“What shall we do in my room?”
“We will take away all your things.”
“And then?”
“And then I shall take you with your little luggage to a room in town, whence you will write to Monsieur Beruchet a letter which I shall dictate. Are you willing?”
“Oh, I shall do as you bid me.”
How charming this confidence of innocence and youth! The darling girl, she would certainly have done all I bade her, there and then.
We went up to the lockless room, and put her scanty belongings into a carpetbag.
Violette finished dressing herself, we came downstairs, and, as there were no cabs about, we set out arm in arm, as happy and light-hearted as two school chums, repaired to the Rue Saint Augustin, where I kept a room for a night's debauch when I felt so inclined.
An hour later I was home again, without having tried to make further progress in my amours with Violette.
CHAPTER II
The room which I kept in the Rue Saint Augustin was not in a lodging house. It was a room which I had furnished myself, in view of its destination, with such taste as would have satisfied the most dainty lady.
It was hung all around in carnation velvet; the window curtains and bed curtains were of the same material. The bed was covered with velvet also, and the whole set off by Torsells and bands of gold satin.
A looking glass occupied the whole of the wall inside the bed and corresponded with the mirror placed between the two windows so that images were reproduced ad infinitum.
The rest of the furniture was in keeping with this elegant decoration. A bath was hidden in a sofa and a large bearskin made the pretty feet which rested on it look still whiter.
A pretty little lady's maid, whose only functions were to keep the room in order and to attend to the different lady visitors, had her room on the same landing.
I bade her prepare a bath in the dressing room without awaking the occupant of the bedroom.
We entered without a light, and only lit a night lamp in a vase of rose coloured Bohemian glass. Then I turned away to allow the young girl to undress freely, an operation which in her innocence she would have done in my presence. After which I kissed her on both eyes, bade her good night and returned home as I said before.
In spite of the emotions of the day, Violette went to bed, where she nestled like a little pussy. She said goodbye with a yawn, and I am sure she must have been fast asleep before I was well in the street.
As for me, the case was different, and I could not close my eyes. I confess-that bosom from which my hand had rebounded, that mouth which had been glued to my lips that half opened chemise which had disclosed such lovely treasures-the recollection kept me awake and in a state of great excitement.
I am certain male readers will not ask for any explanation of my conduct, for they fully understand why I stopped half way.
But lady readers more inquisitive or more ignorant of certain articles of our code, will surely wish to know why I went no further.
I must say that it was not for lack of desire, but Violette, as I stated before, was barely fifteen years old, and then she was so innocent that it would have seemed like a crime to take possession of charms given away, so to speak, without any consciousness of the seriousness of the act. And again, I must add, that I am one of those who delight in the relish of all the preliminary delicacies of love, all the voluptuousness of its most complicated pleasures.
Innocence is a flower which should be left unculled as long as possible on its stalk, and should be plucked only leaf by leaf.
A rosebud will sometimes be a week in bursting into a full blown flower. Besides, I like pleasure without attendant remorse; and within the walls of the city which so well defended itself against the invader in 1792 there existed a veteran whose old age I respected.
The worthy man did not seem as if he would have committed suicide on account of the mishap of his eldest daughter, but perhaps he loved more tenderly his youngest-perhaps he had formed for her future plans which I did not like to upset. Besides, I have always noticed that with patience everything goes well for everybody.
I thus pondered until daybreak. Pent up with fatigue, I at last closed my eyes and slept on till eight o'clock.
I got up hastily, as Violette must have been an early riser. I told my man that I should probably not be home for breakfast, I hailed a cab, and in five minutes was at the house in Rue Saint Augustin.
I went upstairs four steps at a time, and my heart beat as if this were my first love.
I entered the room noiselessly. Not only was Violette fast asleep, but she had not even moved.
However, the blankets were partly drawn back, and, as her chemise was half opened, one of her breasts was exposed to my view.
She was charming thus, with her head thrown back and nearly hidden by her luxuriant locks; then she looked like a picture by Giorgione.
Her bosom was marvellously plump and as white as snow. Though a brunette, the nipples of her breasts were rose and like strawberries. I leaned over and applied my lips lightly to one of them; it stiffened instantly, whilst a slight shudder ran through her frame. Had I only chosen to pull off the sheets, I am sure she would not have opened her eyes.
But I preferred awaiting the close of her slumbers. I took a seat near the bed and held one of her hands in mine.
By the light of the night lamp I examined that hand; it was small, of a comely shape, rather short like the hands of Spaniards, and the nails were rosy, pointed, but the forefinger bore evidence of needlework. While I was thus employed she suddenly opened her eyes and uttered a joyful exclamation.
“Oh!” she said, “you are here, how happy I am! If I had not seen you on waking up I should have thought it was all a dream. Did you never leave me then?”
“I did,” I replied, “I left you for four or five hours, which seemed like ages, but I returned, hoping to be the first object on which you should set eyes on waking up.”
“And how long have you been here?”
“For half an hour.”
“You should have woke me.”
“I should never have thought of doing so.”
“You did not even kiss me!”
“Yes, I did, I kissed one of your pretty little rosebuds.”
“Which?”
“The one on the left.”
She uncovered it with a genuine air of innocence and tried to touch it with her lips.
“Oh, how tiresome!” said she. “I cannot kiss it in my turn.”
“And why should you like to kiss it in your turn?”
“To place my lips where your's have lain.”
She renewed the attempt.
“I can do it! Well,” she said, “you gave it a kiss just now for your own sake, let your lips touch it now for my sake.”
Thereupon I leant over her and taking the rosebud between my lips I caressed it with the tip of my tongue.
She gave a little cry of pleasure:
“Oh, how nice!”
“As nice as yesterday's kiss?”
“Oh! yesterday's kiss. It is so long since, I cannot remember.”
