It wasn't long after she arrived that news started to travel. She barely managed to present herself to the Prince before lips started to waggle.
'The Madame is in London!'
That statement has been repeated with mixed emotions. Some have said it with excitement. Others have said it more discretely. And still others have said it with a mixture of disdain and respect.
The Madame knows how she is perceived...and doesn't really give a flying rat's ass. She knows her place among her kind and revels in the little niche she's made for herself.
Not long after her presentation had occurred, the invitations started arriving. Claridge's third floor has been rented out by one Annabelle Dechamps and is apparently quite full. She's come with a good sized compliment of her 'company'. The invitation stated 'open door policy to all Toreador... all others must make an appointment'. Standard procedure, apparently.
Not even Noah saw this much rain...
Not that Copenhagen was not delightful, but London now, and the fog has settled into my bones. There is only one way to revive warmth into the marrow and dispel the fog. Sin. Copious amounts of it, until cups run over and the skin begins to radiate like a star. Yes, yes. And from here, the Palazzo di Medici, an atrium of glass, and twenty appreciative young men.
Then, I think Greece...
Maybe Madagascar...
Ah... India. Dreams of cinnamon. Hands of clove. Feet of lotus. Almond oil on the skin...
Long hair, curled over his shoulders, left to its own designs. A burgundy-black, the deepest sort of brown. It blends into the sable fur he is wearing. Shaved in the latest style. From a distance it seems like an overcoat of some shimmering silk. The close view would tell otherwise -- of luxury most never experience. The eyes are hidden behind amber lenses, a tortoise-shell frame. The trousers -- a chocolate suede. The shirt -- if shirt there is, it seems more of that same shimmering fabric.
Fur...
Girault does not pause as he passes one of Claridge's many mirrors. He knows what he looks like, and to all other eyes tonight... well... he passes without notice. He, a luxurious sight unseen. And as passes down this third floor hall... this now infamous third floor, si? ... Girault-Antonio di Medici begins to smile.
Christian... you will find me again... si?
If the mortals knew what was going on up here on the third floor of their famous hotel, the scandal that would come out in the newspapers! But, ah, they would never really know the truth of what is going on up here, now would they? No, the Masquerade is upheld strictly and the Madame does not tolerate deviance from this rule.
But the mortals would never find out or even have an inkling about what is going on up here, either. All the rooms were booked under the names of her various 'dolls, and they all checked in at different times and dates, even weeks ahead of her arrival. She has taken great pains to ensure that no pattern could be perceived in the bookings. Only once the entire floor was secured did she then arrive in town. Some special arrangements were also made with the housekeeping staff, so that no one would be disturbed.
Ladies and young men filter about the hall of the third floor, talking, laughing and generally having a good time. Incense, cloves and something else can flits about in the air here, suggesting as to what is going on up here to those who know.
Clothing and movements are suggestive, revealing, and taunting. Lips are painted brightly, lusciously on pouty-faced girls who share a sofa just down the corridor. Eyes seem larger, emphasized with kohl on a group of lads passing into a nearby room.
If asked, any one of the denizens roaming around up here would say the Madame could be found in room 304...the door is open.
Beside you, the invisible man. He prefers not being seen these days, especially where London's concerned. No one would like it if they truly knew how often he was in the City. Well, any city for that matter. Thus, Christian Lausanne edits his visits, erasing events as he sees fit. And his traveling is one of those edited manifests.
"What are you trying to say, Girault?" he asks, his Italian perfect, "That I am not enough?" A joke to himself, but in part a real question. What was wrong with you, me, Copenhagen? Maybe I am losing my style. That's it. "You should be glad that I am not so sensitive," he laughs...silently to the world.
Luxurious folds of clothing. They pool about him as he moves in and out of shadows. His steps carry him with purpose, with a grace. It is unknowable to human eyes. They may only perceive so much. And when he is ... too much for the world, they do not perceive him at all.
My most substantial shadow, how could you doubt my unending adoration...Stay with me. You do not tire of Antonio? Antonio could not tire of you...
...Ah, and when we get to India, my dear Christian...You will cover me in honey dust and drink the cinnamon from my tongue...
In and out of the cloistered shadows of the half-lit corridor, Girault moves visibly -- to those who can stand it -- but in the company, the oh so favored company, of one who is seldom seen. And the smile winds across his features. From cinnamon eyes held behind amber veils. To the warmth of his Raphaelite features. He moves to and through the open doors.
She is in here...
"London has never been better," the famous tenor rises. Yes, Madame, it is Il Gatto di Firenze.
He must be speaking with someone certainly. London has never been better? For whom?
But there was nothing save silence. Ah, indeed. Announcing himself to the woman who runs this all...
The tenor is heard inside the room and the connection is made even before she looks to the door. The darkly-painted lips curl into a broad smile, eventually stretching wide enough to show off the whiteness of teeth. It is genuine.
"Ahhhh...pourrait-il etre? Est-ce que je pourrais etre ainsi beni quant a obtenez une visite de Girault deja?" comes the melodious voice to match those lips. Could it be? Could I be so blessed as to get a visit from Girault already?
The Madame is seated in a luxurious two-seater, having her calves massaged by two of her 'dolls... one is a pretty brunette lady with tattoos up her arms.. the other is a blonde male with deep blue eyes. Both halt as their mistress speaks, allowing her to sit up and then rise to her feet. Dressed in leather, as usual, and still with the two-toned hair, she has not changed too much save for the fact that she wears the latest fashions.
There's a 'hmph' from the air behind you. A brush at your ear, lifting immortal locks.
But say...there is a blonde present.
"I could never tire of you, amice Antonio..." voice even as it follows rapidly with, "...but my wandering eye does strike gold...."
Desidero guardarlo con il regalo dorato. Sara come il Compleanno del Signore...
That insubstantial voice could purr so...
And it is answered in the living voice, the audible tones. Girault beams, his arms unfolding. "Madame du Plaisir. Comment ai ose je refusez-par le passe moi a entendu. Je suis frais des plaisirs de Copenhague," the smile pulls smoothly, slowly. Like the stretching of a cat in the sunlight. There is an embrace, the Continental kiss. The appraisal of Il Gatto upon your young blonde man. The woman is lovely, but he...
You have excellent eyes, Amice. It is one of the many things I love. No eyes ever wandered and conquered as yours. See, and you were melancholy for leaving Denmark behind.
Girault sweeps a half-bow. "I heard you had an entire wing dedicated to the muses of pleasure. I had to come make my usual offerings..."
Eyes simmer, cinnamon behind amber.
The world around Girault shimmers. And why not? He is simply one of the most exquisite creatures in all of existence. Artists have prostrated themselves for hours of his delicate beauty. Why should not the world shimmer as nothing around him?
And so it does. Oddly.
Until the waves in the space-time fabric become palpably apparently. Visible light is skewed, seeming ripped, bent and buckling into this Universe. This space.
From it? A rarely seen figure of auburn hair and green eyes. Tall and well-formed. This night, suddenly appearing ex nihilo, from Nothingness.
Dressed in a full length coat of malleable PVC.
The man gives a radiant smile to the blonde, having manifested in the young man's shoulder. There is his interest. Very little can peak his curiosity, and someone's gone and done it.
Christian Lausanne visualized.
The Continental kiss is accepted, returned, and a smile is given for it. Eyes flicker briefly, gazing toward the blonde man at her feet, following the other gaze upon him. Ah, but you need only ask and he is yours, Girault.
Tilting her head slightly as she looks back up at the man standing before her, Annabelle says sweetly, "My visit could not be complete without a the honour of your presence at least once, Girault. Truly, it has been a bit too long since I last laid eyes on you, I fear. We should take care to keep in better contact, non?"
Her gaze then drags back down and up Girault's form, appreciatively.
"Still as I remember you, yes... I can rest soundly tonight, just dreaming of the body before me," Annabelle purrs teasingly. Then, laughing lightly, she says, "What can I do for you this eve, monsieur? Are you here on business or pleasure, hm? Oh--!" There is a pause as Christian appears from nowhere, then the woman chuckles, murmuring, "I wondered when you were going to show yourself, naughty boy..." A well-manicured finger waggles in the newcomer's direction as she grins at him.
Naughty boy!
O, Sweet Delight! Si, he is that...
Girault rolls back his shoulders and the shimmering sable drapes downward. The shirt beneath it revealed. Form fitted, tailored to the cavaliere's arms, chest, torso. With just enough give. A smile is created upon his mouth, like Creation's own smile. It gives light. Simmering heat. This... flame of a smile... like the fires of a saint's pyre... seen also in his eyes as the glasses are removed. "I have come far," Girault speaks, "... to give flesh to your fantasies. You must share them with me, my dear..."
The smile slants, curving. "Hmmm... my evening's entertainment is already lining up. Il Dio e merciful. Sa che Medici non ha pazienza!" Cinnamon eyes slip over Christian. "You wish him..."
It is not a question. And the smile broadens.
"You are lucky," Christian murmurs, his French laced with some other tone. "I had thought not even to do that, but then, I am known to be so discourteous." As they say. A greeting if there was one. "Madame," he nods, auburn hair shining in the light.
"Sir," he begins, offering a hand to the blonde. Sarcasm in that. Irony. Elevation of the low to high. And topsy-turvy is how the Justicar exists. Rules of the Universe made as he thinks of them.
The Incubus Eternal.
But no one buys those old wives' tales.
Christian glances over as Girault makes his opening salvos. "And we are all saved by your sacrifice," he follows, in droll tones. "Of coming far, that is..." Christian adds.
But when he is asked about the young man, he turns to see the youth again. "Entree before main. Maybe. Later." Hand drops, joining the other at the zipper that holds the folds of PVC together. "I am still dreaming of Danemark..." using the old name.
He nearly goes roseate...
Like the gods and goddesses of Olympus...
But then, he would have to admit to blushing and Girault makes it a practice never to admit to anything...
There follows smoky laughter, held in throat and chest, issuing warmly. "I do not claim to be a saviour of much. But a saviour in coming..."
Girault tilts his head, outspreads his hands, the fur draped over his arm shimmering again. "I can accept this..."
Girault's words bring light laughter from the woman. Her dolls smile and grin, but remain silent.
"To give flesh to -my- fantasies? Oh mon... ceci se produit tellement rarement!" Oh my... this happens so rarely! There is truth in her words as her surprise shows in her face easily. It is a pleasant surprise, though.
Grinning, the Madame says with a chuckle, looking to the blonde lad at her feet, who shakes the offered hand before him. The glance flicks back to Girault, then to Christian as she murmurs, "I knew you were here... but would not intrude on your preference to remain hidden. To each, his own, non? We are known for being discreet." Motioning briefly to the blonde doll, she says with a wicked grin, "You may have him tonight, if you wish it. He has no other appointments."
The quiet blonde merely grins and blushes a bit, where Girault will not.
Words of Danemark...
Girault pivots. An eyeful of Christian. The rest of the world should be so lucky. "We claim him in the name of Italy and..." Dark eyebrows sweep upward even as his eyes make their own exploration. "...memories of Danemark. It was a most lovely time. And our journeys will continue. This week," he turns again, again including Anabelle. "...I am hoping...si?" You will stay with me, Christian... yes...
I am not ready for you to leave yet...
"Ah," he beams down to the blonde. "...we will be back for you. You...most golden... will be our chief delight." Even if I do not partake, I shall be sharing. It is the way of it. Eyes lift to Annabelle. "Tell the world that the golden treasure has been booked..."
Already, someone has made plans for me. That's how it's been for....a long time.
Christian leaves the young man to spy the room, the coat slipping down his shoulders. What's left is a revelation in some polyurethane, a corset with shoulderstraps that fits him firmly to his hips. From there? More of the same material in 'pants' that disappear into dulling boots.
"I have not hear that you oft visit London, madame," Christian observes. Turning about, he hands the coat to the young man, a cigarette appearing in his emptied hand. Certainly, something magical.
And lo, the cigarette is already lit.
"And you are generous, thank you," he says to the lady in continuance, for use of the blonde. Christian moves towards a painting, taking a moment to peer at it.
Once more, the Madame grins. "But of course. There was no doubt, gentlemen. His schedule is now full and he cannot be spoken for by anyone else," she replies with a sweet smile. Looking to the blonde, she purrs, "Marcel, you may go to room 301."
His head bobs once as he rises obediently at his mistress' words. He still smiles calmly, but in a room full of kindred, can he really hide his anticipation? He passes by all of you, slipping toward the door.
Gazing at the two of you, Annabelle motions to other seats around the room, "Please... feel free to make yourselves comfortable, if you wish it." She lowers herself into the two-seater once more as she waves off the woman still at her feet. "Go along, Monique... go make yourself pretty.." she says in a gentle voice. The doll nods, offers a smile, then rises to head for the door, also.
As the two dolls disappear out into the hall, the last one closes the door so speaking can happen freely. Looking to Christian, Annabelle murmurs, "I try to pop by when I can, but business has been busy as of late. But, I heard a friend was in town, so I thought I would come and visit her here."
Girault has already folded himself within the arms of the sofa. Suede and fur folding, and the rings upon fingers -- ruby and smoky diamond -- sparkle as his fingers move, unbuttoning the mink shirt. The mink covered buttons slipping easily. To let the breeze in. Fur and suede. Amice, I am on fire...
Well, more so than usual...
Long follows the issuing sigh, and Girault lolls his head against the back of the sofa. Following Christian in his wandering. Cinnamon and amber-flecked eyes slide to Annabelle, and his lips form the slant of a grin. "It would seem that everyone was interested in the Foggy City. And who is this woman who would bring you from your legendary halls...to the village on the Thames..."
Christian... Are you sad we left our Copenhague? Our Danemark.
Let us go to snowy climes. Forget Madagascar and Greece. Come with me... Come with me to Switzerland. Come with me to Prague... We will wander the winter kingdoms of the world. In the spring, we will go to Holland...
We will go... wherever you like. I will even endure Rome for you...
Indeed. Christian's green eyes glance over from the painting to hear the response, flitting over Girault in the passing.
But then he returns to the work. Nice for something in a hotel.
"Would either of you like a drink?" Annabelle offers as Girault finds himself in the sofa. She begins to rise once more, moving toward a cabinet. Her leather skirt swishes about her legs as she moves, not creaking like pants would.
Hearing the question, she replies over her shoulder, "Oh, perhaps you have heard of her... Victoria Whitethorne." The cabinet is opened to reveal a fully stocked bar. The Madame has already turned to it, retrieving a bottle of brandy and a snifter.
"The lady has the voice of an angel, I will tell you if you haven't heard it already. I knew her years ago... it has been a while," Annabelle says off-handedly as she pours a glass for herself.
I am bored. I cannot say why. Sometimes, I think it is this existence. But I should never speak such.
Christian brings the cigarette up to his lips, then looks down at the floor. I would that we were in Danemark, but that is only some small portion of it. But I know we will leave here in a night or two, and thus, it all is of no consequence, really.
Cigarette lifts to Christian's lips. No, the work is not that engaging.
He moves around to examine one of the lampshades, curious as to the textile. Hand lifts to the drink, declining it.
Commentary is oft unbecoming for a Justicar. Words are passed around, oft incorrectly. And so he keeps his words to a minimum. There is nothing said for Victoria Whitethorne -- of course he is familiar with her as he is with all the association -- lest she too suffer the effects of justicar-speak.
Instead? Something off-handed. A remark related, unrelated, out of nowhere.
"Everyone should have a talent."
"She never worked for me, I will say this, in case anyone wishes to know. I will not be the start of some rumor about the girl," Annabelle notes, as though picking up on something from Christian. "I knew her when she was quite young, in fact, and I would not let anyone touch her," she adds.
Victoria Whitethorne...
Where have I heard that name...
A hand lifts, waving away the notion of a drink. But the cigarette, this would please him. But he does not light his own. Why should he, when there is one already smoldering at beloved lips? It is like sipping fire from the lips of a god...
Oh yes...
"A voice of an angel. She should perform. Does she sing opera...? Concert? Choral?" This is of interest to Girault. Art. Talent. The discussion of art and talent.
Cinnamon lifts in dark eyes, a hand lightly places itself on some portion of PVC. It lingers, even as his other hand makes some silent gesture...
One of askance...
May I...
"Hmmm... perhaps it is something London could use just now. Music," Girault says to you both, his smooth tenor lifted, "... to calm the savage beast..."
Ah, amice... will you forgive me. Come, we can leave now. We can take the boy if you like. Borrow him. Whatever you wish...
Oh do you see...
How it is with me...
How your happiness is everything...
How your sadness is everything...
Venuti, l' un amore di I soprattutto, andremo in Danimarca. Ritorneremo al nostro manor. Rimarremo nel nord. Revel nel calore della base. Il contrasto alla parte esterna fredda...
Noticing the drinks are turned down by both of you, she shrugs slightly and closes the cabinet. Moving back to the two-seater, Annabelle replies, "Last I heard, she was known as the 'Goth Diva' in the Americas.. but she is classically trained. I heard a rumour that she has even made some of our Toreador lose themselves to the beauty of her art... some have apparently been seen, struck motionless by her performance, all in a daze. I believe it."
There is a pause as she sips some of the liquid from her glass. Then, she looks back up and murmur, "Perhaps once she settles, she will consider performing again, non?"
There is a nod from Christian as he moves towards where Girault sits. The cigarette comes from his mouth, offered in two long fingers to the Seated One. "Maybe she shall. Maybe there is someone who will encourage such talents," he murmurs simply. "Everyone needs...encouragement."
Pithy, isn't he? Keeps the Justicar mystique alive. Profundity through mincing.
"How long will you remain?" Christian asks, lifting his chin and giving aquiline profile. "You know how conservative the village is." Compared to the world.
The cigarette is taken. A plucking of fingers. A parting of lips. A pull of smoke. Fire tempted, swallowed. And he hands the cigarette to Christian. "Grazie, amice," the legendary voice issues upon smoke. "And ... si... encouragement. It is as much a part of art as inspiration. Without encouragement..."
His hand makes a gesture, fine as it is, and rings sparkle with it...
"... inspiration and art both wither. I will see that someone contacts her."
Ah, the Medici. Famed patrons of art. And he, a musician himself. How could he not?
But then Girault quiets. Another pull of fire, another breath of Christian's smoke before the cigarette is returned.
"Conservative...feh," Annabelle practically snorts. "My busy rooms suggest otherwise, mon ami. But, this is temporary, so you needn't worry about how long the Madame will stay in the village," she says with a slight sneer and emphasis on the word 'Madame'. Something predatory, but not necessarily unpleasant, passes over her features momentarily, but disappears in an instant.
What others say or think behind her back is not unknown to her. But ask her if she cares, truly.
"I merely wish to be here long enough to visit with my young friend, see that she is alright, then be on my way," she purrs with a pleasant smile.
"As for encouraging Victoria, I am sure she is getting some encouragement already as people begin to welcome her home. And if not, shame on them, non? But, any help you can offer will be appreciated by her, I am certain," she offers with a smile, taking another sip of her brandy.
Christian nods to encouragement, waving off the return of the cigarette.
He already has another.
A look around.
"If you two will excuse me...I think...I should wander a few minutes." Girault is better at making my pleasantries. And what am I? A Toreador with no charm? Tsk. I should work on that.
A bob of his head, and inverted hand pulls the cigarette from his lips to allow a deep breath and exhale. There is a blonde with an appointment with my canines.
The blur is almost instantaneous. A sudden ripple at the door, within which Christian disappears.
Annabelle looks up at Christian and waves at him, "Oh, certainly... enjoy yourself, monsieur." Her smile is charming and genuine.
But she realizes she is speaking to thin air now, causing her to shake her head and chuckle a bit. "He certainly has a way with entrances and exits, non?" she comments rhetorically.
There is a smile. Full and spreading. Like dawn. And as knowing. As Christian disappears, Girault makes a sigil of fire and smoke, and the wiggle of slender fingers. As if that magic were his own.
I laugh at this...
No magician could conjure such a thing...
"Hmmm... si," Girault exhales smoke. "It is a true talent, one of his many." Eyes linger where the air shimmered, and then they move to you. "I will speak with Constanza. She understands the diva..." speaking of the general, not specifically the Diva you both have in common, "...I think it would be beneficial for Victoria to ... be enfolded among us once more. She has been in the wilderness... for some time now..."
Like most Italians, Girault views America as a constant 'Fistful of Dollars'. It is all the Wild West. Cowboys. Indians. Saloon girls...
"Be careful, Girault. This little songbird has become quite independent as of late, from what I've heard. Be certain she wants to come back into the fold, or at least handle it delicately, non? She has been through much, from what I have heard, and could still be quite bitter," Annabelle warns without a trace of humour in her visage. Even without seeing her recently, she knows Victoria and likely how she works.
"She is a bird with an injured wing, who might lash out and peck at any who try too hard to help her. Be gentle, mon ami, and she might just come back willingly," she adds softly, smiling at you now. Her gaze flickers up toward the rising smoke, wondering how it will all turn out...
Posted by rowan at April 29, 2001 11:24 AM
