Paris, 1882.
All morning the unidentified man in the hansom cab had waited patiently across the street from the house of Baronne de Montclair on Rue Chatelaine until the baronne left for his office. He waited another half-hour before knocking on the door. A servant answered. The man instructed the servant to hand-deliver the mysterious package only to the baronesse without delay and tipped him generously to ensure his compliance.
The Baronnesse Geneviève de Montclair was having a late coffee on her terrace when the servant delivered the package. Under her questioning he described the man who had delivered the package and his instructions, though he avoided mentioning the tip. The baronnesse was puzzled. As a beautiful young woman of the aristocracy, she knew that she had more than a few secret admirers. Perhaps it was from one of the poor artists to whom she contributed support from time to time. In any case, the method and timing of the delivery piqued her interest and promised perhaps to liven up another rather dull day.
Just in case, she dismissed the servant before opening the package, which was a small black bundle tied with a rose silk ribbon. It had no address or other identifying marks on it. She carefully unwrapped it. It held a tiny glass vial with a clear liquid in it, a shockingly small diaphanous silk negligee, and a hand-printed note that said only, "1:30 tomorrow night. You know what to do."
Geneviève was momentarily taken aback by the contents of the package and the note. She quickly rewrapped the negligee and tore up and carefully disposed of the note. Afterward, she sat back, sipped her coffee, and thought for a moment before allowing herself a smile.
My God, she thought, then it must really be true! She had heard of this extremely well-kept secret independently from several close female friends but had found it hard to believe. They spoke in confidential tones of a very handsome and quite daring young man who was making the rounds of the bored young wives of the aristocracy, seducing them. It was something gossiped about in hushed voices at teas or dances when a few young women might get together somewhere in private. He was variously described as tall or of medium height, dark or light-complected, muscular or slender. But always young and extremely handsome. Perhaps an artist of some kind, living in a garret? A poet, maybe. Perhaps a student from the university? No one really knew. He eventually became a secretly delicious element of adventure in the lives of beautiful young women whose husbands neglected them for impossibly dull business affairs or politics or dallied elsewhere with poorly hidden mistresses. Then voices would lower, eyes would dart around, and secret smiles would appear as the teller would go on to describe the marvelous sexual talents of this mysterious young man.
As more young women admitted to having entertained this stranger in their beds, his reputation grew. It became almost a secret marker of social ranking, of status competition among the cognoscenti, or even a quiet boast, usually in a whisper, for a woman to number herself as one of his conquests.
And now it had come to Geneviève.
So, it wasn't some kind of urban myth, then. And the other women weren't just making this up to gain social status over their peers. Apparently, he was real. But now what? Did she dare?
She thought about her husband. He was a decent man, and clearly he loved her, at least in his own way. She respected him. But this 'fantôme' chose his women well. She reflected on how the Baronne had more and more taken her for granted. Yes, he loved to show off his young and beautiful wife at parties and political events, but then he would disappear with the men into cigar smoke filled rooms, leaving her to fend for herself. At home he'd bury himself in his study for hours each night. When they made love, which had become infrequent in the last few years, it was a hurried affair, after which he rolled off her and went to sleep. When had he last taken her out to dinner, just the two of them? When had he last noticed, much less complimented her on a new dress or hat or hairstyle?
She was still young and still beautiful, but it wouldn't last forever. Other women had had affairs while she had remained faithful. What had it gained her? Why not have one little adventure? That's all it was, just a little adventure before settling down. Maybe she'd keep it a secret. The Baronne would never have to know. Maybe she wouldn't share it with her friends. Wouldn't that make it all right?
She took the package up to her room. Making sure she wouldn't be interrupted, she unfolded the negligee. It was really quite beautiful in its way. Black, incredibly soft, nearly transparent, with a simple bow to tie it in the front and delicate black lace trim on the edges. She held it up in front of her. It reached only to the tops of her long legs. She felt her cheeks grow warm, but she decided to at least try it on. Locking the door to her boudoir she stripped naked, released her long dark hair, and carefully put it on. It was quite amazing. It clung to her curves, almost caressing them. Its open neck accentuated the whiteness of her graceful neck and then plunged to reveal the soft swellings of her breasts. The soft silk on either side draped lovingly over the smooth rise of her firm young breasts, clinging to her nipples, showcasing them beneath the gauzy fabric, hinting delicately at her dark areolas. It cascaded over her narrow waist and then clung to her hips and her beautifully rounded derrière, before finally giving way to her smooth thighs and long, shapely legs. The brief panties which peeked out from beneath the hem of the negligee seemed to invite one's gaze downward into the dark mystery between her legs, at once concealing and at the same time framing her gentle mound there.
At first, she was shocked by what she saw in the mirror but then smiled at herself. She took a really good look, from her head to her toes. By God, she was gorgeous. She'd never before allowed herself to appreciate herself sexually, as a man might, but this outfit forced her to do so, and she was delighted by what she saw. Why should all this be wasted on an uncaring husband? That seemed tragic, a shame. She wanted her body to be properly appreciated by a man who cared. She wanted to see it in his eyes, to feel it in the way he touched her.
She would do it!
Geneviève managed to put it out of her mind enough to get through her daily routine that day, but the next day she found herself alternating between nervousness, a girlish kind of skittishness, and anticipation. She occasionally smiled, amused at herself. In the afternoon she took a luxurious bath and washed her long hair and had her maid brush it to a high luster. She tried to find a compromise between an elaborate hairdo and something less formal, and ultimately simply let it cascade down her back. She carefully applied her makeup in the late afternoon, again trying to find a compromise between elegance and promiscuousness, afraid her husband would question her appearance. She need not have bothered. As usual, he gave her a polite peck when he came back from his office and then ignored her through dinner.
Around eleven o'clock that night her husband asked for his usual glass of sherry before retiring. Geneviève dutifully poured it for him, but when her back was to him, she poured the contents of the little vial into it. He never noticed the difference, but in a few minutes became very drowsy. Soon his eyes closed, and his breathing became regular. Geneviève managed to lay him down on the divan and put his legs up. He didn't stir. She covered him with a light blanket. She stood over him for a moment or two, wondering what in the world she was doing. But after a while she calmed herself enough to ensure that he was sound asleep.
She went to the bedroom. She stripped and got the negligee out from where she had so carefully hidden it and put it on. She stood in front of the full-length mirror, checking over every aspect of herself while she brushed her hair yet again. Then she put on a little more lipstick and blush for her cheeks. She took one last look and declared herself ready.
She made sure the bedroom window was unlocked, turned the one gas lamp down low and got into bed. She tried to be calm, to pretend that she was a woman of the world and that it wasn't extraordinary for her to be entertaining strange gentlemen in her boudoir. It helped a little. She lay awake, wondering if she was doing the right thing. But there was no going back, now. Eventually, in spite of her nerves, she fell asleep.
She woke to find a man standing beside her bed. She couldn't help herself: she gasped and put her hand to her face. The man just smiled.
"You have naught to fear, my lovely," he said in a soothing voice. "I stand here admiring your lovely face and the outline of your beautiful body under the coverlet. Tell me, my sweet, the Baronne, he sleeps?"
"He... yes, yes he does," she said in a whisper.
"Good. Such a lovely body should not be hidden any longer. I should like to take your coverlet down. May I?"
