Madame Duvalier's Boudoir

Chapter One The Soiree “Ah! Madame Duvalier, what a pleasure to see you still flourishing with all this unpleasantness abroad.” Mr. Trowbridge stood a head above his noble hostess. The American businessman smiled deferentially, while twirling his greying mustache between his thumb and index fingers, briefly. He bowed, graceful in his brown tweed suit, looking as cultured as any Continental man, a rare quality in those travelers from the United States. “Abroad, sir!” the diminutive beauty looked aghast, hefty bosom heaving passionately, cheeks unusually flushed from summer wine and indignation. “Why this war is hardly on English soil…it will be at my backdoor within days, if the news reports are correct.” “I didn’t intend to diminish the danger here, Madame,” Trowbridge quickly returned, “but merely point out how well you manage under these stressful circumstances.” He gazed appreciatively about the room, honoring the elegance—a reflection of a Golden Age of prosperity in the new millennium gone awry—wondering as everyone did, how long the ornate stained glass, the damask, brocade and finely paneled wood would survive when the rebels finally ransacked the city. It had been a hard journey through the 21st Century and an especially treacherous one for the female of the human species. Her golden years were over. Madame Renee Duvalier calmed, not wanting to make too much a scene of her vexation. She c****d her head sweetly, her mass of brunette curls strewn lustily about her shoulders—those falling from a lazy bun, held secure by a single jeweled hair pick. Her dress of amber, autumn hues clung closely to the curves of her sensuous form in a retro style reflecting the mid 20th Century. The neckline plunged obscenely, hinting at the s****l treasure beneath her clothes. Madame batted her long lashes coyly, turquoise eyes exuding feminine chicanery she’d long been noted for. Madame Duvalier lived by wits, by beauty and what wealth she managed to hide from a corrupt government. She had learned to remain calm in most circumstances, regardless of how harrowing. After all, her world was teetering on the edge of chaos, while she hosted a mannerly soirée in her formal parlor. Beneath pleasant smiles and urbane chatter, disquiet reigned—even in the confident Mr. Trowbridge who had so simply suggested that the uprising was an English affair. He had great reason to fear. Unable to book passage to the United States, he moved to the continent where he could hopefully find safety for himself and his two daughters. There was little doubt that his safe return home would be ensured, but for Isobel and Katrina, their youth, fair skin and nubile bodies made them prime targets at any border crossing. Hundreds of young women had already been declared missing—most likely kidnapped, raped and brutalized if the underground press could be believed. No woman was safe. The flaxen-haired Isobel was a hearty and sensuous twenty years—full bosomed with a curvaceous figure and flirtatious cinnamon eyes. Her hair was unusually short but naturally curly and decidedly wild. She pursed her thick lips one minute, licked them wet the next, and solicited men with the allure of her voluptuous promise when her daddy wasn’t looking. Madame Duvalier admired her charms; at the same time realizing what a detriment they were for a young woman in dangerous times. She was so unlike her younger sister, Katrina. The demurely shy young lady had her own appeal—a muted sensuousness, innocent grace and smoky blue eyes that dripped unknowingly with romantic desire. It would not be easy protecting either one of them. At the very least, Isobel could live by her wits. Katrina’s fate was less certain. At nineteen, she seemed many years younger than her sister. Madame Duvalier dreaded the proposal about to be offered her by the two young beauties’ father. He was a desperate man—whether he knew it or not—his entire world was at risk. At risk, a desperate man looks for solutions, even the most difficult to manage. “I think you worry exceedingly, Madame,” Professor Leopold chimed in. The portly fellow swaggered forward with his wine in hand, practically spilling the contents of his glass. Perhaps he already had too much. “Why just yesterday I heard that the rebels were taken down in the former Germany.” “It is temporary, I assure you,” his hostess declared, though she wouldn’t divulge the source of her information. “If we can believe any tales we hear,” an unexpected voice piped up with sarcasm exceedingly thick. Three pairs of eyes turned to Madame’s cousin, Brigitta, a comely, though not ravishing woman of nearly twenty-three. She had been university educated with an excellent government position, just before the first insurrection when the government changed. She was cast out of her job after just six months, thrust into the streets and thankful that her cousin still had a way with the prevailing establishment or she would have been arrested and deported to one of the camps for female rabble-rousers. She was of German birth and had written several documents—just simple term papers as far as she was concerned—critical of the current government and its questionable ties to tyrants. She had thought her rantings would only get her a decent grade for the most recent term; instead, the student documents at the university were seized, opened and thoroughly inspected to root out rebels and instigators. To date, this inquisition hadn’t done much good; there were rebel factions popping up throughout the Continent. Her writings, however, had left Brigitta as Madame’s responsibility. The wise mentor kept her younger charge safe when there were so few options for women like her. Madame had taken her off the streets, exchanged her trousers for decent dresses, and fashioned her sand-colored hair in a feminine style, curling the straight ends and drawing them behind her head with a bow. “It’s not that I have any problem with the way you’re dressed,” Madame told her, “but you can’t look like a lesbian, an insurrectionist or an independent thinker and survive these times.” Brigitta didn’t like dressing prissy—as she called it. But she was no match for the powerful Madame Duvalier when she wanted her way. Besides, Brigitta was neither a rugged woman nor a defiant trollop. Though her s****l preference was questionable, she was still a virgin. Not to mention that her views on life and politics were virginal, uninformed and shallow. Her outlandish dress and behavior had been more for show than substance. She liked the theatrics, but easily relented to her more worldly and experienced cousin when she was scared out of her wits faced with deportation, incarceration and death. Tonight, Brigitta felt secure in the protection of Madame Duvalier’s façade of safety; and she looked forward to stretching her limits—just for the fun of it. If nothing else, the evening would be a cure for her constant boredom. With the eyes of the room staring her way, she smiled, quite coyly—she loved the attention. “I don’t believe you can count on any news agency to print the truth,” she went on. “That was exactly what I was going to handle for the Bureau of Communications when I was ousted. We’re all dupes now. I’d trust no one.” Mr. Trowbridge nodded, understanding her well. He held the same views. Monsieur Leopold did not. He swilled more wine, while his smoldering wife stood at his rear, whispering things like, “Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink?” He shrugged her off repeatedly. “Anna, you’re an alarmist like the rest of them!” He was annoyed with his bride, and spoke to the rest of the guests. “There is too much money vested in the status quo for Versegian to let us down.” Brigitta was on him instantly, “You’re foolish to think that! Why, even my cousin is preparing to go to her country house, as ticklish as things are now.” “I’d spare myself the trouble, Renee,” the Professor shot back at his hostess. “If it’s as bad as you think it is, your estate will not be invulnerable to attack…” he swilled his wine like a sailor swills ale, “but I still wouldn’t worry.” “Ah, Professor, gentlemen, ladies…what good does it do to talk politics tonight? I invited you here to get away from the storm of fear. If we can’t put all this aside for one evening, then what good does it do to live?” “You are so right,” Mr. Trowbridge moved forward, bowing in deference to his hostess. He seemed to have the others in the lady’s parlor settled, when from the hallway, everyone heard the sound of a fist banging on Madame Duvalier’s front door. The room instantly quieted as if they expected the gendarmes to appear at any moment. “Madame,” Louisa opened the parlor door, her sweet face showing a trace of fear she tried covering with a pleasant grin. “Inspector Lyon says he has an appointment?” Madame Duvalier nodded, not a hair on her head quivered. “Show him into my receiving room, Louisa, and offer him a glass of port.” “He has a young man with him.” “Really?” She was curious but not distressed. “Then offer him some port as well.” She turned back to her guests, “If you’ll excuse me, I might be a few minutes.” “Is there something wrong here, Renee?” the Professor asked. “Why heaven’s no!” She whirled around too fast to be convincing. “The inspector does have a terrible sense of timing,” she laughed, “but I am obliged to meet with him. We’ve been on the orphan’s committee together the last two months.” The explanation further reassured the small crowd. As the sumptuous woman swept from the room, the others returned to their drinks and lighter conversation. A Brahms Concerto was playing on the radio to cheer her guests, and even the dim lights in the room seemed to brighten for a time, as if their Mistress cued them just before she left. “Inspector,” Madame Renee Duvalier graciously held out her hand for the government official. In like fashion, he kissed the back of it and clicked his black, knee-high boots, bowing as though he belonged in a world two centuries past. His dark hair was suitably short, his mustache neatly trimmed and his uniform perfectly pressed. His associate, on the other hand, was more casual. Young, to be sure, and filled with testosterone. But with his surly grin and buff-colored military clothes, there was the suggestion of hostility and threat surfacing in the encounter. “Madame, you have met Captain Labeque?” “No, I haven’t had the pleasure,” she answered. The inspector turned to his young friend. “No, sir, the lady and I have not met,” he confirmed. His eyes perused her lustily, catching Madame’s eye. The feeling behind that gaze made her quake to her core. He took her hand as the Inspector had and turned it so he kissed the palm—a more intimate gesture. In some circles, it would be an insult to a lady of such breeding, but few people would object now, and certainly Madame Duvalier would not. “Well then, he has much to look forward to. I’ve told him of our accommodation.” “Inspector, I would love to accommodate your friend, but I have guests this evening and must return to them.” “Surely. But only after we’ve gone upstairs.” She stared at them, internally unnerved, but determined not to let her anxiety show. “I would have time another night,” she said evenly. “You’ll have plenty of time tonight, Renee.” He used the familiar because he did not respect her position—even in her own home. Titles mattered little in his world. Hers was a relic that few bothered to acknowledge anymore. His vision narrowed, ebony eyes glimmering ominously, while his bushy brows hovered above them as storm clouds might. “Yes,” she said, voice fluttering only momentarily, “I’m sure I will. Let me inform my guests that I will be detained.” “Yes, you do that, Madame Duvalier. I hope that they appreciate what they have here. It will be so much rubble in a few months.” There was no reply to his warning. Just a simple nod and a pleasant, if not a bit phony, smile. She moved back to the parlor as the gendarme and his military friend quickly took the stairs to her boudoir. *** The lust apparent on the Captain’s eager face disclosed his youth. Though his swarthy complexion was quite appealing, his dark aims were enough to make Renee Duvalier’s tummy flutter excitedly. His earthy demeanor was too attractive for a woman who guarded herself against such false perspectives of the men. “I’ve informed Captain Labeque of your s****l deviancies,” Lyon remarked. “He was intrigued that a woman could favor the kind of s*x that drives you.” Renee turned to her unexpected suitor, “I’m afraid the inspector tells you only half the truth,” she said boldly. “I am not a woman of loose morals but I am a woman of convenience.”