In preparing her daughter for Paris, Madame de Chartes warned her, "If you judge from appearances in Court you will be deceived; truth and appearance seldom go together."
That faded rose would twitch her skirts, and continue her discourse. "Ambition and gallantry are the soul of the court. There are so many cabals, men and women alike playing, that love is always mixed with business, and business with love." While she spoke, her daughter, Rosalind, embroidered cushions and handkerchiefs, and changed from a girl to a woman under her gaze.
When she was 16, her daughter was allowed to start making her trousseau. If her daughter's hands idled, if her eyes grew soft, Mme. de Chartes scolded her. Even worse were the moments when her hand lingered on the folds of some intimate garment, then Mme. de Chartes sent her to room with a carafe of water for company.
At 17, silk was purchased to make a gown, a demure pink that Rosalind fell in love with. Mme. de Chartes choose a sensible gray broadcloth and honey velvet as well. It took only a month to sew the gowns, and the other eleven months Mme. de Chartes was driven mad finding tasks for her daughter. For two weeks they had been packing.
Mme. de Chartes looked over at her daughter in the carriage. It was the start of their long journey from the quiet of the country to the glittering city of Paris.
Rosalind was 18, and it was time for her to make her debut in court. Her delicate cheeks were flushed like a newly opened rose. Her hair a rich brown tinted with red, thick and lustrous, curled down her shoulders. She had a prim mouth, with a bottom lip that was a bit too large, and sharp little teeth. Her hands were small and neat, her feet trim in their little boots. Too naive for the court was all her mother thought looking at her.
Mme. de Chartes did her best to warn her daughter against the follies of romance. She even told the tale of a young maid, virtuous, who refused the advances of wicked gallant, though her body melted at every touch. What she never told her daughter was the maid was she, and the gallant Diana, the Duchess de Valentinois. After that, Diana had become the sworn enemy of the de Chartes. It did not matter if it had been over 20 years ago, the widow still blushed at the memory.
They were young, the Mme. de Chartes just married. Diana requested her company one dreary afternoon to keep her entertained with cards. She wanted to bet playing Lansquenet, and suggested they use their clothing as money. Chartes stuttered at the request. Diana came and knelt by her chair. She placed her face in Charte's hands, and began to kiss her palms and fingers. As she did, she promised favors to the young beauty, but Chartes did not hear her words. Her eyes were fixed on Diana's bosom, heaving, as she confessed her passion for Mme. de Chartes. The heavy musk perfume she wore made Mme. de Chartes head spin.
She agreed to the terms, to stop the display of affection happening in her lap, and played her best at cards. She did not know that Diana cheated, and soon she sat naked in her chair. Diana took her hand then, and led her over to the bed.
The Duchess de Valentinois surveyed her prize. Mme. de Chartes looked beautiful, virginal, clad in her blushes and ebony hair. Diana trailed her fingers all over her body, her mouth caressed Chartes' most tender places. She looked distraught when Diana made her come with her hands. Chartes tried to hide her face when Diana kissed and licked and sucked her, until she yielded to Diana's lips and fluttered on her mouth. When Diana touched her tongue to her little pink anus, she tried to writhe away, but instead only undulated on Diana's fingers. But when the Duchess had lifted her skirts to crouch over her face, presenting her moist and twitching bloom, Chartes had shrieked and fainted. Incensed, the Duchesse left.
Later, the Duchess repented her haste. She sent Mme. de Chartes love notes and flowers, ribbons and jewels, yet Chartes remained cold. She could not shake the feeling of betrayal that struck her heart when she awoke alone and naked on the bed. She had been frightened; virtue, modesty, and God required she suppress such desires. Still, as she slowly removed her clothes under Diana's glittering eyes, she had begun to quiver. While Diana touched her, she dreamed of burying her face into those soft silk skirts. She had wanted to touch her, but felt the fear of God's wrath upon seeing that which she desired. She wept then as she clumsily dressed. Her husband asked no questions later, though he gave her a hard look.
While Mme. de Chartes dreamed of her past, Rosalind thought of her future.
Most of all, her mind focused on how she bounced in the carriage with her thighs pressed together. This is how a husband will make me feel, she thought, warm and soft. She had never committed the sin of Onan, but she had placed a pillow between her legs, and rubbed her most delicate parts against it, until her groin began to twitch and she gave a little sigh. Oh, how she wanted to place her fingers there, to touch those hot moist petals. She always resisted the temptation, rubbing against something instead, finding her meanest chemise to wear so her swollen nipples rubbed against the rough cloth. She had never ridden a carriage like this before. Had her mother not been lost in the past, she would have seen the flush on her daughter's cheeks and noticed her quick little breaths. Instead, the two women rode with one another, each dreaming of a different lover.
Soon though, their idle fantasies were punctured by a rotten smell. Rosalind wrinkled her nose and raised a handkercheif to her face that had be sprinkled with attar of roses.
"What is that smell mother?" she asked.
Her mother sighed. Underneath the sharp tang of urine and the fetid stench of dung, there was the sweet scent of decay. What better perfume for a court of philanders and gallants? Of men who swore love to ten women, and women who smiled at the promises of ten men. "It is the smell of romance my daughter."
Rosalind shot her a sour look.
"Do not make that face at me. You are not too old to have your ears boxed."
Rosalind sat back in her seat, and tried to remember the other things her mother had told her about Paris. The plays, the opera, the silks, the balls. Of course, with every pleasure came a warning, cutpurses, gallants, vindictive courtiers, poor grace and humiliation.
Rosalind began to fidget, and Mme. de Chartes handed her a small flask of brandy. The burning liquid always soothed her, as a warm fire in winter. Rosalind would have rode through Paris with her face pressed against the window, had her mother not pulled her away, scolding her for acting like a milk maid from provinces.
They soon arrived at their new apartments within the Hotel de Chartes. Rosalind tried not to gawk, but there was so much bustle, her mother had to pull her in by the arm. There were chocolates and wine waiting for them in a cozy little room. They rested in damask armchairs while their baggage was brought into the hall. They would tell the servants where to put it later. Right now, they waited for the Viscount to return from court. Mme. de Chartes needed to speak with him to determine which courtiers would be an appropriate match for her daughter.
