The Rendez-vous
Avenue Michaud reflected many of the other streets in the 4th Arrondissement, an upper-middle class neighborhood where many of the bourgeoisie—including doctors, lawyers, and civil servants—lived, in hôtels particulières or spacious apartments. Avenue Michaud was tree-lined and quiet, domesticated, where residents walked their dogs and where carriages could be seen coming and going throughout the day and into the evening hours.
It was in one of these carriages, drawn by a magnificent pair of chestnut bays, that Henri de Clermont-Tonnère, Comte de Lignes, was driven one evening, to number 24, a three-story stone building, similar to others in the vicinity. Henri’s driver opened the carriage door and M. de Clermont-Tonnère stepped out in front of the iron gate.
“Will it be the same, Monsieur?” asked his driver.
“Yes, Georges. Come for me at 1:00,” replied M. le Comte.
“Very well, Monsieur.”
Henri opened the gate with his gloved hand and walked up the flower-lined path to the front door and knocked. After a moment, the door was opened by a bare-chested mulatto dressed in a pair of flowing silk trousers.
“Bon soir, M. le Comte,” the mulatto greeted Henri.
“Good evening, Paul.” M. de Clermont-Tonnère allowed the mulatto to take his cape, cane, and top hat, revealing evening clothes, for he had just come from the opera. He then strode through the entry hall into the reception room.
“Mon cher,” exclaimed a handsome woman of indeterminate age, dressed in a peacock blue silk with a triple strand of matching pigeon egg-sized pearls encircling her aging neck. Henri bowed, lifting the woman’s fleshy and perfumed hand to his lips, barely brushing a kiss on its diamonded fingers.
“Madame, I have counted the hours until this moment,” whereupon Henri returned the lingered hand to its mistress.
“Monsieur, a glass of champagne?” and she took le Comte by the arm and led him to a tapestried sofa in the center of the glittering room.
M. de Clermont-Tonnère glanced around him. He was as familiar with the room as he was with his own home. He always returned for its warmth, for it showed the subtle taste of its mistress. Period furniture—mostly signed Louis XV—silk draperies and Savonnières carpets. No clutter, merely a few photos of Madame with favored clients displayed here and there. Henri enjoyed being here, enjoyed Madame’s conversation and the opportunity to relax and be himself. For Henri de Clermont-Tonnière, Comte de Lignes, this was home.
“Henri,” Madame leaned closer, “would you like me to introduce you to my latest ‘find’?” This she asked in a seductive undertone, so characteristic of her that M. de Clermont-Tonnère always felt at ease when in her company.
“Who is she?” he asked, wrapping a manicured hand around his hostess’s bejeweled fingers.
“Tanya, just arrived from St Petersburg. An enchanting creature. I’m sure you’ll discover that for yourself. Allow me to introduce you.” And with these words, she rose and walked to the edge of the room where she spoke to one of the uniformed femmes de chambre.
A few minutes later, a girl of perhaps sixteen years, dressed in a simple pale salmon taffeta gown, entered the reception room and walked up to where Henri de Clermont-Tonnère, Comte de Lignes, was seated in animated conversation with Madame.
“Tanya, ma chère, this is M. de Clermont-Tonnère, Comte de Lignes. Henri, may I present Tanya.” Henri rose as the girl approached and was introduced. “She speaks perfect French. I’ll now leave the two of you to become acquainted. A bientôt, Henri.” Madame rose, to leave Henri de Clermont-Tonnère with the young girl, and, on leaving, ordered that all the doors to the room be shut and the servants to leave.
“Does Monsieur desire another glass of champagne?” the young girl inquired.
At the sound of a bell rung by the girl a femme de chambre brought two glasses of champagne and placed the tray holding the glasses on the Chinese lacquered table at the side of the sofa, then left and closed the door behind her.
“What does monsieur wish to talk about?” the young girl asked.
They discussed the latest rage in Paris, a new opera by the Italian, Giuseppi Verdi—La Traviata—a performance of which M. le Comte had attended that evening. A few minutes later, after M. le Comte had finished his champagne, he rose.
“Undress,” he demanded.
The young girl unbuttoned her dress, allowing it to slip to the floor. Henri grabbed her right arm.
“Monsieur is hurting me,” the girl murmured.
“Get the whips,” Henri hissed. The girl, clad only in her lingerie and mules, slowly made her way to a cabinet in the corner of the room.
“Hurry, slut,” he shouted after her.
Bringing back several whips of varying lengths and widths, the young girl modestly laid them on the sofa.
“Undress me,” the man demanded, pulling the girl closer to himself while she gently unbuttoned his starched shirt, carefully loosening the ruby studs and cufflinks so that they would not fall out. Now, completely naked except for a pair of silk drawers, the man lay on the carpeted floor, spreading his arms and legs, his face buried in its deep plush.
“Begin,” he barked.
The girl chose the longest of the whips, stood over the man and began lashing his back.
“Harder,” the man shouted.
The girl swung the leather above her head and came down on the man’s flesh. Red marks began appearing where the whip had met the flesh. The body lying on the Savonnières carpet jerked with each falling blow from the girl’s whip. The girl, choosing another whip—this one with knotted ends—rained down blow after blow on the creature at her feet.
“Oh…ah…yes…YES…harder…HARDER,” moans from the carpet floated in the air above, hanging suspended around the girl’s ears. Welts replaced the red marks on the jerking body clutching the carpet’s piles.
“Harder, slut, HARDER,” the man’s voice demanded.
The girl, perspiring and red-faced from her exertion, stepped on the writhing body, digging the heels of her mules into the flesh under her feet. Then, choosing a new whip—this one studded with small metal buttons—raised her arm and came down on the man with a blow that caused his body to rise and then fall back onto the carpet. Again and again, she smothered the man’s back with rapid blows until the welts began oozing blood.
The man lay motionless while the girl took off her lingerie and, squatting on his back, urinated.
“Get up,” she demanded. “Get up and get dressed, pig.”
Steading himself by holding the arm of the sofa, the man slowly raised.
“Thank you, Madamoiselle,” he said softly.
They both dressed in silence, the only sound being the rustle of the girl’s taffeta dress. Then the man lay a 1,000 franc note on the lacquered table, and raised the girl’s hand to his lips.
“Thank you, Madamoiselle,” he repeated. “You are everything Madame said you would be.” Henri de Clermont-Tonnère, Comte de Lignes, then turned and made his way over the Savonnieres carpets lying under the signed Louis XV furniture, past the brilliant candelabra, to the door. On his ring, a servant opened the door and Henri de Clermont-Tonnère, Comte de Lignes, stepped into the vestibule to be greeted once more by Madame.
“Did Monsieur enjoy himself this evening?” Madame—in her peacock blue silk and triple strand of pigeon egg-sized pearls—asked Henri, Comte de Linges, as he was helped into his cape and handed his cane and top hat by the bare-chested mulatto.
“Very much, Madame,” he replied. “Tanya is perfection. You have indeed found a treasure.”
“Your recommendation gives me much pleasure, Monsieur,” the woman
answered. Turning to him, she said, “You see, mon cher comte, il ne faut pas se fier aux apparences. You can never judge a book by its cover.”
“Bon soir, Madame.”
“Bon soir, Henri. Until we meet again.”
M. de Clermont-Tonnère, Comte de Lignes, left the house and, more slowly than when he arrived a few hours previously, made his way down the flower-bordered path to his waiting carriage.
Biography
E.P. Lande was born in Montreal, but has lived most of his life in the south of France and Vermont, where he now lives with his partner, writing and caring for more than 100 animals, many of which are rescues. Previously, he taught at l’Université d’Ottawa where he served as Vice-Dean of his faculty, and he has owned and managed country inns and free-standing restaurants. Since submitting less than two years ago, more than 60 of his stories have been accepted by publications in countries on five continents.