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Duplicity (Pontmercy): October, 1830
Even when the weather was cold, I walked in the Jardin du Luxembourg for a time each day to keep my mind clear and give myself a while to begin thinking in French again after the trouble of translating all day. It would never do to address someone in English or German when they have no expectation of it and no desire to hear the guttural sounds, and so I strolled, thinking of very little, but determined not to use the wrong words. It was a habit that several others acquired as well. I sometimes saw Courfeyrac there and spoke to him, although my speech halted and stammered when the wrong words crowded in on me. He must have thought me a fool in those times, or distracted by something more intriguing than himself, if he was listening at all. We all had our schedules, even the ones I had never addressed. On a fine morning, I went as I always did and began to walk back and forth. There was Huguelet, who always nodded as I went past and sometimes distracted me considerably from my perambulations by complaining of the professors whose classes we had taken together. Courfeyrac was not there quite yet, although surely he could not sustain a game of billiards much later in the morning than that hour. Monsieur Leblanc was on his bench -- -- but who was that? She sat on a bench as an angel sits on a cloud, without noticing that it is there. She wore a hat, perhaps at the height of fashion, but most certainly becoming, and her dress was black and simple. Her cheek was pale and delicate, her curls dark where they fell upon her shoulders, and her hands were small and white. There was something in the curve of her mouth that spoke of amusement with the world, and she was ever so beautiful. I could have walked by if she had not looked up at me, if our eyes had not happened to meet. There was something in her gaze which caught me. I stopped walking, a flood of compliments rising to my lips in German, but I bit them back. She would have thought I was cursing her and clearing my throat rather than singing her praises. I felt a blush rise to my cheeks for the things I had not said, for the many things that I thought in that moment. "Monsieur," she said to me, and her voice was low and soft. It was then I realized that I had been standing there, perhaps for a moment, perhaps for a minute, gazing at her. I looked away, though the autumnal park held little else as lovely as she. For a moment, it seemed I knew her face, but I dismissed that, for I know no lovely girls. "Come and sit with me," she said, and when I looked back she smiled at me and I was lost. I had no sense of how to conduct myself in such a situation, but it struck me as horribly rude to deny a sensible request on the part of a charming lady, and so I sat beside her, hoping that my blush had faded and that she had not noticed the shabbiness of my clothing. Her own gown was nothing expensive. It reminded me of Mademoiselle Lanoire, except that this girl was nothing like her. Perhaps the vision on the bench beside me would not notice the imperfections in my attire. She put her hand on mine, softly, and I turned to look at her again, my heart leaping in my breast. "I have seen you before, I think," she said softly. "Do you walk here often?" I cleared my throat, trying to hold back the barbaric languages that wanted to answer this dulcet question. "Nearly every day." "And yet we have not met before." She smiled at me. "May I ask your name, m'sieur?" "P- Pontmercy. Marius Pontmercy." Like a fool, I stammered, but she did not seem to notice. Her smile brightened. "Enchantée, Marius. My name is Jeannette." Before I could answer, she kissed me. The light touch of her lips against mine dizzied me until it seemed that the only real thing in the world was the feeling of her hand squeezing my fingers and the taste of her lips. I wanted to hold her more closely, but the thought that we were in public restrained me. "Mam'selle," I said, sighing, as she broke the kiss. She put a finger over my lips. "Jeannette." "Jeannette --" I knew I was blushing again. "I --" "Perhaps we should talk elsewhere?" I wanted to protest, but she kissed me again and the words faded. What we were doing was improper, though it was not uncommon, and to suggest something more frightened me a little. I could hardly look at her and remember my own name. How would I converse with her without sounding like a babbling madman? Her pretty face was a little flushed. She said, "Please, Marius, not in the Gardens," as though I had kissed her. I might have initiated the kiss, at that; I was not objecting to it in the least. I wanted to kiss her again and erase the nascent pout. I stood and offered her a hand up, although I was not sure of my own sense of balance. She stood and took my arm lightly. I did not know where we were going. I could not take a lovely girl to the cafés that I frequented. My friends would tease me endlessly. I hesitated. She tugged on my arm a little and kept going, and so I walked with her, letting her lead me where she would. We talked a little as we went, for though I could think of very little to say, I could answer her questions about what I was studying and what sorts of things I liked to do. I expected that we were going to have dinner together, perhaps, or at least something to drink, but when she went up to the door of a building, it looked like an apartment building. "Mam'selle," I said, trying to form a coherent objection, but she kissed me again, there in the street. "Jeannette," she corrected me, then went in. I wanted to talk to her, to understand her, but no words came to me. I followed her up the stairs. At midday, it seemed as though she was the only tenant at home. Her flat was furnished with books upon books, and it had a freshly-scrubbed look about it, as though she had been expecting to entertain a guest. A plant sat on her windowsill, looking forlornly out at the fall weather, wishing for summer already. When she had locked the door and taken off her bonnet, she embraced me, and when I would have asked her to be more cautious, she kissed me again, and the words left me. "Handsome Marius," she murmured between kisses, and I could not meet her eyes. "Jeannette," I said, "perhaps we should talk?" She laughed: soft, low, and somehow familiar. "Oh, mon chéri, we can talk later." She sat on the bed, one of my hands still caught in hers, and drew me down to sit beside her again. "Please, Marius --" and even if I had had a speech prepared, it would have fled when she kissed me again and laid her slim thigh alongside mine and her hand in my lap. I had been dizzy with confusion before, but this made my predicament acute. I knew I should push her away and tell her not to do such things, but they felt far too pleasant for me to protest them. She had unfastened my pants before I realized it, and in a confused moment had taken off my shoes, and then my pants, until I was half-naked and lying on my back. I wanted to touch her, but she would hardly allow it. I could only run my fingers through her hair and kiss her. I wanted her to enjoy whatever this was, though I did not have a clear idea of what it was, or how I would go about making her happier, but at every tentative move she prevented me, moving my hands away and murmuring endearments. I could hardly protest, not while she was kissing me, and she was so thorough that I when I was naked she had only removed her shoes. Before I entirely realized what she was doing, I was inside her and I could not think of anything but the slick heat. She laughed, perhaps at me, though I had done nothing and could do nothing with her weight settled over my hips. "Oh, Marius," she said, and her voice was lower than before, "you're lovely." "Jeannette," I said, and I had meant to say more, but she moved, and all the world depended on that movement. It was strange indeed to be able to feel her so intimately and yet to see nothing of her body, as though we were in a darkened room instead of a flat lit by the midday sun. I reached under her skirts, trying somehow to make a connection with this alluring girl. The illusion fell apart, and I knew him in a moment. I said, "Jean," hoarsely, and his eyes opened. Beautiful eyes, beautiful face, and he smiled at me, all innocence in the midst of this seduction. I did not desire him, the boy with the delicate face and sweet verse, a friend, not a lover; and yet even in my surprise I wanted this, and instead of pushing him away as I should have done, I pulled him closer with a sigh. "I thought you'd noticed sooner," he said, catching my free hand and kissing it. "I suppose I'm -- oh -- better than I thought." I was embarrassed at being taken in although I knew he had been trying to trick me. It was simpler by far to say, "You were convincing," than to accept that I should have looked closer, should have seen, should have heard it in his voice. He laughed again and moved against me. "Thank you, mon ami." Before, I had thought that "Jeannette" was uninhibited, but Jean made her seem prudish. Freed of the necessity to dissemble, he caressed me and demanded kisses, whispered horrible things and laughed when my face turned red with embarrassment. I could not stop the desire I felt for him, although I understood none of it. It passed in a wave of fire and left me gasping and sticky with Jean, still fully dressed, catching his breath above me. I covered my eyes, not wanting to see him recovering from the fit of passion, and unable to look anywhere else. He kissed me lightly and got out of bed. "I really must change, cher," he explained, and began taking off the dress. I sat up with a lethargy in my bones born both of exertion and of shame. That I had allowed myself to be seduced by a willing girl -- that was bad, but worse yet that it was a friend, a colleague, and I had not even recognized him. I dressed as quickly as I could, trying to ignore the weight in my spine that wanted nothing more than to sleep in the lately bedraggled bed, and I said nothing to him. I had only just tied my cravat and picked up my hat, and he had only begun to button his shirt, when there was a knock on the door. "Who is it?" he asked, glancing at me. "I missed you in the park, Jeannette," a man called, and with a chill I realized it was Aimery. Jean laughed. "I'm sorry, Aimé," he said lightly, opening the door, "I was distracted." Aimery and I blinked at each other. If it were possible to die of embarrassment, I suspect I would have done so then. "Good afternoon, Courfeyrac," I said, my cheeks aflame, and I put on my hat. Aimery glanced at Jean, a smile beginning around his lips. "Good afternoon, Marius." "I was just leaving," I explained, painfully aware that I had again disgraced myself in his eyes -- although how was I to know that they were lovers? "Good afternoon, Marius," Jean said to me, and kissed my cheek as I walked past him. "Thank you." Aimery must have understood that all too clearly, for he stepped out of my way and I fled that place like a wild animal freed from a cage. I slammed the door behind myself, and even though I clattered down the stairs as loudly as I could manage, I could hear them laughing together, laughing at me. The next day, I tried to walk in the Luxembourg, but I paused at the beginning of my habitual path. I could think of nothing but the taste of Jean's mouth and the way his skin felt. Lust and disgust rushed through me, and I hurried from that place. I knew I could not return until time was merciful and I did not have to recall the unfortunate incident with such clarity.
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