Part 3: La Nuit de Mariage (The Wedding Night)

The Marquis de Muzillac, eighteen years old and as beautiful as a god, rode an enormous black horse with red nostrils and white stockings that went up past its knees, and a great splash of white on its belly, as if it had been ridden through a river of milk. A lieutenant of the Regiment de Dauphin, his uniform was red and gold, his saddlecloth embroidered with gilded fleur de lis.

Every girl in the village fell in love with him, but he had come for just two things. It was rumored that a pistol was held to the temple of the curate of the village church, and the demand made that the body of the old marquis was to be moved to the family crypt. For five years it had lain, a murderer, a suicide, in ignoble dirt, unconsecrated ground.

Imogene-Marie de Chantonnay was the other thing.

The Mere Superieure of the Couvent de Sainte Marie de Magdala had crossed herself as she watched them go. For once in her life, she felt that her prayers had been answered.

For sixteen years she had raised this child, the daughter of "a well-born gentleman who does not wish to be known". Her given name being neither Christian nor French, the sister's gave her the communion name of the Blessed Virgin, and the surname of the wealthy patroness of their couvent. An annuity had been provided for her keeping and her education, and a box of gold for her marriage. But who was to arrange for such a marriage?

For the first ten years of Imogene's life, discreet letters of inquiry had arrived several times a year in the hand of an agent, a Monsieur Valdec, of Nantes. But there had been no letters for a very long time, and the Mere Superieure was quite at a loss to know what she was meant to do with the girl.

As the years passed it became quite clear to the Mere Superieure, too, that Imogene would never join their order. It was difficult to put one's finger on exactly, but it seemed to her that Imogene was too much of this world. A creature of flesh, a corporeal being, carnal, natural, intelligent, but no more imbued with the Spirit than a cat or a bird.

The child was not without gifts. Soeur Veronique had trained her in the healing arts. She could set a bone as neatly as pleats of linen, and sew up a wound that would one day be remembered only by the faintest trace of a silver-white scar. Her knowledge of herbals surpassed Veronique's, and the old nun, who was past ninety, had been heard to mutter that there was something of the gitan about that girl, or worse, la sorciere.

When she was gone, the Mere Superieure went to her little room in the attics, and found the sheaves of minutely detailed drawings of plants and animals, so beautiful, so lifelike she half expected the crow to flap its wings, the salamander to wriggle itself off the page. But what was most astonishing, and most disturbing, she thought, was that Imogene had drawn the insides of the animals as well as the outsides!

The leaves of her Bible were stuffed with the pressings of plants. There were jars of strange looking seedpods, and pink things floating, and lumpen dried things on the windowsill that had once been something that did not bear thinking of. There were stones and feathers and bones and hair and teeth.

She had let him take the girl. She had given them the box of gold.

"In nomine Patris et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, " said the Mere Superieure as she crossed herself once more and left the room.

*****


L'Auberge Du Bois was just outside of the town of Redon, on the road to Paris. True to its name, the inn was settled in a wood some way off the main road, and it looked like something out of another time, with its crooked, steeply pitched and thickly thatched roofs and ancient, moss-coated stone walls. Approaching through the silent woods, just as darkness fell, and seeing the amber glow from the many tiny leaded windows, it had appeared like a place of enchantment, a magical dwelling in a realm of elves and fairies.

Lucien ascended the creaking, narrow stair to his room. The leather pouch he wore attached to his belt jingled and bounced against his hip as he climbed. It was still heavy with gold, even after the numerous pieces he had given out that day: to the Mere Superieure of the Couvent de St. Marie de Magdala; to Madame Faure for two shifts and two simple traveling gowns; to a Monsieur Rameau for the purchase of a fine-boned, snow-white pony; to the trembling curate who had solemnized their marriage, and to the innkeeper of L'Auberge Du Bois who had promised a wedding supper and a bedchamber fit for a prince of the blood royal.

Lucien smiled to himself. The meal had been plain, but delicious. There had even been a little sugar-dusted bride's cake with a gold souverain baked into it for luck. The small, neat bedroom with its large featherbed and heavy crewelwork hangings was far finer, he knew, than anything Imogene had ever known. That would change. He imagined her in the silver-hung bedchambers of the Chateau d'Agniers. He saw her coming towards him through the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, a pale, slender figure in dazzling white silk, her black hair in ringlets, and glinting with blue lights, the fire in her eyes as brilliant as the light of the crystal chandeliers, a king's treasure of diamonds at her throat.

 Everything seemed possible to him now.

He hesitated for just a moment, his hand on the latch. Then, quietly, he opened the door and slipped into the room.

He found his new bride on her knees beside the high bed, saying her prayers. Her back and buttocks and legs showed plainly through the thin material of her nightgown. Except for a certain inherent female roundness, she was still as slight and as slender as a young boy. Her head bowed, she seemed not to know that he was there.

She was his. She had come to him as easily, as naturally as if he had been gone but five days, and not five long years. He remembered a day so long ago, flying his falcon, Le Fantome Gris, over the marshes, along the banks of the river. A wild bird, he had been so afraid that she would fly from his hand, never to return, and when she had, it had seemed a miracle, a blessing. And now Imogene was his. A miracle, a blessing. So small, no higher than his own heart, she had held out her hand to him, had looked into his eyes with her water-green gaze, had smiled her enigmatic and evanescent smile. She was more beautiful than his memory, more beautiful than he ever could have dreamed.

 The sight of her on her knees touched something protective inside him, even as he felt the rise of desire.  

"What are you praying for, my sweet?" he spoke softly. "For deliverance?" He made a little joke.

She turned slowly, her lips parted in a half smile. He could see her perfect little white teeth. Her black, black hair streamed down her back, and over her fragile white arms. No more in a tangle. It glistened in the firelight like a river of wet ink.

"Should I be?" He was amazed at the sound of her voice. It was low and throaty and wickedly sensual. It made him feel a curious vibration at the base of his spine.

She was rising and turning, coming towards him slowly, her pale face upturned. "Soeur Jacqueline tells me it will be like the animals mating," she was saying. " Only she says that she hopes you will have more finesse. " Her eyes found his. "I know you will."

He swallowed the lump in his throat. Finesse. She did not, then, expect that he was a virgin, although suddenly, alarmingly, he felt as though he was. He thought of the girls of the Palais Royal Gardens, with their soft, hot, open bodies, their easy laughter and teasing smiles, showing him all of their secrets, rolling him in their arms.  He thought of Madame le Comtesse de Gace, the closest friend of his Tante Anne-Louise. Pink-skinned and golden-haired, with a lush white bosom and smooth round thighs, she rode him like a hobby horse until they were both sweat-soaked and saddle sore. "Mon dieu, Lucien!" she would pant in his ear, "Dear God, how I love a young man!" "Oh, la!" he would boast to his friends. "She goes like a pair of lobster claws!"

"Lucien." She was standing just under his chin. " Lucien, mon mari," she was saying, in a voice like a cat's purring. "Husband."

He made himself look down. Her eyelids were lowered to narrow slits, to sweeping cat-like slivers of glimmering green. He raised his hand to her face, and with his thumb he traced the line of her delicate jaw and little pointed chin, let his fingertips follow the blue pulse in her throat and run over her dainty collarbones. And then, with a quick intake of breath, he bent to claim at last her tantalizing little red mouth.

She tasted of bitter cherries. He lifted her to him as he kissed her. Her body was feather light and yielded to his embrace like the petals of a flower to the closing of a hand. He could feel her fingers at the back of his neck, twining themselves in his hair. Her lips opened against his, and then her tongue flicked between his teeth, startling him profoundly, while at the same time causing his jeanchouart to snap to attention with almost painful suddenness. It stood straight up, as if trying to finds its way right out the top of his pantalons!

And then, just as suddenly, she stopped kissing him, letting her head fall back, and she wriggled out of his arms, dropping lightly to the floor. She cocked her head and looked at him, and with an odd little smile, turned and scampered away from him, and jumped up onto the bed. She crouched on her hands and knees, her breath coming in little panting puffs. He saw her dark pink tongue dart between her teeth and flicker briefly across her top lip.

"Well?" she purred, her rear end swaying a little from side to side. "Are you coming?"

He was staring. And then he began to laugh. His fingers went to the buttons of his red coat. He tore at his clothing. Coat, vest, shirt, pantalons, shoes and stockings sailed cross the room. His jeanchouart was so hard it flew up and slapped him on his stomach as climbed onto the bed.

He reached for her. With a hiss of breath from between her teeth she slipped away to the far side of the bed, just beyond his grasp. He crawled after her, and again she slithered away. He lunged, and she squeaked as his hand closed around one slim ankle.

"Come here!" He laughed and growled as he tugged on the leg. The fabric of her nightgown rode up as he drew her towards him, revealing first sweet, perfect little knees, then a silky length of thigh.

He pulled her legs down and lay atop them with all his weight, so she could not move. With his hands he pushed the nightdress up to her waist. He sighed, feasting his eyes on the sight of the neat little thatch of curling, silken black hair at the base of the smooth white plane of her belly, the sharp, pointed hipbones, the tight whorl of her navel.

He heard her make a tiny whimpering sound, and her hips shifted as she tried to move her legs. Looking down, he caught a whiff of musk, could see a faint dew of arousal on the satiny inner slopes of her thighs.

"Lucien!" she whined pathetically. " Let me go!"

He let one hand wander across her hip and belly, to the little point of black hair. His fingers played in the glossy nest, letting the strands curl and twist round them.

"Are you going to try to get away?" he asked nonchalantly. "Or are you going to be good?"

 She sighed impatiently. "I will be good."

He rolled to one side, and getting to his knees, moved up to lie beside her. He leaned over her, his arms on either side of her body. She lay still, looking up at him with eyes that shone like the winter moon. Her hair was spreading in inky waves upon the snow-white bed linen. He smoothed it with his hands, thinking he had never touched anything so soft. He gazed at her in wonder, marveled at the way her ivory skin lay upon the bones of her face, studied the exquisite arch of her nose, the faint cast of blue on her half-closed eyelids. This creature of mystery, this strange and wondrous thing. The girl he had loved since he was a child. His wife.

"I am yours, Lucien."  He could feel her voice vibrating inside his chest. He shivered as she ran a sharp fingernail along the length of the scar that ran from his chest to his throat.

"I sewed this up for you," she whispered. "You should have died."

"Imogene…" he breathed, as her finger followed the scar to its end, sliding over his breast, brushing across one dark nipple, tracing the taut divide of muscle down the center of his belly, dipping into his navel. "Imogene, mon bien-aime…" He bent to kiss her mouth as her hand moved lower, and his own hand moved from her slim, bare hip up under her gown. "Mon coeur, Imogene…" Her slight breasts were feather soft; her nipples rose in sharp little points beneath his palms. Her fingers closed around him. "Imogene, ma femme…Imogene."

He rolled atop her. He reached down and took her hand, pushing both arms above her head so he could remove her nightgown. She squirmed beneath him, and he felt her sharp little bones. Naked, her arms went around his neck and she wrapped her legs around his thighs. His cock was hard as a hammer and his balls ached. Finesse! He groaned. He had to have her now.

He raised himself on one arm, and reached between his legs to guide himself. He wanted to be gentle; he would try to go slow. She drew up her knees, spreading herself wide, and glancing down he saw the red slash of her sex, glistening and wet.

He placed himself at the entrance and looked into her eyes. She tilted her head back slightly, and slowly her eyelids closed. She was panting like a little animal.

He began to push his way in, a little at a time. He pushed but he found he could only go so far. He pushed a little harder, trying to be gentle, trying to go slow.

He shifted his hips and pushed again, even harder, and still he could not get in. He looked at Imogene. He didn't want to hurt her. She was lying quietly beneath him, her eyes wide open now, her lips parted, breathing in quick, shallow breaths. Her hands squeezed his arms. She smiled her odd little smile.

"Go on," she said softly, "You're not hurting me."

He kissed her chin, her cheeks, her mouth. He lay flat upon her and curled his arms beneath her shoulders to give himself leverage. He pushed, again, and again, as hard as he dared, as hard as he thought he could. Something was very wrong. He had never taken a girl's virginity before, but he did not think it should be this difficult! He didn't know what to do, and what was worse, having to try so hard, and having to think about it was having an alarming effect on his manhood. He could feel himself wilting.

He rolled on his side and pulled Imogene into his arms. He kissed her mouth, her throat, her sweet little breasts.  He ran his hands up and down over her back and her soft behind. She purred and pressed herself against him.

"Lucien," she whispered as he lost himself in kissing her shoulders, her armpits, the crooks of her elbows. "Lucien!"

He looked into her face. She was frowning. "Lucien, you didn't do it. Why didn't you do it?"

He sighed. He felt the color rising in his face. He didn't know what to say. Finally, desperate, humiliated, he mumbled into her neck, "I…cant."

She pushed him away from her, made him look into her eyes. "What do you mean, you can't?"

He could hardly bear to look at her. He thought he had never been so embarrassed. He moaned, and rolled over on his back. "I…there is something…it is too…tough." he said.

"You're not trying hard enough. Soeur Jacqueline says there is a membrane. She says you must break it, and that I will bleed."

 She moved over him, and he felt the tips of her nipples brush the smooth skin of his chest. He took her face in his hands, stroked her cheeks with his thumbs.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"You can't hurt me." Her cool little hand was sliding down over his belly. Her fingers tickled at the insides of his thighs. He felt himself grow hard again at her touch.

"Do it, Lucien," she whispered, tugging at him.

He growled and rolled her over again. He got to his knees between her legs, pulled her to him so that her bottom was raised, resting on his thighs. He grasped her hips in both his hands, took a deep breath and tried again.

He couldn't do it.

"Oh, merde!" He pushed himself away from her, and flopped backwards onto the bed, his jeanchouart standing straight up like a flagstaff, and waving a little, from side to side.

"Mon dieu, Lucien!" Imogene fumed, sitting up and crossing her arms. "How difficult can it be?"

He said nothing. He covered his face with his arm. He could not believe this.

He heard her sigh impatiently. "Wait," she said.

He turned his head and watched from under his arm as she slid off the bed and stalked across the room. Completely naked, unselfconscious, she strode to the armoire in the corner. The graceful way she moved, the way her supple body seemed to undulate as she bent to open a drawer, reminded him again of some kind of sleek little animal; a fox, or a marten in it’s white winter coat.

When she came back to bed she had something in her hand but he could not see what it was. He started to sit up. She sat with her back pressed up against the head of the bed, her knees drawn up and her legs spread in a most shocking manner. With one hand she was opening herself, her long, slender fingers parting the lips of her sex.

Almost too late he saw what was in the other hand, a glint of silver in the light of the fire as raised her arm.

"No!" he lunged at her, catching her wrist and twisting it down. He was amazed at her strength as she actually fought him. She slid down the bed wriggling and thrashing. He jumped back a little as her bony little kneecap barely missed his balls.

"My God, what are you doing!" he exclaimed in a loud whisper, forcing her arm down, and trying, with his free hand to pry open her fingers.

"Fixing it!" she hissed, and she bit down on his arm.

"Ah!" He set back in pain and shock. "What is wrong with you?" Again he tried to open her hand, again she struggled and thrashed and tried to bite him. Bewildered, exasperated, he forced her body over until her face was buried in the pillows. He held her down with his weight and with both hands free, got hold of her arms. She managed to turn her head to one side, and she was breathing hard, sobbing, looking at him with one wild eye.

"Imogene!" He gasped, trying to catch his own breath. He laid his head on her shoulder, rubbed his cheek against her heated skin.

"Do it, Lucien!"

He wanted to. Unbelievably, he was harder than ever. He ached and throbbed, and with the excitement of the struggle, his blood was up. The sight of her helpless, panting and flushed beneath him and the feel of her soft buttocks under his hips were wildly arousing. He raised his body off of hers slowly. She did not move. He pulled her onto her hands and knees. She shook her head and her hair spilled forward like a black waterfall, pooling on the white sheets between her arms. He slid his hands up and down the pure, creamy length of her back, running his thumbs over the bumps of her spine. His cock rose between her thighs and he adjusted himself, placing himself like an archer taking careful aim. He told himself he would take her this time or break himself in half trying.

It was all over in seconds. He thrust, she shrieked. His eyes rolled back in his head as he felt himself sink all the way into her. He had never felt anything so tight, so excruciatingly good. He had no self-control. He plunged wildly, knocking himself violently against her. He saw her throw up her hands, pressing them flat against the headboard, as she arched her body into him, crying his name. Convulsing, he exploded inside her; saw his fingers leaving red streaks on her white flanks as he felt his seed, his whole life, rushing out of him.

He couldn't stop moving against her, jerking in involuntary spasms as wave after wave of impossibly sweet pleasure washed over his loins and rippled up his spine. He saw Imogene's hands drop down from the headboard. She sank down onto her stomach, and he slipped out of her at last. He saw her roll onto her back, sprawling carelessly underneath him, her white thighs smeared with blood.

He sat back on his haunches and shook his head to try and stop the pounding in his skull. Then he realized the pounding was not in his head. The innkeeper was hammering on the door, wanting to know who was screaming.
 
"Ne ce rien est! Part!" Lucien shouted. "Go away!"

Then Imogene laughed, an astonishingly deep, rich throaty laugh.

There was silence, then a loud guffaw. "Les nouveaux maries!" a voice called out, and there was a sound of shuffling feet moving away. "Bonne nuit, monsieur et madame!"

*****

Lucien woke in the night with something cold and sharp sticking him in the buttocks. He felt underneath him and found the metal object that Imogene had concealed in her hand. The fire had all but died, but the moon had risen, high and full, washing the room in its silvery glow. He held the scissors up in the light. Just a small pair of sewing scissors, such as his mother had used for snipping the threads of her embroidery, but this pair was quite unusual, clearly the work of a skilled artisan. Exquisitely wrought in pure silver, the body of the implement, above the tiny but lethally pointed blades, was designed in the shape of a bird, a hawk, in fact, or perhaps an eagle, and its wings rose to either side to form the tops of the handles. Every detail, every feather, was painstakingly engraved, and a tiny golden jewel winked in the center, forming the eye of the raptor. Lucien was amazed. He could not imagine how Imogene had come to own such a thing, but he though it the most marvelous omen, for the hawk was the emblem of the Moncoutants, the symbol of his noble ancestry, and now, he was sure, the symbol of his rising glory. The woman he loved. Sons for his dreams. A future of boundless possibility.

He slid the scissors under the pillow and lay back down beside his sleeping bride. She was curled on her side, her hands tucked under her chin. He reached over, and with gentle fingers, combed back the long strands of her hair that had fallen over her face. She sighed softly.

"Forgive me, Petite," he whispered. " Je t'aime, Imogene. Tomorrow, I promise, I will have a little more finesse."

Go To Part Four