discovered, was the bait that kept the courtesans’ admirers in constant thrall, an aphrodisiac as powerful as oysters, Émilienne assured me, for what man with blood in his veins did not yearn for the forbidden, along with the sublime?
“I wouldn’t know,” I said. We reclined on the settee in my room, which she cushioned with her embroidered mantilla and a plethora of pillows. Her friends had gone out to stroll the gardens with the men; Émilienne arrived in my room with her hair unbound to declare that we must have this afternoon to ourselves.
Now, she surveyed me with her catlike eyes. “You wouldn’t know? My dear, you seem positively wretched these days. Are you not happy that I brought my friends to buy your wares?” She motioned with her kimono-draped arm to my empty worktable, where a lone plain black square hat, one of my favorites, remained. On the floor were piled boxes from the haberdashery on rue Lafayette, containing the basic forms she had bought me. “Look, they’ve cleared out your stock. Now you’ve a fresh batch, so you can make new hats and I can bring another horde to buy them the next time I visit. Before you know it, your name will be on everyone’s lips.”
“Yes, of course I’m happy,” I said with a strained smile. “It’s only that . . .” I wasn’t sure if I should broach the fog of discontent, which had settled upon me, the sense that I drifted in a world where I had no purpose or any chance for true happiness.
She immediately inclined to me. “Oh, no, ma chère . Tell me it is not so.”
“What?” I stared at her, bewildered. “What is not so?”
She sighed. “I knew it: this strange melancholy and lack of appetite, the thinness and pallor. My dear, you are enceinte .”
It took a moment for me to grasp her meaning. When I did, I was astonished. “You think I’m pregnant? Oh, no, Émilienne. I assure you, I am not.”
“No?” She frowned. “Is it not possible?”
I paused. “Yes,” I said at length, for I saw no reason to lie. She knew who Balsan and I were to each other. “I suppose it is. But I am not.” The manner in which I spoke must have betrayed more than I intended, for she became contemplative in a way I had not seen before. Then she reclined, her kimono falling open to reveal her curvaceous body in a cream silk negligee, today without her corset. “I see.”
“You do?” As I did not, I was curious to hear what she had divined.
“Have you considered instructing him, perhaps?” she asked, still in that intimate tone. “Men can be trained. They learn rather readily, in fact, if you take the time to show them. With patience and persistence, I have found they can accommodate our needs quite satisfactorily when given the chance.”
She was not talking about financial needs, that much I understood. But I was so dumbfounded by the unexpected turn in our conversation, I couldn’t say a word.
“He performed well enough for me,” she added, with an arch of her plucked eyebrow. “Maybe not the best I’ve had, but certainly not the worst.” She grimaced. “I don’t keep those who refuse to accommodate, not with so many others waiting at the door.”
I finally found my voice. “You think I should train Balsan? Like a dog?”
“Why, yes. He does not please you. You must do something to change his perspective. Not every woman is the same. He might not know that, being a man, but we do. How else is he to learn if you do not teach him?”
My laughter escaped me in an incredulous burst. “Show him? I hardly know myself!” and as soon as I spoke, I realized I had just stepped into my own unwitting snare.
Her tongue moistened her lips. “You have never . . . ?” When I failed to respond, though this time I knew perfectly well what she implied, she added, “Experienced pleasure in bed?”
“I do like to sleep,” I said faintly. I wasn’t about to admit to my furtive explorations with my fingers, the quick quiver and gasp that
“I wouldn’t know,” I said. We reclined on the settee in my room, which she cushioned with her embroidered mantilla and a plethora of pillows. Her friends had gone out to stroll the gardens with the men; Émilienne arrived in my room with her hair unbound to declare that we must have this afternoon to ourselves.
Now, she surveyed me with her catlike eyes. “You wouldn’t know? My dear, you seem positively wretched these days. Are you not happy that I brought my friends to buy your wares?” She motioned with her kimono-draped arm to my empty worktable, where a lone plain black square hat, one of my favorites, remained. On the floor were piled boxes from the haberdashery on rue Lafayette, containing the basic forms she had bought me. “Look, they’ve cleared out your stock. Now you’ve a fresh batch, so you can make new hats and I can bring another horde to buy them the next time I visit. Before you know it, your name will be on everyone’s lips.”
“Yes, of course I’m happy,” I said with a strained smile. “It’s only that . . .” I wasn’t sure if I should broach the fog of discontent, which had settled upon me, the sense that I drifted in a world where I had no purpose or any chance for true happiness.
She immediately inclined to me. “Oh, no, ma chère . Tell me it is not so.”
“What?” I stared at her, bewildered. “What is not so?”
She sighed. “I knew it: this strange melancholy and lack of appetite, the thinness and pallor. My dear, you are enceinte .”
It took a moment for me to grasp her meaning. When I did, I was astonished. “You think I’m pregnant? Oh, no, Émilienne. I assure you, I am not.”
“No?” She frowned. “Is it not possible?”
I paused. “Yes,” I said at length, for I saw no reason to lie. She knew who Balsan and I were to each other. “I suppose it is. But I am not.” The manner in which I spoke must have betrayed more than I intended, for she became contemplative in a way I had not seen before. Then she reclined, her kimono falling open to reveal her curvaceous body in a cream silk negligee, today without her corset. “I see.”
“You do?” As I did not, I was curious to hear what she had divined.
“Have you considered instructing him, perhaps?” she asked, still in that intimate tone. “Men can be trained. They learn rather readily, in fact, if you take the time to show them. With patience and persistence, I have found they can accommodate our needs quite satisfactorily when given the chance.”
She was not talking about financial needs, that much I understood. But I was so dumbfounded by the unexpected turn in our conversation, I couldn’t say a word.
“He performed well enough for me,” she added, with an arch of her plucked eyebrow. “Maybe not the best I’ve had, but certainly not the worst.” She grimaced. “I don’t keep those who refuse to accommodate, not with so many others waiting at the door.”
I finally found my voice. “You think I should train Balsan? Like a dog?”
“Why, yes. He does not please you. You must do something to change his perspective. Not every woman is the same. He might not know that, being a man, but we do. How else is he to learn if you do not teach him?”
My laughter escaped me in an incredulous burst. “Show him? I hardly know myself!” and as soon as I spoke, I realized I had just stepped into my own unwitting snare.
Her tongue moistened her lips. “You have never . . . ?” When I failed to respond, though this time I knew perfectly well what she implied, she added, “Experienced pleasure in bed?”
“I do like to sleep,” I said faintly. I wasn’t about to admit to my furtive explorations with my fingers, the quick quiver and gasp that
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