Part 5: La Reine Capturee (The Captured Queen)


Lucien was halfway through his second bottle of wine. It was probably the worst stuff he had ever tasted, sweet and oily, with a greenish tinge and a bouquet reminiscent of wilted cabbages. The common room of this lodging house, just outside the gates of the Hofburg Palace, was fairly quiet. A few of his fellow officers were at cards. A well-dressed older gentleman dozed by the hearth. Lucien was alone, his companions having rambled off in search of sport. He sat with his back to the wall, his booted feet on the table, and drank.

He was in too black a mood for whores.

The entire of the French delegation, including the officers of the Regiment de Dauphin who were to provide an escort to the archduchess Maria Antonia on her journey to France, were to have had accommodation in the royal palaces of Hopsburg, Schonbrunn, and Belvedere, but it was soon discovered that the servants therein were extorting exorbitant sums from the guests, and it was pay or be left unwashed and unfed. Those for whom it was not a hardship to pay, did, but others, himself included, found it far cheaper and more comfortable to find their own lodgings on the outside.  

On the outside was where Lucien was accustomed to be. Not long ago, he had gone with a friend to L'Epee du Bois in Paris, the favored inn of young aristocrats like La Rouchfoucauld and Noailles, LaFayette and Segur, fabulously wealthy and well-connected young men who called themselves Companions of the Wooden Sword. To Lucien it had seemed as if they believed they owned the world, and that all they possessed was as far from his reach as the moon and stars. Oh, there were others like himself, noblemen of equally ancient and impeccable lineage, who owned little more than their commissions and the most minimal accoutrements of their status: a sword, a horse, and a dog. He did not quite have the dog, he thought, bemused, unless he was to count that squashed-faced thing with a tail like a pig that his Tante Anne-Louise kept. He had, of course, the advantage of his wealthy relations, but even that seemed to him something of a false comfort and even a source of further resentment and frustration.

A year ago, when he had married Imogene, he had known such a sense of triumph, of exhilaration, and of certainty that his every dream and ambition was about to be realized. It had not taken long for reality to take hold, for him to understand that he had been deluding himself. His birthright was in ruin. The chateau in Brittany and its smallholdings had been saved for him only by the selfless intervention of his Aunt, who had risked her husband's formidable wrath on his behalf. Monsieur Rigaud had dropped the matter, saying that the property was all but worthless in any event, and that the proceeds from its sale would not even see Lucien decently outfitted for the Army.

Rigaud was now, in fact, le Comte d'Agniers, having been successful at last in his petition for noble status, owing in part to his being the husband of a Comtesse, and the uncle by marriage of a Marquis, but in greater part to the persistant and liberal greasing of pertinent palms. Lucien despised the man for his lack of breeding, his condescension, and for the brutal treatment he suspected his Aunt endured at the man's hand. On more than one occasion, he and Rigaud had nearly come to blows. One time Lucien had lost his temper and called his uncle a bourgeois and a bully and Rigaud had merely smiled and said coolly, "There can be no dispute as to my nobility. I have the receipt for it." More than anything, Lucien resented the fact that he was living on the man's indulgence, and that for the most part, it was by his own choice.

He had 920 livres a year in Army pay, and the inconsequential earnings of his estate. And there was his wife's dowry. There might have been enough to set up a modest household in one of the less fashionable districts of Paris. But that was not what he wanted for Imogene. Besides, his Aunt would not hear of it. That "ma petite Imogene" should live alone and fend for herself in the city! At the Chateau D'Agniers, Anne-Louise treated her new niece like a porcelain doll to be dressed up, and carried about, taking her to her own dressmaker for her gowns, buying her baubles from the jewelers in the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honore, and giving Imogene her own maid to pamper and powder her and arrange her hair in amazing and elaborate coiffeurs. When Lucien came home, he made love to his wife in an enormous bed, carved in silver-gilt arabesques and hung with ice-blue silk.

Not that it seemed to make a bit of difference to Imogene. She wore Soie de Chine and velvet and lace with the same carelessness with which she had worn her nun's habit of rough spun wool. As often as not, she could be found in the wood beyond the Chateau, searching for specimens for her odd little collections, or on her hands and knees in the herb beds. The one luxury in which she truly seemed to indulge herself was her painting. When Anne-Louise had seen Imogene's exquisite sketches, she had thought them somewhat unorthodox in subject matter for a young married lady, and yet she had arranged at some expense for her to have lessons from the first apprentice of the much celebrated, although recently deceased painter, Monsieur Francois Boucher. She had a gift for the precise rendering of l'anatomie, her teacher said, and an uncanny eye. She could reproduce a subject from memory with extraordinary accuracy.

 In fact, after Anne-Louise's dear friend, the Comtesse de Gace's spaniel had perished beneath the wheels of Rigaud's coach-and-six, Imogene had presented the aggrieved Comtesse with a portrait of the deceased so lifelike, so poignant, that Madame in her gratitude had promptly made up her mind never to sleep with Lucien ever again. How could she continue to deceive la petite Marquise, la douce Imogene, who had shown herself to be so tender and caring a friend?

 The loss of his mistress had been a blow. He missed the simplicity of their coupling and the confidence she inspired in him. His passion and love for his wife so overwhelmed him at times. He feared so to fail her, to fall short of being everything to her that she was to him.

He took another swig of the wretched Gerwurtztraminer and made a face. His prospects in the army at the moment seemed so hopeless. He had been born in the wrong era, it seemed. He served under old men who had distinguished themselves and made their careers in the Seven Years War and the Wars of Austrian and Polish Succession. It was true that in that time France had lost much of her preeminence, but at least a brave and capable officer could make a name for himself and find his way to favor and fortune. In North America, of course, there were still fortunes to be made, and in India, the Mahratta princes paid handsomely for European officers to command their native troops. But he did not wish to go so far from his home. And the idea of being a mercenary held little appeal. He had always wanted to fight for France, for his King. As things stood, though, without money or favor or martial opportunity of any consequence, Lucien saw himself doing little more than freezing his balls off patrolling the Prussian border for the rest of his days.

Unbelievably, there was less than a finger's width of nasty wine left in the bottom of the bottle. He contemplated calling for more, but could he bear it? He was nowhere near sufficiently drunk.

 He raised his eyes and looked about for the innkeeper's girl, and as he did, a movement at the streetside door caught his eye. A young man entered, slender, and of medium height, well dressed in a nicely cut dark blue coat with silver buttons, and shirt cuffs of good lace. As the boy turned to the light and removed his hat, Lucien noted, with a shock of recognition, the softly waving golden brown hair, smooth, honey-colored skin and wide, liquid dark eyes.

Melusine. That was her name. He had spent the past two days half expecting a challenge from her father, the fencing master, Von Sachsen, and yet he had not been much surprised when none had come. In all likelihood, the girl had kept their encounter a secret, and even if she had not, Lucien thought, if a man is going to dress his daughter up as a man and set her to matching swords with men, then that man has a very strange notion of the upbringing of daughters, and should expect the worst, having only himself to blame for it.

Looking at her now, Lucien could not believe he had ever been deceived. Not a beauty, no. But the face was sweet, soft. The curve of the cheek, the fullness of the mouth, the long lashes, were unmistakably feminine. She was tall, just the slightest bit taller than he, but she was all legs. And when she had wrapped those long legs about his waist they had been a perfect match. He was vaguely aware of a nascent tightening in his breeches accompanying this thought, and confirming his earlier assessment that he was, as yet, not nearly as drunk as he had set out to become.

What was she doing here? She stood by the door, looking about her, looking for someone, clearly. Then, all in the same instant, she turned slightly and saw him in his corner; the serving girl was coming across the room; Lucien swung his legs down off the table and started to his feet.

The serving girl had her hands on the young gentleman's hat, trying to take it from him. Melusine was hanging on to it with all her might, her eyes fixed on Lucien as he came towards her.

"Von Sachsen!" Lucien came forward, taking Melusine by the elbow. "You've arrived!" He turned to the servant, "Merci, Mademoiselle. Monsieur is my guest. Send another bottle up to my room if you please."

The girl gave a slight curtsy. "Monsieur Marquis," she said, and left them.

Without a word, Lucien steered her toward the enclosed stair. As soon as they were out of sight of the common room, in the semi-darkness of the stairwell, he stopped and turned her to face him.

"What are you doing here?" he whispered.

He could barely see her, but they were standing close enough that he could feel her warm breath on his face. She was breathing rapidly, and he could see a faint gleam of light reflected in her eyes from the lamp on the landing above them. He waited.

He heard her take a breath, as if she was about to speak, but stopped, unable to find her words. Then, he felt warm fingers on the back of his neck, the flicking of a thumb under his earlobe, and then a gentle tug as she pulled the ribbon from his hair.

"I have found you," she said at last, in a trembling voice that was barely a whisper.

*****

Lucien awoke with a start, having rolled over into a spot on the sheets that was shockingly cold and wet. Before he had opened his eyes, he remembered. Merde. He had fucked that poor girl again, hadn't he?

He looked across the little room to where a candle burned on the small round table where he had set up his chessboard to work on a problem. And there she was, elbows on the table, her face in her hands, staring intently at the chessboard. She was dressed only in her shirt, and he could see her long brown legs sprawling under the table.

He started to rise, and groaned. That terrible wine had given him a headache already.

She looked up at him, pushing a fall of honey brown hair out of her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said. "I finished your problem and set one of my own. I could put it back the way it was."

Her voice was soft, and low in tone, but it did not have the startlingly sensual, throaty quality of Imogene's. Yet, he imagined, if he did not know otherwise, he might believe it was the voice of a very young man.

He sat on the edge of the bed and reached down to pick up his clothes from the floor. He started to put on his breeches. "You play chess?" he asked her.

"Chess?" she responded as if she had genuinely never heard the word. "Oh, is that what it's called?" She waved her hand over the board. "No, actually, this is the very first time I've seen one of these!" She smiled sweetly at him, her eyes wide and innocent. Sarcasm. Sweet Christ, thought Lucien, save me from a humorous woman. He yanked his shirt on over his head and got up, walking slowly over to the table. His head was pounding. He needed a drink.

Sitting on the table was the third bottle he had requested. It had been opened, but looked to have been untouched. He reached for it.

"I found that outside the door," she said. "Don't drink it. Its awful."

"It is not French," he said, pinching his nose and taking a great gulp. He shuddered as he swallowed.

"All that is not French is not awful," she replied.

"I fear I must disagree," he said, pulling out a second chair and sitting down heavily. He sighed and took another long draught from the bottle.

She watched him. "I am not French," she said lightly. "Do you think I'm awful?"

He set the bottle back down on the table, then, after a pause, pushed it as far away from him as he could. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his forehead. "No, Melusine. You are not awful."

The way she was looking at him made him flush with a wave of fresh shame. Her rapt expression when he had spoken her name was too much. It was not as if he had ever been desperate when it came to women. He did not need to be debauching virgins, and now this one seemed to have formed some odd attachment, and that, too, he did not need.

"Shall we have a game?" she asked. She was already dismantling her problem, and setting up the board for a game.

"I don't know," he said lazily, "Do you play chess as well as you fence?"

"Not nearly," she replied, and he thought he detected a hint of teasing in her tone. "But I would not be averse to playing for stakes, if you were inclined, Monsieur."

He smiled. "You must think me a complete fool."

She looked at him with one eyebrow raised. "Don't tell me you are afraid you will lose?"

"Not if a certain person plays fair, I am not." He said, fixing her with a scolding glance.

She blushed slightly. " It is not really possible to cheat at chess."

"I suppose you would know," he said dryly. "Very well, then, what do you wager? Five louis?"

"Take me with you."

He blinked. "Pardon?"

She was looking at him, her eyes shining, her face so plain and sincere. "If you win, five louis," she said. "If I win, take me with you, to France."

He smiled at her. "Don't be silly. And that is a completely inequable wager, besides. No."

"Why not? I could join your regiment. I can fight as well or better than a man, you know I can."

He laughed loudly.

"As your servant, then. You don't have a servant, do you?"

As it happened, he'd had one, but Dupuy had deserted him in favor of a better paying position with his compagnie's Captain, and he was at this point reduced to caring for his own horse, cleaning his own weapons, and carrying whatever of his personal belongings could not be consigned to the baggage train.

"No," he said again.

She looked at him from beneath lowered lashes. She had truly beautiful skin, he thought, golden brown and silky smooth with a hint of blush, like a ripening peach.

"I thought all French officers kept women," she said softly.

He snorted, "I can't afford to keep my own wife!" For an instant, he wished he hadn't said it, and then he decided it was probably for the best. "I am married, Melusine. I love my wife."

She was silent for a time, and he saw that her eyes were moist, with, he feared, the beginnings of a glimmer of tears. Then she said, very quietly, "How can you love your wife and do the things…you do with me?"

 He reached across the table and laid his hand on her cheek. She leaned into the caress, a feminine, sensual, instinctive movement that touched him, unexpectedly.

"How can you live as you do and know so little about men?" he asked.

It was time to change the subject, he thought, and so, not waiting for a reply, he sat back in his chair. "Let us play, then. Five louis are the stakes, are we agreed?"

She seemed willing to let go of the uncomfortable conversation.

"I'll be white?" she asked, as the ivory pieces were on her side of the board.

"Fine," he said, "You have the first move."

Without hesitation, she moved pawn to king four. Then she sat back, regarding him expectantly.

"That seems an unusual move," he commented, playing the countermove. "For you."

"I like to play safe openings," she confided, bringing out her queen's pawn. "Then, when the board opens up, I can become unconventional."

"You, unconventional?" he teased. "You astound me Melusine!"

She grinned and brought out her queen's knight in response to his pawn challenge.

"Tell me," he began as he studied the board for a moment. "How long have you been masquerading as a boy?"

"All of my life," she said matter of factly.

"But why?"

"It is your move, you know," she said, tapping her fingers.

"In a moment," he replied. "Won't you tell me?"

She sat back and crossed her arms over her chest. "It’s a bit of a long story."

"Give me the short account." He gave no indication that he was going to play his move.

She sighed. "The short account is this: my father loved my mother and she loved him, but he was an army officer and the son of a tradesman, and she was a Blixe-Coburg, and her family would not permit their marriage. She got with child deliberately, thinking they would be compelled to change their minds, but they did not, and they locked her away, and sent a man to kill my father. He killed the man instead." She paused for a moment, looking down at the chessboard.

"Even though the man he killed was a hired assassin, my father had to give up his commission and leave Salzburg, but somehow my mother was able to run away to join him. She died when I was still very small. Her family was insistent that I should come to them, to be brought up in my mother's family, but my father would not let me go and took me away again. For years they tried to find us, but of course, they were looking for a man with a little girl."

Lucien frowned. "Surely they cannot still be looking? Your father holds a rather conspicuous position here in Vienna, does he not?"

She smiled. "As time went on they seem to have lost interest. But in the meantime, I believe my father concluded it was a great deal simpler for a man to raise a son on his own than a daughter. And besides, I was used to it. I am not sure I could ever live, or dress, or act in the manner that is expected of women. I like to be free."

"And yet you are…a woman," he said, leaning his face on his hand and looking across at her. She blushed a little.

"That I cannot help," she said. 'Are you going to move or not?"

They played on in silence, and Lucien tried not to be distracted by the expanse of tawny skin that was revealed by the wide-open neck of her white linen shirt, dipping to a place of enticing shadow between her breasts. She played a good game, but he had the edge, mainly because she took risks with a degree of abandon.

Then, finally, she took one gamble too many, and he saw that she was in serious danger in the next several moves if she could not place her Queen out of harm's way. She needed to intercept with a pawn, but none of her pawns were in the right position. He waited, watching her chew her lip.

"Did you hear that?" she asked.

"Hear what?'

"Is there someone at the door?" She looked over his shoulder. He turned, following her glance. It might be one of his friends returning from their outing and coming to look for him.

"It could be…" he began, but then, suspicious, he looked back at her. She was still leaning on her elbows, chewing her lip, but when he looked down at the board, sure enough, something had changed.

"I suppose I'm hearing things," she said, moving her pawn to protect her queen. "There. Let's see if that will help."

Lucien reached over and plucked up the deviated pawn. He raised his eyes and looked across at her. She was flushing, so transparently guilty he wanted to laugh.

"If you must cheat, why don't you do it properly?" he said conversationally, returning the pawn to its original position. "You insult my intelligence to imagine I wouldn't notice. Do you think I'm blind?"

"I'm sorry, Lucien," she said contritely, " I hate to lose."

"Yes, I have noticed that about you," he said. "Well. I have news for you. You are going to lose. It's your move, and as I see it, you can't help but sacrifice your queen."

"Oh, very well," she said crossly. "I suppose you win. There is no need to play further."

He shook his head. "There is every need. Now make your move."

Her hand moved to take the queen and then she withdrew it. "But there's no point."

"The point, my dear, is that you are going to play this game to its conclusion. Right up to the moment when you topple your king and acknowledge defeat. Now, move."

"Oh, very well," she said again. She put out her hand, and half rising in her chair, leaned forward over the board as if it would take her whole body to move the small ivory carving. Her legs nudged the edge of the table as she rose, jarring it, and the chess pieces toppled, the game disintegrating into an unrecognizable mess.

"My God, what a brat!" Lucien exclaimed, reaching across the table and grabbing her wrist.

"I didn't do it on purpose!" she insisted, laughing. "It was an accident!"

As he pulled her forward, he could see all the way down the front of her shirt, could see her lovely high, rounded breasts, her little brown belly, and all the way down to the patch of dark hair between her legs.

The next he knew he was hauling her across the table and into his arms.

He pressed her back over the chess table, feeling the sharp edges of the fallen pieces cutting into his arms as he laid himself on top of her. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her fragrance, tasting her sweetness with his lips and tongue.  

"Ow! Ow! Ow!' She exclaimed breathlessly, and he realized the hard little pieces must be digging into her bare behind. He pulled her up off the table, and scooping her into his arms, carried her the short distance to the bed.

Kneeling beside her on the narrow bed, he pulled the shirt off over her head, and then stood to remove the shirt and breeches he had only just put back on.

In the spare light of the single candle, she lay naked on her back, her arms lying on the pillows above her head, her legs barely parted, one knee slightly bent. Unclothed, her body was so wholly, so uncompromisingly womanly, that Lucien felt that he was the sole discoverer of the world's most delicious secret. He eased himself onto the bed, and moved over her, straddling her legs. Her eyes were so dark, so wide, and so full of trust. He had to close his own eyes so as not to see her expression. With his hands he followed the voluptuous contours of her hips, dipping in to the narrow waist, rising over the flare of her ribs to the most perfect breasts he had ever seen. They filled his hands, firm, lush, soft as the breast of a dove. He lowered himself to take them in his mouth, and she let out a gentle moan as he sucked at her nipples, feeling the little bumps rising under his softly swirling tongue.

"Lucien…Lucien…" he could feel her fingers in his hair. Her hands were so warm, and her fingers surprisingly strong as they kneaded the back of his neck, the tops of his shoulders. "Lucien," she whispered, "You are the most beautiful…the most beautiful…"

He covered her mouth with his own to stop her words.

Her hand was moving between his legs, and his hard flesh surged as she gripped him firmly, and he pushed himself into the pleasurable tightness, feeling the silky skin gliding back and forth over his iron shaft. Her hips shifted eagerly, her thighs parting as she raised herself towards him, guiding him into her as if she had always known how to do this.

She cried out as he filled her, and he kissed her again to stifle the sound. He raised himself on his arms, his weight on his flat palms and he began to move slowly within her. He would draw back and then, after a second, plunge deeply, and each time he did so, he could feel her convulse around him. The sensation was incredible, and yet his own response was well under his control. Having spent himself once already this evening, he now felt as if he had limitless staying power. There did not, however, seem to be any great need to prolong the moment, he observed. She was already moaning and twisting beneath him, her head was turned to one side, and she had a death grip on his pillow, pressing it against her mouth as she sobbed her pleasure.

It seemed much too easy, he thought. She needed to learn the importance of delayed gratification.

"Oh, no! No, Lucien, stay with me!" she gasped as he let himself slide out of her.

"I'll be back, sweet," he whispered, kissing her lips. "Have no fear."

He got to his knees, gazing down at her heaving form.

"Would you like to do something for me?" he asked.

Her eyes were soft, glassy with desire. Slowly, she nodded her head. "What do you want me to do?"

He leaned forward and took her by the arms, pulling her to her knees before him. "Come, I'll show you," he said. Taking her hand, he placed it on his pulsing cock. Her fingers closed on him immediately with that same tight grip that made him suck the air in between his teeth.

"What would you like to do with this?" he asked her, putting his hand over hers.

"I want you to put it inside me again!" she whispered urgently, coming forward to kiss him. He stopped her with a finger to her lips.

"Can you think of somewhere else I could put it?" he asked patiently, the corners of his mouth turning up suggestively.

She looked at him, wide-eyed, not understanding, and shook her head slowly from side to side.  

He took her face in both his hands and pulled her gently towards him. He kissed her slowly, deftly urging her lips apart with his own, and then, so that there could be no mistake as to the meaning of his communication, he let his tongue glide in full length, and he moved it in a slow, thrusting motion in, and out, in, and out. He drew back once more, looking into her eyes. "Now do you understand?"

Her expression, he decided, was worth at least another five louis. A little disbelieving, a bit disgusted, intrigued.

He reached to stroke her hair, and letting his hand remain at the back of her head, exerted only the slightest pressure, urging her gently towards the fulfillment of his desire.

He smiled as she closed her eyes and bent at the waist. She went down, her arms circling his hips. His stomach muscles contracted as she bumped his belly, nuzzling a little blindly. At last he felt the first delicious warm stroke of her wet little tongue, and he could not contain a satisfied groan as felt her lips encircle him, drawing his erect flesh all the way into her mouth.

She gripped his buttocks, her thumbs pressing into the sides of his hips as she began to move her mouth up and down on the hard, pulsing stem, imitating the motion of his tongue in her mouth. He heard her give a little sigh and he imagined her inhaling the scent of his arousal, savoring the saltiness of his flesh on her tongue as she pleasured him with an all-absorbing concentration. He imagined her aware of nothing but his body close to hers, of the taste, the scent, the feel of him. His blood thrilled with a strange, deep power.

Looking down at her from the plane of his own bliss, he felt an overwhelming, masculine need for possession. He would let her take him to the very peak, until the last moment before, when the merest flickering caress would be enough to send him plunging over the edge. And then he would come back, and he would take her there in turn, again and again, until she begged him, until she thought she could not bear another moment of the intense pleasure he would give her. He would brand this woman with his lovemaking so that nothing and no one would ever erase his mark.

And so he did. As the stars were fading outside the window in the very small hours before dawn, he at last decided it was enough. Melusine sat astride his lap on the edge of the bed, her hands on his shoulders, her lips parted, her head thrown back as she held him tight within. With a final thrust, he sent her into spasm, and then, the instant before his own climax broke, he fell back on the bed, holding her against him as he rolled sideways, separating their bodies at last and letting his seed spill onto the ravaged, sweat-drenched sheets.

*****

"I…can't…move!" groaned Melusine. They were both utterly exhausted, bathed in sweat, lying flat on their backs.

"That will teach you to cheat at chess," Lucien drawled.

"I don't always cheat, you know," she said defensively, and then she giggled. "Well, at least not when I am winning!"

Lucien laughed, and with some effort managed to roll over and pull her into his arms. He rolled onto his back, with her on top of him. Her shoulder length honey hair flopped into his face and he pushed it back with his hands. He kissed her cheeks. He felt stupidly contented, ridiculously happy. She had made him laugh. He no longer had a headache. His black mood was gone.

Maybe she would be good for him, he thought.

Go to Part Six