band played a mazurka, and two women pranced together on the small shining floor. One took the pink rose from her hair and set it down into the copious bosom of the other, right in between her breasts. When they returned to the table, a third woman bent over to sniff it, and they all shrieked with laughter.

A tall, elegant man dressed in plum velvet passed Kristina, staring at her hair. These people invade you with their eyes, she thought. She jumped back when he reached out to stroke the side of her head with his dark purple glove. "The midnight sun is rising tonight," he said softly. "So beautiful. You can tell it's real." He hovered over her as he fingered a few wisps which had come free.

"Even if you could get it out of a bottle, it's not your color. Don't bother," she snapped, and with a little head-shrug of indignation, he spun away towards the bar.

Where was that waiter? In another second, she would be out that door, meeting with Etienne or no. The waiter swayed over and said, "This way, Mademoiselle. The Comte is expecting you," as if he didn't believe it yet himself, and was waiting for the whole joke to land right on Kristina's head.

A bright fire lit the small room, but she could barely recognize the Comte de Coucy as he rose from the shadows to greet her with an exaggerated bow. She could see the slight thinning of the hair on his fox-colored crown, and even a few flakes of dry skin.

Even this gesture of acceptance wasn't enough for the waiter. He hesitated just a fraction too long before pulling out Kristina's chair, so De Coucy brusquely presented it himself.

The fire crackled in its rough-hewn stone bed. "Champagne, Mademoiselle?" the waiter asked.

"Thank you, I will."

"I am so delighted you came tonight, my dear girl. May I call you Christine, in honor of your long-abiding friendship with my brother?"

"Kristina would be fine," she said, pronouncing it properly, "and I'll take the liberty of calling you Etienne."

"I never mastered the ruder Scandinavian tongues, so you'll forgive me if I stick to the comforts of Mother France." He turned to the waiter and said, "Bring the oysters."

Kristina stared at two grayish, shapeless lumps sitting in their briny slop. When she touched one with her fork it jiggled slightly. It was raw, with a slice of lemon on the side.

Etienne sucked his oyster right out of the shell, fluid and all. Kristina could hear her sixth form teacher dispassionately describing how the oyster stored up its urine in its shell, until the creature opened up again to void. Well, it was one thing to poke it on the dissecting tray. Now she had to eat it. She covered it with lemon juice, hoping that would kill the taste, picked hers up exactly as Etienne did, and poured it into her mouth, oyster piss and all.

It sat in the back of her throat like thick mucus and refused to go down. The briny bitterness burned her tongue. Not so much lemon juice next time. That was a bad idea. Luckily there's only one left on the plate. Well, I'm committed to it now. Open up, throat, just a bit more - that's it - ugh, there it goes, sliding down like some dead sticky ball.

Etienne chuckled. "Your first oyster?"

Kristina nodded, swallowing hard, chasing the slippery mass with a deep drink of champagne.

"Easy on that," and he smiled even wider. "You're not used to it, I'm sure."

"Delicious," she said.

"Would you like another? I had planned the goose liver, but I can send it back. Tonight you're my guest, and I want you to enjoy yourself."

Another oyster? Oh, no. Anything but that. "I think the goose liver was a wonderful choice. Please don't inconvenience anyone for me."

Shoulders shaking with some secret amusement, he watched her face intently as the waiter sat before them a small roulade of liver wrapped in bacon.

What kind of liver is this, almost entirely white, all fat with a few streaks of brown? It squished like warm wax in her mouth, burnt on the outside, paste-like on the inside. She choked it down, smiling. More champagne made it bearable. Maybe that was why the French drank so much of the stuff."The fire is lovely," she said, gesturing toward the lively orange flames.

"Like you, bella donna," he said as he took her hand.

She gently withdrew it. "How is Louvel? Recovering well?"

The change in his shoulders was remarkable. Sloping and relaxed before, they pulled up into hunched knots. His hair crackled reddish in the firelight. "He's out of bed now, but still resting. Perhaps you should have some more champagne," and he signaled to the waiter. "It makes you so delightfully not to the point."

She sipped instead of draining the glass as before. Already her head buzzed, and the tip of her nose felt slightly numb. A little wicked flame of laughter flicked on in her belly. "It doesn't take a dancer to be en pointe."

"Touche."

"I assumed that's why you'd invited me here, to discuss Louvel and his recovery."

He opened his mouth to speak, right as the waiter placed a thin, light green soup before them. A small, oddly-shaped white ball floated on the top. Kristina didn't dare ask.

He'd recovered his balance and leaned toward her. "Artichoke soup with lobster quenelle."

You little peasant, was the unspoken other half of the sentence. Why am I flirting and toadying up to him? Why won't he just come out and say what he wants? Well, if he won't, I will. "Louvel thinks he's in love with me."

She expected him to waffle and sidestep her, but instead he said, "Louvel is in love with you. To be honest, Christine, I'm trying to talk him out of it."

"Why?" she blurted. When the waiter removed Kristina's soup bowl, he looked down at her with the dedicated intent of a bird about to peck a reptile. Lorello believes in the evil eye. He'd hang garlic around his neck every day if he had to look at this one on stage.

"You disappoint me, dear. I didn't think you were the type to collect hearts. You're more the type to be collected than to collect."

"Has Louvel told you what happened when he followed me to Ploumanac'h?"

"He followed you? The story he told me was that you wrote him, asking for a rendezvous, and when he got there, your time was, shall we say, otherwise occupied. You do surprise me."

"That's the only kind of woman you'd dine with, Etienne, one who gave you at least one surprise a day. No, I didn't invite him up. He knew my father when we were young. My father died a few years ago, and I wrote Louvel to tell him. I happened to mention that there would be a Mass of remembrance."

"Such a little innocent. Dangle the sweetmeat before the hound, and then cry out when it snaps it up."

The only way to cure the flush from too much champagne was to drink more of it. Kristina barely noticed the sliver of salmon set in front of her, jellylike and pink with some kind of red sauce drizzled over it. It looked almost raw, with its bloody garnish.

The waiter put a few more logs on the fire.

"You have to understand," Etienne went on, and he sounded as if he were a long way off, "Louvel is at heart just a boy. He has been in the Navy for three years, and at sea for the past five months. He looks forward to a leave, while he decides whether or not to renew his commission. He's a young man, full of life, and so he goes to the theater, where he sees this beautiful singer. That happens every day, you say, and you would be right. But this singer happens to be one he knows, and being a tender soul, he wants to meet her. She ignores his notes and so when he gets one from her, his heart flies out of his breast and right into her soft little white hand," and he stroked the back of Kristina's delicately, lightly. "You can imagine the beating of his heart in the cage of her hand." His voice gradually deepened as his stroke grew softer and more seductive. "He flies up to meet her, only to find another one has gotten to the coop before him. He goes out to challenge his rival, to assess his intentions, and instead of facing him man to man, this churl slips away from him into the night, where our tender-hearted boy succumbs to the elements. Then the lady flies back to Paris, leaving him to recover alone, no doubt thinking that his heart will beat even harder for her if she leaves him."

"A pretty story," Kristina said, "and almost true. If I loved him, do you think I would have gone back to Paris that morning?"

"Donna e mobile," he said, holding her hand palm up in his, where his fingers ran in tickling circles around the palm. The little flicker of pleasure on the inside of her hand matched the warmth of the room from the fire, and slowly her eyes closed as the tide inside joined with the swirl of his fingers on her hand, sweet and languorous.

The waiter took away her uneaten fish, and placed a slice of rare roast beef with some squirts of what looked like soft potato, but greenish. At least it bore some resemblance to real food. She slid her hand out from Etienne's, and fell to, the warmth in her belly suddenly opening into a hole that she wanted to fill. As she picked up a dollop of the green stuff, she asked, "What's this?" right before putting it into her mouth. It no longer mattered if she looked stupid in front of the strange food and the hawklike waiter.

Etienne called out, "Christine! Wait!" but it was too late.

Her mouth felt like a torch had been lit in it. She spat the greenish mess into a napkin and almost gagged. "Here," Etienne said, handing her his champagne glass, "This will cut the taste."

She drank the entire glass at once. The room took on a soft remote glow as her mouth cooled. "What was that?" Her voice sounded odd, as if she were talking underwater. Etienne looked suddenly happy, but he didn't answer at once. "What was that?" she repeated, and started to laugh, because her own speech warbled against a curtain of champagne. "Is there an echo in here?"

"The chef is creative tonight," he said, and he sounded far away too. "That was something new. Only a few in Paris are using it, a kind of horseradish from the Nippon Islands called wasabi. You take only a tiny bit of it, not a mouthful. You are a little innocent, aren't you?"

So close he's sitting, and what's that, reaching across my plate? "Perhaps I shouldn't trust you with a knife." And why is he cutting my roast into small pieces?

"Open up, little bird," he said, and in went one piece of roast, then another. Kristina leaned back in the soft chair and let him feed her as the laughter simmered up inside, and then they both laughed when she gave a small burp.

"Not much room in here," she said.

"Perhaps some sorbet," he said to the waiter, who stared at Kristina with barely concealed loathing. Kristina gave the waiter a long look right back, running her glance over his tight hips, noticing at the same time that her shoulder was pressed into Etienne's soft flank. How did his arm get around behind me?

When the sorbet came, it was cold and tart, and her head almost cleared a little. She giggled to herself, thinking that it would be fun to take a bath in the lime sorbet, not just eat it. Etienne watched her eat hers, then picked up his spoon and fed her his portion as well. His moustache bristled as he filled her glass with champagne again.

"I was hoping you would become Louvel's mistress," he said, sounding at once very sober. "He wrote me every other day while at sea. Could you believe it? It was all about Joaquim, one of the petty officers. Joaquim this, Joaquim said that, when Joaquim and I were on watch together we saw this. We played cards tonight, and Joaquim won. He's sailing in Mediterranean, patrolling the coast of Northern Africa, and does he write anything about the mission, the adventure, the ports of call? Nothing, only Joaquim, the son of a law clerk in Nice. I took care of it, I did. I wrote the Naval secretary, and when Louvel goes back on ship, it won't be with him. They'll never serve together again, not as long as I have anything to do with it."

"So you thought I could save him from a shipboard romance?" Kristina touched the tip of her nose to see if it was still there. It felt oddly numb. Then the sliding pieces of the conversation fit together. Slowly it dawned on her that Etienne wasn't talking about a cruise ship, but a ship of the fleet, and another sailor.

"I need to find him a wife," Etienne said, suddenly distracted from Kristina by his own thoughts.

She shifted a little, trying to get back into the circle of his attention. "But not me."

He laughed and put his lips on her palm, and as he licked it gently a flash of desire ran up her legs. "No, my little dove. Not you."

"What about you? Shouldn't the older brother marry before the younger?"

"My mother is already working on it. Sometime next year I'm sure she'll have found someone suitable, and then it will be Louvel's turn. Then he can have all the sailors he wants, as long as he keeps it out of the papers, and as long as one of us produces an heir."

"You know," Kristina said as he draped himself over her right side like a plump blanket, "I wouldn't have thought Louvel the type. Given that he's chasing me around, I mean."

Etienne ignored her remark. Coffee appeared before them, along with a lacy confection covered in delicate cream. Underneath the heavy white covering, a few tiny orange slices peeked out. Trust Etienne to find oranges in the middle of winter, she thought. She pulled one out as Etienne went on, "Then when he saw you in that one opera, which one was it, about the heretic king?"

"Henry. It was about Henry the something. I can't keep them all straight. The English have too many Henrys." Male flesh up against her side felt so good. "It was in Anna Bolena."

"He'd go to your dressing room, but wouldn't knock on the door. After a few rounds of that, I told him, just talk to her. Send her flowers. He did, but wouldn't sign a card. He went to every performance. If he'd gone to Mass like that, his sisters and mother couldn't have been happier. Now he tells me that he's in love. Christine, you have to help me here."

The sharp, strong coffee gradually cut through the fog. "Help you how?"

"If you want to take him on, I won't stand in your way. I'll see that he treats you properly and takes care of you. But don't talk of love, please. It just can't lead to anything. You know what I mean."

"Lead to anything?" Kristina's head felt wrapped in cotton, and Etienne's words made no sense. "If I were Louvel's mistress, it would lead to something, all right."

His hot breath grazed her face. "He hasn't said anything to you, then?"

"Said what? He said a lot in Ploumanac'h, most of it pretty words piled on top of words. I know he didn't like the food. He wanted to take me out to a nice restaurant, not an inn run by peasants. What else would he have said? He certainly didn't act like he wanted me as his own personal kept woman. Is that why you think he went up there?" She could feel his whole body reaching for her now, anticipating, and now a tiny bit unsure at the same time. A little more of the champagne fog lifted.

"No," he said thickly. "I don't think that at all. So you went to meet someone in Ploumanac'h, and not my brother."

"Yes. But not like you think."

"How, then?"

"It's my affair, Etienne. Just as Mirella is yours."

He shifted his flesh, as if the weight of his own body suddenly pressed on him. "Try the bombe. The oranges are from Spain. Cream and oranges are a delightful combination."

"If I ate like this every night, nothing would fit me, ever again."

He hovered over Kristina, a sly smile trembling on his lips. "You would be the Lillian Russell of France," he said softly. Seeing her puzzled face, he said, "She's an actress and singer in New York. We saw her on tour last year. Soft as a dove, with arms and a bosom like pillows. Women fainted over her, and men had to be pulled away from her dressing room door."

Curiosity flickered in Kristina. "Did Louvel find her beautiful, too?"

"No," he said in a strange, almost strangled tone. "No, he didn't. He said she looked like an overstuffed couch."

The sorbet and Spanish oranges had cooled her off inside, but a soft blanket still draped itself across her head. "You've treated me like a princess tonight, and I thank you."

"The hour is still young. I was hoping I could persuade you to dance."

Mirella will claw my eyes out tomorrow as it is. I've never danced in a man's arms to an orchestra. I don't trust myself, though, I feel dangerously soft now, as if I could flow in any direction. "If I want to keep in voice, I can't stay out too late."

Disappointment flashed for a moment over his face, but he quickly recovered himself. Kristina stood up, and the room wobbled slightly. He reached out for her arm, and she took it. Underneath the fine cloth his arm felt undefined, a little mushy.

On the street, the cold night wind pushed at them. "You'll need a scarf," he said, and wrapped his silk one around her throat, his hands lingering over her neck with a touch like vapor, but entirely attentive.

In the carriage he sat apart from her, silently looking out at the streaked blue and gold lights. "So tell me about him," he said in a serious, businesslike tone.

Kristina admired his new directness. "Tell me about Mirella, and why you were out with me tonight, instead of her."

"You missed your calling as a fencer."

"I thought I missed my calling as a dancer."

"Do you love him?"

"Do you love Mirella? Two years is a long time."

"Two years can feel like an eternity. So perhaps I am breaking promises tonight. What promises are you breaking?"

"No promises, because none have been made."

"At least, tell me who he is, what he does. I'd love to know what kind of man can keep such a rare and beautiful bird like you in a cage, without any kind of promise, who can keep her from dancing, who makes her dress in sober grey that would make a nun look flighty, and who draws her to look out the carriage window instead of at me."

"He doesn't make me dress any way, thank you. I choose my wardrobe as I please. And if you must ask, he's a stone mason. A builder." So much more than that, but it will do for right now.

"What?" he half-said, half-sputtered. "With dust in his hair?"

"I haven't seen any dust."

"Louvel, you are such a fool, chasing after a stone cutter in a churchyard, making yourself sick over it," he said to himself, as if Kristina wasn't even there. Then to her, "You should turn heads everywhere you go. A mason's wages for a year wouldn't buy one of the dresses you should have. I can see you in silk and lace, swathed in fur."

"Well, I'm sorry I embarrassed you with my appearance. Anyway, I already have a fur." The soft glow of champagne was gone entirely, replaced by a thin thread of headache.

He knew he'd gone too far, and tried to take her hand, but she folded hers up in her lap. "I don't pretend to be a saint," Etienne said. "I'm a man of the world, a man of pleasure, and I've enjoyed the company of women about as long as you've been on this earth, and I've known a lot of them. Plain women cringe and skirt around the wall, and make themselves ugly. Beautiful women parade themselves, and flaunt, and every man serves as a spotlight fit only to illuminate them. You're something different, something rare, and you don't even know it. You're a beautiful woman almost entirely unaware of her own beauty."

He rattles on as much as his brother. He's had more practice, so the words are sweeter. "Haven't you spoiled it, then, by making me aware of it?"

The night was cold already, but the temperature dropped just a few degrees in the carriage as it turned onto Kristina's street. "Tender little pigeon," he said, "you think you know so much, but let me tell you, the world is a big place, and you have seen very little of it. Your mason is carving you; it will be interesting to see what finally emerges from the rock." Then he reached over with his hands to her neck, and she started back, alarmed.

"Relax, little dove," he said. "I'm just untying my scarf, unless you want it for a souvenir of your night out on the town." He slowly unwound it, brushing her cheek and hair with his soft cool hands, sliding it off her neck like a serpent of silk. "Take care of that voice." He picked up her hand to kiss it, and this time she let him. Instead of politely breathing on it, his lips slowly caressed the back, tickling her with his moustache.

Kristina let herself in as quietly as she could. Anneke was asleep, so she rooted through the stack of correspondence on the side table as quietly as she could. There was no letter from Alberich. So she lay on her bed in the silent flat, watching the ceiling spin around her in long lazy waves. I have to face Mirella tomorrow, and all her friends. Renata is Mirella's friend, especially. That should prove interesting. I didn't do what I intended, either, which was to tell Etienne to call Louvel off. The evening all spun out of control so fast.

Etienne said I was rare. I don't feel rare, or particularly beautiful. Mirella is so much lovelier than I. Her eyes are the most remarkable blue, not grey like so many supposedly blue eyes, but truly blue, like a clear sky, and long and almond-shaped, with those brushy black lashes. But even the bluest eyes can't keep some men from tiring of her, apparently.

I'm like something in a shop that Etienne's found. He originally meant to take the present home to his little brother, but wants to keep it instead for himself, because it's pretty and it amuses him. I wonder if Mirella used to amuse him once, but doesn't now, even with her big eyes and fine shoulders.

Are you tired of me already, Alberich? That would explain no letter, and no clear mention of when you'd be back. I need some air, or I'm going to be sick. That's better, even if the cold goes right through this night dress. I never believed that nonsense about cold air being bad for the voice, or making a person ill.

It will be Christmas in a few days. Maybe I'll hear from you then.

There's the streetlight where not so long ago you stood, the light behind you casting you into a deep silhouette. I wish you would come back from Rennes, but while I can easily face a thousand Mirellas, I'm not sure I can face you. Not right now, with the memory of aristocratic mouth over the back of my hand, and too many questions unanswered.

Her thoughts went around as many times as the room, but eventually she slept.

The next day, Camille Letourneau arrived late for the Romeo et Juliette rehearsal, and was fined four francs. The company was silent as she reached inside her velvet purse and threw a five-franc coin across the room at M. Rossignol. "Keep the change," she snarled.

He coolly caught the coin mid-air and tossed it back at her. "Deductible from the next pay period," he snapped, and slammed his baton against the music stand. "Lateness will not be tolerated."

Camille plopped herself next to Kristina, fuming. "How many fines has Renata paid?" she steamed. "She's missed every Romeo rehearsal."

Kristina put her arm around her, and Camille leaned her head momentarily against Kristina's shoulder. "Don't worry," Kristina said softly. "He picked you for the role of the nurse. That's better than prancing around the Capulet's dinner party in a brocaded gown."

"Yes, I do so well as a sixty-year old woman. I don't know why I bother sometimes," she said, muffled in the sleeve of Kristina's dress.

From across the room, Riali winked at both of them and made kissing motions with his mouth. Kristina ignored him.

Kristina and Camille sat like an island in the middle of a glacial sea. It seemed every woman's eyes in rehearsal were averted. During a break, Kristina said to Camille, "How many friends does Mirella have here? If looks were arrows, I'd be St. Sebastian."

"Watch your step, Svenska," she said quietly. "Renata and Mirella have been friends for years, and Mirella wants nothing more than to marry Etienne de Coucy. But it will never happen."

"Not now, especially." Kristina thought of Louvel all over her, with everything in his eyes but a proposal. Then, as if thinking of the devil could make him appear, the rehearsal hall door swung open, and there stood Louvel de Coucy.

"Camille," Kristina poked her, "Look over there. What's he doing here?"

Camille scrutinized him up and down with the same kind of thorough accuracy Kristina had seen Riali give a new chorus girl. "Hard to say. Big brother's a patron, right? That gives him the right to clutter up rehearsals. I thought you'd be glad to see him, anyway. He's smooth, young and smooth. I like that."

Kristina made a face and shoved Camille off her shoulder.

Louvel chatted with Lorello and a few of the chorus men, and as much as Kristina tried to avoid his glance, he finally caught her eye. She sighed a little in exasperation, and said to Camille, "I can't duck him forever. Might as well introduce you."

"It would be my pleasure." Camille pushed a few of the curls at her forehead, and fixed Louvel with a coy glance. However, as Louvel made his way toward them, Rossignol snapped his baton sharply once again, and motioned to Louvel to sit down. Throughout the rest of rehearsal, Camille looked over at him time and again, and he squirmed a little, as if he felt her eyes on his skin.

Kristina watched the darting play of eyes across the rehearsal hall. Camille sat straight up now, trying to not look at him directly, and Kristina saw her through his. Through her own vision, Kristina saw lines around the mouth and hennaed hair, but when she imagined Camille through Louvel's eyes, there appeared a sensual woman with a trim-waisted buxom figure, curved hips, and soft red curls clustered around a wide-eyed, pert-chinned face.

Since Renata was gone, Kristina sang Juliette as well as her own part of the mischievous page Stephano. During her duet with Camille as the nurse, Camille implored her, caressed her, put her hands on Kristina's face, and always peeked over at Louvel, who was now red-faced and sweating.

"Excellent," Rossignol commented. "Tear out their hearts with passion," and Camille gave Kristina a wicked grin.

When rehearsal ended, Louvel was nowhere to be seen, and Camille's face crimped in disappointment.

"I know where he'll be," Kristina said, trying to reassure her. "He likes to haunt my dressing room. Come down there with me and you'll get formally introduced." She took Camille's arm and they left quickly, ignoring the stares and whispers of the other women.

"There's no rush. Let him wait," Camille said, pulling Kristina's arm back so that they walked slowly through the halls. "Is your dressing room far away enough? I know why he came this afternoon, it's obvious."

"As I explained to his brother last night, Louvel's not in love with me, not really. He's stage-struck, there's a difference. I don't think he even really likes me. If he's not criticizing me, we don't have anything to talk about."

"Who said anything about talking?" Camille responded with a crooked smile. "But I'm not going to cut you out if he's what you want."

"He's all yours, believe me. Sshhh, look, there he is."

"Invite him in," she whispered.

"What?"

"Trust me."

"You're not serious?"

Camille, Louvel, and Kristina stood awkwardly in the main part of the dressing room, crowded together a little too closely for Kristina's taste. Kristina took Louvel's top hat and set it carefully on the bureau dresser. They made introductions, and then Camille looked significantly at the curtain that separated the main room from the boudoir. After the second or third glance Kristina understood. "Louvel," she said sweetly, "Please excuse us ladies for a few moments. As you can see, there is no maid here, and I need Camille's help with something. Here, have some pastilles while we're gone."

When we slid behind the brocade curtain Kristina whispered to Camille, "What's going on?"

"We're going to stoke the flames a little bit," Camille whispered back. "Here, take your hair down a few locks here and there, and muss it up." She went over to the closet and rustled the dressing gown. "Oh, this petticoat, it won't go up," she said a little too loudly. Then she leaned over to Kristina, whispering once again, "Tell me to unlace your corset."

"Camille," Kristina called out in a stage voice, "could you undo my corset a little? It's dreadfully tight," and she had to pinch herself to keep from giggling. Camille poked her in the ribs, and then she did giggle. Camille rustled some silk again and mussed her own hair.

"Here, let me do up your hair again," Camille said, facing the bedroom curtain so to project her voice outward. As she came close to Kristina's neck she inhaled briefly for a moment, and Kristina could feel her desire like an unformed cloud which covered herself, Louvel, anything in Camille's path. "You're not shocked?" Camille asked her very quietly, and then louder, for Louvel's benefit, "Oh, naughty girl, don't pinch me like that."

"You deserved it," Kristina projected. Then quieter, "No, I'm not shocked. I went to convent school, but I didn't grow up in one."

"You'd be surprised what goes on in convents." Then Camille kissed Kristina lightly on the side of the mouth, just a touch of lips on skin, and said under her breath, "Thank you. Now it's time to make our grand appearance," and disheveled and almost deshabille, the two women went back into the sitting room.

Louvel rose to his feet and Camille looked him over caressingly, possessively. He stammered and went red again as everyone sat down. Now Kristina saw Louvel through Camille's eyes this time, and he was indeed smooth, like a silky lap-dog ready for stroking, with his blondish trimmed moustache and round limbs, his mouth half-open and a bit wet.

"I'd ask Svenska to make tea," Camille said, "but that would be presumptuous, as it isn't my dressing room. However, I would like some. Rehearsing makes one so thirsty," and she dusted him over lightly with her eyes once again.

"We'll go to Bretano's," he said at once. "My carriage is outside. Christine, will you come too?"

"Louvel, nothing would please me more. But Anneke needs me this afternoon to help Amelie beat rugs. You must invite me some other time." Camille gave Kristina the same seductive glance she'd given Louvel. He watched her face intently, and then looked over at Kristina, expectant. She didn't have to cast her eyes indiscreetly downward to know that he was roused. "Oh, I'm sure Camille will be as good company to you as she is to me," and Camille looked satisfied.

"Would you wait for me in the hall? I'll just be a moment," Camille said to Louvel playfully.

"Of course," he stammered, and stumbled to his feet.

When the door closed behind him, Camille whirled toward Kristina and clutched her stomach, grinning. "Did you see him?" she gasped, fighting back whoops of laughter. "He could barely walk. And he forgot his hat."

"How did you know?" Kristina asked. "I mean, what to say in that little bit of play-acting."

"Sweetheart, right now I'm just improvising. We'll see if I'm right," and with that, Camille picked up Louvel's silk top hat and her own wrap, and whirled out the door.

(Continued …)