The Romance of Violette

ODETTE.”

At the words “I love you like a madwoman” Florence uttered a cry.

Then, as she had no secrets from her maid:

“Mariette! Mariette!” she cried, quite elated. “It is a woman!”

“I suspected as much,” replied the maid.

“You foolish, girl, why did you not tell me?”

“I was afraid of being mistaken.”

“Ah!” murmured Florence, “how pretty she must be!”

Then after a pause of a few seconds, she asked in a languid voice:

“Where are the bouquets?”

“Madame knows well that, thinking they came from a man, she ordered them thrown away.”

“But tonight's bouquet.”

“It is still here.”

“Give it to me.”

Mariette handed it to her.

Florence took it and looked at it with a pleased smile.

“Do you not think it splendid?”

“Not more so than the others.”

“Do you not think so?”

“Madame has not even looked at them.”

“Ah!” said Florence, laughing. “I shall not be so ungrateful in the case of this one. Help me to undress, Mariette.”

“Madame will not keep it in her room, I hope.”

“Why not?”

“Because there is a magnolia, some lilac and other strongly scented flowers, which may give you a headache.”

“There is no danger of that.”

“I beseech Madame to let me take the bouquet away.”

“No such thing.” f Madame wishes to be asphyxiated, she is free to do so, of course.”

“If one could be asphyxiated with flowers, don't you think it would be better to die thus at once, instead of lingering on for three or four years with consumption, as my fate will probably be?”

Florence had a short fit of dry cough.

“Should Madame die in three or four years,” said Mariette, whilst undressing her mistress, “it will be because Madame wished it.”

“How do you make that out?”

“I heard what the doctor said to madame yesterday.”

“What! You heard it?”

“Yes!”

“Then you were listening!”

“No. I was in the dressing room… One hears sometimes without trying to.”

“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”.