The Princess Of Cleves 05

Like Achilles, Rosalind felt as though her hamstring had been cut, and she now limped around, lost without her mother. The Prince de Cleves carried her into the country, and the Duke de Nemours followed. He did his best to see the grieving Rosalind, but she eluded him.

The Prince contacted the Chevalier de Guise, and he arrived with a little dog. He requested the Chevalier take her on walks since it seemed to do her so much good. The Princess treated the Chevalier himself as a little dog, patting him on the head, reading him stories.

The Duke had never suffered so much in his life. He grew even thinner, hollows began to grow under his eyes.

The Prince found his patience at its end with this man. He left the Chevalier in charge of his wife when the Duke was sniffing about.

Rosalind was amazed at the ease with which she evaded the attentions of the Duke. Having the Chevalier attend her was a strange, but welcome distraction. Her husband developed a prescience in regards to the Duke's visits. When Rosalind finally became aware of all the Prince did to insulate her from the Duke, she was very grateful.

They were preparing for bed one night, and she paused to watch him. He was handsome, if a little plain. His body had a fine form, he was assiduous in his grooming, and he always took delight in pleasing her. He saw her watching him, and he blushed.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked curtly. He was in a sour mood, having found the Duke particularly insufferable today, and the Chevalier irritating. To think, this was the price he paid for marrying the most admired woman in the court; he was unsure it was worth it.

"Thank you," Rosalind said. Her hand moved as if to touch him.

"For what?" The Prince regarded his wife, and found her cheeks flushed. "What is on your mind?" Her eyes met his, and he was surprised by the warmth he saw in them.

"You."

Had she not been looking him in the eye, he would have believed she was lying. "What has gotten you in such a queer mood?" he asked, walking over to touch her cheek.

She blushed. "You have been so...protective of me after my mother's death. It makes me very happy."

The Prince smiled, thinking perhaps that she was worth the trouble she caused after all. She just thanked him for guarding from the most charming man in France. "You are welcome," he said, kissing her brow.

He was enveloped in the scent of roses. She took the Prince's hands, and made him sit in an armchair. He looked down at her puzzled as she knelt in front of him, then his blue eyes lit up as she pushed his nightshirt up to his waist.

"Wait," the Prince said, and he removed their clothes. Rosalind now only wore her blushes, and the Prince was twining his fingers in her hair.

She looked up at him, and smiled, taking his erect sex into her hands. There was already a drop of dew at its tip which she used to lubricate her hands. When she pressed her soft lips to his phallus, he groaned. She began to lick him, and he reached down to cup her breasts. Her small mouth opened, and he could feel her breath as she gasped.

"You are distracting me," she said.

As much as he wanted her to take him in her mouth, he could not stop himself from lifting her off the floor and placing her on his turgid sex. She was already hot and wet, and he slid in easily. He groaned as she began to bounce herself up and down on his lap, and he clutched her to him. In a moment, he had spent himself. By now, the Princess knew that he was not done. She settled herself in front of him again, and took the tip of his phallus in her mouth.

The Prince twitched in his chair. She used both her hands to caress his shaft while she sucked on the head. There was a salty flavor, strange, the Prince's seed mixed with the juices of Rosalind's womb. The Prince held the nape of her neck, and thrust himself a little way into her mouth.

Her hands moved rapidly over his sex; unsure of what to touch, she touched everything. The ridge that ran under his phallus, his testicles, the expanse of skin behind them. When her little finger reached his anus, his toes curled, and he came. It caught Rosalind by surprise, and the first surge spilled from her mouth. The others covered her face.

She looked distraught, but before she could even wipe her face, the Prince fell upon her. He kissed her, tasting himself on her lips, and he was strong again. He pushed her on the floor and took her again.

Rosalind could feel her back bruising on the hard floor, and she came, all the while the Prince moved over her, she came. She came so that moisture overflowed their joined sexes, she came so that she clenched the Prince so hard he was in pain, she came until she arched her back as he sank into her, bringing the tip of his phallus to the very back of her womb.

At last, her groin clenched like a fist, and the release made her cry out, her legs twitch. The Prince felt her womb go limp around him and flutter, her face formed what appeared to be a grim rictus of pain. It was a spectacular orgasm, and he spilled his seed for the third time that night. He held her as she panted, and kissed her sticky face.

He tucked her into bed, and with a basin of warm water, wiped his mess from her body. She was half asleep, and his eyes lingered on her naked form. Between her legs, her lips were red and swollen. She squirmed as he cleaned her thighs and buttocks. He dashed water on his face and groin before slipping into bed to hold his wife.

As he lay there, he thought the only thing that could have rendered this night more perfect was to have the Chevalier spying on them. He would relate to him this adventure. At this point, as far as he could ascertain, the Chevalier had yet to make use of the alcove he had set up for him. A simple tapestry hung over an inset for a large statue: it was the perfect place to spy. He had nonchalantly show it to the Chevalier one day, making up something about the sculpture that had once been there.

* * * *

The Chevalier de Guise arrived early the next morning and found the Prince de Cleves waiting for him, looking rather rumpled but cheerful. "Good morning Chevalier," he said.

"Good morning Prince, you are in a good mood," the Chevalier replied.

"I am, and I wanted to share something with you. Rosalind has noted how we have been keeping the Duke de Nemours from her, and she was very appreciative." His tone dropped an octave and became more intimate. "Very very appreciative." He made a crude pantomime with his hands and mouth.

The Chevalier colored at this confidence. Sometimes he entertained a suspicion that the Prince was trying to encourage him to spy on his wife. The alcove the Prince had showed him behind the tapestry was perfect should he wish to watch the Princess at her toilet, or with her husband. When he was not attending Rosalind, he was free to wander the grounds. If the Prince encountered him, he only nodded. They had also designated a room for him to indulge his passions, which he often made use of. Thus far, he had spied on the Princess reading and followed her as she walked her little dog.

The Prince he had observed eating and writing letters. In those moments by himself, the Prince's sharp blue gaze softened. The Chevalier doubted the Prince realized that the Chevalier did not discriminate by sex.

Now he was in the garden, waiting for Rosalind to join him on their morning stroll. A carriage arrived, undoubtedly it was the Duke, come to harass the Prince. He did not know what the Prince would do when he traveled to Paris, as he would at some point. Perhaps the Prince would install him here to keep an eye on his wife. He became excited as he fantasized about watching Rosalind eat in private. He did not notice her light footsteps, and started when she touched his shoulder.

He took her arm. He discovered that she preferred for him to remain silent while they walked, or if he did talk, to talk about nothing. It was how the Marechal seduced her, by being as innocuous as a pebble. So the Chevalier imitated him, and Rosalind rewarded him with idle smiles. They sat on a bench, and he read her dull essays on the Catholic faith.

She stared at a flower, not really seeing it. The Chevalier knew he had a pleasant voice, but he found the text inane, and she did bother to listen. The rhythm change caught her attention when he switched to poetry. She looked at him, and he gave her a nervous smile.

"I am sorry, but I could not take any more genuflection. I did not think you were paying attention, so you would not care if I read something that interested me," the Chevalier said.

"You are correct, poetry just sounds very different," the Princess replied.

He began reading again, but this time Rosalind listened. Certainly, this was a book her mother would've forbidden her to read. The poem he chose concerned Tristan and Isolde. Her mother must be rolling in her grave, she was being read a poem about an adulterous queen by a gallant who had often shown her his affection.

She wished she could see the Duke, but she did not trust herself. They would stand there with flushed cheeks and have an awkward conversation, exchanging glances.

It was frustrating, suffocating, in this manor. She found herself missing the Marechal. She would like to hit him until she cried again. Even after the death of her mother, she had not cried that hard, nor felt so refreshed from her tears.

She thought of the address he had given her, but what would she write to him? If she said she missed him, it would be a love letter, and she certainly would not immortalize their encounter in prose. She could write to him of the weather. As she conceived of the idea, she decided that she would. She would read his note, and follow his instructions. It would be something to do.

The Chevalier kept looking at her as he recited the poem. Every now and then he would glance down at the words, but she would not notice if he garbled a line. She had a mischievous look on her face; he would have to follow her closely. What could this little dove be plotting, kept as she was in this pretty little cage? Was she keeping up a secret correspondence with the Duke? That would make no sense. She was content to stay in this manor in the company of her two guards. If she had wanted to see the Duke, she would have chased him away, and left her husband to manage as best he could. Sometimes, after the Prince sent the Duke away, the Chevalier felt eyes on him. He searched the garden, and there were many places to hide. He smiled, thinking that the Duke must be jealous even of him, Rosalind's little lap dog.

The Duke ground his teeth as the saw the joyous look on the Chevalier's face. He did not know how the man had managed to befriend the Prince, let alone become the Princess' chaperone. There were times when he saw a certain sparkle in the Princess' eyes, and he imagined they shone for him.

As he crouched in a bush he felt himself begin to strain against his breeches. Lignerol no longer offered him any satisfaction, and he found no comfort alone. He beautiful hair lost its luster, his eyes were dim, and his smile more a grimace. His passion for the Princess de Cleves was making him ill. He idly rubbed his sex until the pair left. Now he would have to sneak out of the garden. He was afraid of the Chevalier, who seemed to have free reign to prowl the halls. He returned to Paris, and to Lignerol's admonishments to give up this woman who infected him with such a sick obsession.

The Chevalier handed Rosalind off to her husband. He started to walk the halls, looking for a place to hide. Like a siren's song, he could hear the little alcove calling to him. His little hiding place. Perhaps the Prince was kind enough to leave a bottle of wine there.

The thought made him laugh, the Prince preparing him a nest from which to watch his wife. He wandered aimlessly until he found himself outside their bedchamber. Pressing his ear against the door, he could not hear anyone, and it was unlocked. He found the way the tapestries were hung over the alcove, there was a gap in the fabric right in the center. For some reason, and old cloak had been thrown back there. It seems the Prince had considered his comfort. Not that he would have been uncomfortable. With his hobbies, his limbs had become used to small cramped places without any cushioning.

* * * *

Rosalind sat at her little desk. At her husband's suggestion, she had it placed in their bedchamber, so she could write in private. She had kept up a lively correspondence with the Princess Mary, and found Mary's replies very witty. She found the note the Marechal de St. Andre had given her where she had hidden it in a packet of other letters. All it said was: Leave your letters behind the putti with the harp in the garden. If someone sees you, tell them you wished for a breath of fresh air.

She put the note in her pocket, then began to write. She did not know if she should use his name in case the letter was found, so she addressed it to M.

Dear M--

Thank you for suggesting I write to you, I find myself at a loss. My mother has died. I fear that my feelings for D-- remain. My husband, and strangely enough, C--, help me to keep watch over my heart. I have not seen D-- since I left with my husband for the country, though he comes here often. I am grateful to them both, but I stagnate here at the same time.

I meant to write to you about the weather. It has been pleasant, if a bit damp. There are flowers blooming in the garden, and even some tuberoses. P-- brought them from Paris so I should not miss the court. I have been taking walks outside with C-- and he reads me nonsense. He brought me a little dog, and I named her Lily. She sleeps in a basket next to the bed, and is a lovely distraction. If it has rained outside, she leaves muddy little footprints everywhere. The maid then looks very cross.

I find myself enjoying my husband's company more. He has been very kind since my mother passed.

I am sorry, I am writing a letter with nothing to say. I've been writing to Mary, and she tells me all the gossip of the court. She is the only person with whom I have kept a correspondence.

I wish I had attended your ball. Sometimes the attentions you pay to me in public embarrass me. There was also what D-- said, which I am sure you have heard. He effected me so at first, I found myself impelled to abide by his opinion. Now, were I his mistress, I would be the one who vexed him first with her neglect, and then with her vanity.

I hope you are well. Sometimes I hear news of the battlefront and it frightens me. I keep you in your prayers.

Your Friend,

R--

It took her an hour and a half to write these words. All the while the Chevalier's heart had been melting.

Rosalind wept, she collected herself to write a little, then she sighed and stared. He saw her small secret smile, and her cheeks flush. She withdrew a handkerchief and pressed it to her face. Carelessly she set it by the edge of her desk, and the Chevalier was transfixed as she began to write again. She blew on her paper, fidgeted with her pen, smeared ink on her face. At last, a gesture sent the piece of linen to the floor where it was forgotten.

She sealed the letter. It took her another several minutes to determine how to address the envelope. In the end, she left it blank. As soon as she left the room, the Chevalier sprang from his hiding place to snatch the handkerchief. His sensitive ears picked up the vibrations of footsteps, and he dove back into his cover. It was Rosalind. She took a bottle of cologne and sprinkled it on the letter. The room was perfumed with rose, always rose.

The Chevalier was able to follow her by the scent. He found her by a statue in the garden, a look of surprise on her face as she pulled a letter from behind it. Instead of following Rosalind back inside, the Chevalier hid himself to see who came for her letter.

Rosalind's heart pounded. She retreated to the library and tore open the letter. It unnerved her that a it had been waiting for her, that someone had been creeping into her garden, searching for word from her. It was a short note.

My Dearest Princess,

I could not forbear writing to you when I heard of the death your mother. Please accept my deepest condolences. My endeavors here have been going well. I hope to see you soon, and you are often in my thoughts. I hope this letter finds you well, as well as you can be given the circumstances.

Your Marechal

She read it through, two or three times, then with a trembling hand held it to a candle flame. In moments, it was just ash in the fireplace. She wondered if it should trouble her, this clandestine correspondence with the Marechal, her warm feelings toward him, but no. If she wrote him openly, their letters would be read, and they would be vapid and useless. What she felt toward him was closer to what she felt for her husband, a gratitude for his kindness.

She thought of when he had asked her hit him. The way he responded to each blow, like she caressed him. She had not wanted to see it at the time, she was too overcome with emotion, but the look in his eyes, she knew it well.

It was the same thing she saw in her husband's eyes when she came to him at night, the look of the Chevalier as he attended to her, it was in the hooded gaze of the Duke de Nemours. She shivered. Craning her neck, she looked at the door. There was the key, left carelessly in the lock, and she used it to secure the room. She placed an armchair so its back was to the door, then hitched up her skirts and draped one leg over an arm. Now her sex was exposed, and she thought of the Marechal groveling at her feet.

She touched herself with one finger, stroking her petals. She found the bud within them, and began to twist it with her fingers. She thought of the Marechal, trying to caress her ankles as she kicked him, turning his lips to kiss her fists. He had squirmed so that his buttocks found its way in front of her feet, and he curled into himself, holding his head so she struck his shoulders. Sometimes he raised his face and she struck his cheeks. As she relived the moments, she began to quicken, to move.

Now the Marechal was touching her legs, clutching her knees, knocking her down. He crawled on top of her, and kissed her neck as she beat at him. She fantasized about struggling beneath him as he rubbed his sex on her leg. She climaxed, and her eyes were wet. She melted into the chair, surprised to feel the same release she had with the Marechal.

She looked in her pocket for her handkerchief, but it was missing. She frowned, then wiped her face and fingers on the hem of her chemise. That night she fell asleep quickly and had pleasant dreams.

The Prince found himself wondering what she had done that night. At one point he had walked by the library, only to find the door locked, and what sounded like a soft panting inside. The Chevalier was no where to be found either, no doubt tucked away somewhere, watching.

* * * *

The Marechal de St. Andre was very anxious about the mail. The troops would have teased him about being in love with the Princess de Cleves were it not for the severe reproach they received upon doing so. That day he found himself with two letters, one of which was the one he so desired. He gave orders not to be disturbed. He skimmed over the first from Diana, the Duchess de Valentinois. It surprised him that she reconciled with the Madame de Chartes. She was now soliciting his aid in the safekeeping of Mme. de Chartes' daughter Rosalind.

As he opened the envelop that contained Rosalind's letter, he caught the gentle scent of roses. There was a bruise on his thigh that she had given him, which he had kept by a gentle palpation before he fell asleep. There was no name on the sealed letter, a clever thing should the missive be found. As he read her letter, he saw very clearly the one thing she had not said to him, that she missed him. He held the paper over his heart as he grasped his sex.