Nearly as pretty as the manor house owner's daughter.
— She looked like a lovely doll with her long fair hair hanging on her back. Her skin under her tan was tenderly flushed. Her winsome, arch, squirrel face invincibly caught the eyes, and when she smiled, she showed a row of delicate pearly teeth with the tip of a rosy tongue.
The finishing touch was given by her green golden eyes, impish and innocent at once in a face that would have delighted any lover of womankind.
And, if any such man could have caught a glimpse of what was hidden under the light blouse, could have felt the firm bare breasts, the slim waist, the charming curves under the skirt. If a glance had been stolen along the shapely legs, up the rounded thighs, how he would have yearned to know her… to meet her, may be… in a quiet fragrant wood.
Myriam's one thought though was to take advantage of this radiant afternoon to play truant. She had reached the lake by now, the lake closely hemmed round with ageless woods. Myriam often came there. She loved this forlorn, deserted, spot, the calm waters, the trees and sky mirrored in their depths, the loving stillness of nature.
She paused on the bank, played ducks and drakes, then was seized by a mad longing to bathe. The sun was still high in the sky, she'd soon be dry.
Without more ado, well aware nobody ever came there, she laid her box down, and began to undress. She had quickly done. She had nothing on but her skirt, her blouse, and diminutive pants like a small girl.
She hesitated a second before stripping completely, but the temptation was too strong. The last rampart was of in a jiffy and she stood naked as the loveliest nymph.
So happy was she to be freed of all civilized attire, that she rolled about in the moss, in the grass as a young wild animal who has just broken free, then, she splashed into the cool waters with a child's delight.
— Myriam thought she was alone. Yet a man was there too, lying on the moss close by hidden by a clump of sedges. The man was the owner of the Chateau Vert, Ghislaine's father.
— Nicolas Kozincko would say he was Hungarian, may be it was true, for he did look Slav. Yet he might have been Roumanian, Polish or Russian for all one knew. Still handsome though he was on the shady side of forty, with something of the look of a bird of prey in his cold eyes, brutal, sharp and sensual at once. You could plainly read on his clean shaven face the dispassionate will of a man used to rule everything and everybody, the bitter stigmas of pent up passions, of desire and vice too.
Nobody could exactly say who was Nicolas Kozincko. He was Rich. That was enough. He had many acquaintances, entertained many friends at the Chateau Vert, many friends as strange as he, and herds of pretty girls with them. Nobody knew what passed during the numerous parties he gave. His servants he brought with him from Paris, they couldn't speak a word of French. None of his worthy neighbours where ever invited together with these people, and when they were there was nothing they could learn. They thought Kozincko was a business man. He was rich, hence he was honourable.
Such a man might be cruel and depraved in the eyes of some, yet he became a thoroughly different being as soon as he was with his daughter.
Ghislaine was his only daughter. He never spoke of her mother, his love for his child was violent and exclusive. He shut her from the world and its taints. Ghislaine was a recluse. She lived all the year round at the Chateau Vert. One wing was her own. She had her own servant who couldn't speak French, and a governess was in charge of her education.
When Nicolas Kozincko entertained his friends, that wing of the manor was locked up, and even the servants were left out of what went on, whatever it was. As long as his daughter had been a small girl Nicolas had found the arrangement satisfactory. Now she was seventeen he realized he couldn't keep her there without danger.
This was the reason why he had come back, meaning to take her with him in Paris where he had bought her a jewel of a mansion.
This would enable him to keep the Chateau Vert to himself and his guests. To day he had got there earlier than he expected, and was having a look at the grounds; he had strayed away to the lake and waking up from his reveries had seen Myriam coming; as he had an inkling of what was to follow, instead of revealing his presence he had hidden himself, delighted at this godsend.
Nicolas Kozincko was a great lover of women. As a matter of fact that love was his «raison d'etre». Anything was game for him: ladies, artists, typists, shop assistants, he saw nothing but their bodies and the intense pleasure he could get from them.
The sight of a fine girl was a torture to him and the thought he couldn't get her was rack and torment to him.
He had some difficulty in mastering his desire when he saw Myriam stepping innocently out of her clothes, almost within arm's reach, when he saw her high pointed breasts, her slender waist, her long thighs, and the shy, fair down shadowing her sex. Her fawnlike grace when she frisked about in the moss revealing the secrets of her most intimate treasures, ripe enough it seemed, was almost too much for him. A loathsome desire had swept over him, and he saw himself rushing on the frail helpless child, violently quartering her as a faun ravishing a nymph. This swift possession would have given him an intense pleasure, yet he had still enough sense left to foresee what the consequences of a rape might be even if the girl kept her mouth shut. No! Kozincko had another plan, the girl was too lovely indeed. He would have her, later, at his mercy.
Who was she? he wondered.
One of that old crazy English woman's daughters. If such was the case the matter would be easy to settle.
He knew money can buy everything, especially virtue… It wouldn't take him long to prevail upon the mother to send the child to the Chateau. He would keep her as her daughter's lady's maid. Yes, the idea was a good one, he would do that. He kept his eyes on Myriam splashing about, and his desire grew immodestly strong…
Myriam scrambled out of the water and shook her wet hair. She played about as a happy young puppy.
Kozincko's eyes were riveted to that body which every movement revealed more intimately. The wet skin glistened as a polished metal. The breasts hardened by the cool waters' caresses were darted impudently skywards, like two tiny shields. The softly rounded buttocks reminded him of a firm peach and sometimes he caught a maddening glimpse of a shadowy virginal sex.
He closed his eyes. He mustn't reveal his presence, nor obey his male instincts however excruciating the restraint might be. He waited patiently while Myriam was putting on her babyish pants, her skirt, her blouse, wondering all the while what she would look like with lace underwear, nylons, and all these airy nothings cunningly designed to let you know the secret charms of a lovely woman.
Myriam took up her box and went her way humming a little song while Kozincko hurried to reach the manor house before our Cinderella.
CHAPTER II
Ghislaine had two good reasons for being happy on that afternoon. First of all her father had come, with no end of presents for her as usual, secondly he had told her he was taking her back with him in Paris.
She had been so often dreaming of such happiness, that she could hardly believe her dream had come true at last. For years and years she had been staying at the Chateau Vert, and had built up a wonderful vision of what life was like in Paris. Brought up as she had been in such a secluded place, away from every possible influence except that of a strict father and stricter governess, she knew absolutely nothing of life.
However, as her imagination was vivid and her spare time considerable she had built up a world of her own, and firmly believed life to be a primrose path-She simply adored her father. She had never wondered why he lived in Paris whereas she stayed in the Chateau Vert. Neither was she astonished at being kept away from his parties. She had been used to all this since her earliest childhood, and her dream world was enough to make her perfectly happy.
— Sitting in front of her dressing-table Ghislaine was combing her long hair so fair that it looked almost snowy. She was very proud of it, as of the rest of her amiable person. She often turned to her mirror, seeking critically for her best features, comparing her blossoming charms with what fashion papers her father allowed her to
