Keeping her eyes down, Satine waited patiently in the dark, damp hallway as the Abbé tapped on the cell door before him. After a small pause the partition at eye-level slid open, revealing a pair of intelligent blue eyes.
"Ah, Abbé," came a low, elegant voice from behind the door, one that sent a shiver down her spine, "to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
"D'Artagnan is here," the priest answered simply.
"Ah, excellent!" the man said excitedly, eyes trying to spot her hiding in the shadows. "Please show him in!" With that the partition slid closed.
Turning the key in the lock, the Abbé opened the latch but held the door closed as she moved to step inside. "Be careful," he whispered.
Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Satine granted the young man a small nod, nudging past him and into the cell.
Inside the Marquis de Sade was waiting, but his expression of surprise told her that she was not what he was expecting. They never did expect a woman when they sent for the renowned portrait artist D'Artagnan.
"Monsieur D'Artagnan?" he asked with a smirk that caught her a little off-guard. Usually they were outraged—he seemed almost… happy.
"My name is Satine," she replied, setting down her easel and supply box. "D'Artagnan is my nom de plume. Would you have asked for me if you had known that I was a woman?"
The Marquis grinned wolfishly, taking her hand in his to brush a kiss on her knuckles. "On the contrary, my sweet—it would have only swayed me further."
Butterflies flitting in her stomach, she fought to remain unfazed, at least on the outside. "I should have expected no less from the infamous Marquis de Sade."
He chuckled low in his throat, slowly releasing her hand one finger at a time. "My reputation precedes me, I see." Taking a step back, he gestured widely to the room around them "Welcome to my humble abode; please make yourself comfortable. Where would you like me, lovely?"
She shrugged, setting up her station with a practiced nonchalant-ness. "Wherever you'd like, whatever position you'd like—you're the one who requested me, after all."
He seemed pleased with her answer, and turned dramatically to flit about his cell, murmuring "What to do?" to himself as he examined each piece of furniture in detail, trying out several different poses on each one.
Satine couldn't help but giggle at his flamboyant behavior as she continued to ready herself, arranging her palette just the way she liked it. Now she simply didn't understand what all the fuss was about. They had all said he was a heartless lecher, bent on nothing but satisfying his baser needs, preying on the innocence of naïve virgins like herself. She could defend herself, however, and wasn't as clueless as many seemed to think. He seemed perfectly charming to her—not at all the monster he was made out to be.
"Ah! I've got it!" he said excitedly. Then came the rustle of fabric as he arranged himself, and when she looked up, she found him reclined on his side across the settee, completely nude save for his ridiculous wig. Immediately she diverted her eyes.
"Ah, so the rumors are true," she said with a small nervous, laugh, eyebrows flying up as she fought to keep her eyes on her paint, rather than let her curious eyes explore that famous body of his that had bewitched so many women.
"Now, whatever could you mean by that, lovely?" he chuckled, completely comfortable displaying his nude body in the company of a complete stranger. "My willowy frame? My porcelain skin? Ah! No doubt my impressive size!"
"That there's only one thing on your mind," she replied, shaking her head with a sigh. Ah, well, she consoled herself mentally, at least he's still letting you paint him, even though he knows you're a woman. Mixing herself a light, warm mahogany color, she began to roughly map out the painting, finally letting her eyes look him over, though she avoided that infamous area between his legs.
"Am I to remain still and silent, or may I at least continue our lively conversation, my pet?" he said with a crooked smirk.
Satine gave a small laugh, finally smiling since his clothes came off. "As long as you don't move, I suppose there'd be no harm in it."
The Marquis shifted slightly, but once he had made himself comfortable, he was surprisingly still and quiet, blue eyes roving over her hungrily. Finally he spoke. "Am I making you uncomfortable, cherub?"
She managed a smile as she shook her head. "Oh, no," she answered coolly. "Far be it from me to refuse the chance to enjoy the beauty of the male body."
"A woman after my own heart!" he laughed, lifting a hand in rejoice.
"I told you not to move," she sighed, lowering her brush to flash him a glare.
He lowered his hand apologetically, returning to his original position, though his grin remained. "I am but of the same school as you, yet I am viewed as a monster," he chuckled. "Ironic, isn't it?"
"Forgive me if I find it difficult to believe we are anything alike," she smirked in reply, returning to the canvas.
"We both drink in the beauty that is the human form."
"I capture it, you flaunt it in all its perversities."
"Call it what you want—essentially it's the same thing."
Satine simply rolled her eyes in reply as she began to mix the base tone for the velvet of the settee.
"Besides, there's nothing perverse about it—it's completely natural. There is nothing more beautiful than a woman stretched out beneath you, supple skin covered in a fine sheen of sweat, cheeks flushed, lips parted and swollen…"
"I'd direct your mind toward other things," she interrupted him, "as I am in the middle of painting and refuse to depict you in such a state of…" her voice trailed off. She refused to stoop to his level and speak of such obscene things—of which she had very little knowledge—aloud.
He simply chuckled and shifted again. "A woman gains a certain glow—a new sense of confidence—after a man such as myself spends himself worshipping her, body and soul."
"You've done more than worship, I've heard," she retorted, beginning work on the figure on the settee.
"I merely explored the various ways one can bring beauty to the human body—"
"—Such as rape and torture?"
"True beauty is in raw emotion, wouldn't you agree?"
"There is nothing beautiful about a man raping a helpless woman."
"Satine!" he rose from his seat slightly, "You mean to tell me you've never, at any point in your life, wished that a man would just throw you down and ravage you senseless?"
She cleared her throat, to which he smirked and lowered himself back down. "No," she answered finally, "I have not. I should think it would be quite terrifying."
"Ah, but there is something very exciting about fear; about not knowing what is coming next."
"I'll take your word for it."
"Would you like me to show you?"
Immediately her eyes flew from the painting to him, burning with a threatening ferocity. "I'd rather you didn't. I needn't remind you that one scream on my part and I'll be escorted safely out of here; and you'll be severely reprimanded."
He didn't seem too threatened, but he sat back down and lifted a hand in surrender. "Very well, my sweet. I am, after all, your host; and what sort of host would I be if I did not see to your needs above my own?"
She felt herself relax as he slid back into position, lounged upon the settee. She realized it was probably unwise to trust him so, but she could not bring herself to do otherwise. How could a heartless monster be so charming and accommodating to her? He certainly stretched the boundaries of civility, but he never overstepped them.
Speaking of stretching boundaries, he was at it again—his most prized part of his anatomy was once again insisting on standing tall and proud. Closing her eyes, she sighed and shook her head.
"Marquis, practice a little restraint, won't you?"
"I can't help it when your eyes are roving over me like that," he chuckled, that wolfish quality returning to his smile.
"I assure you it's purely professional," she replied, taking her eyes off him completely to remove temptation.
"You encounter this sort of situation often, then?"
"Lord, no!" she countered, a false outrage on her face and in her voice as her hand flew to her chest. "The scandal!" She rolled her eyes as the façade was dropped. "Honestly; men can paint naked women all they want, but refuse to bare their own forms."
"Hypocrisy and shame—qualities I neither possess nor condone."
"You are different, Marquis."
"I try."
Setting down her brush, she yawned and took the opportunity to stretch. "I have to wait for the paint to dry before I begin adding the details, so please feel free to stretch your legs… perhaps put your clothes back on…"
His chuckle rumbled low in his throat as he finally rose and, to her great relief, obeyed, re-donning his clothes. Finally she was able to look at him properly, something she hadn't been able to do since their initial meeting. He was the very embodiment of the perfect aristocrat with his svelte frame, willowy fingers, proud face and piercing blue eyes. He reminded her of the saplings that grew outside her childhood country home—they were lithe and fragile-looking, but by God they could sting when whipped across one's backside in punishment for bad behavior.
"May I offer you some wine, coquette?" he asked, gesturing with those graceful hands toward the decanter on the desk.
"Well, I don't usually…" she said, voice trailing off as she shrugged, "but why not?"
Grinning, he poured a glass for each of them and seated himself on the lounge, gesturing for her to join him. She had a feeling she was tempting the storm, but against her better judgment she did as he bade and took a seat beside him. He granted her her glass and then wrapped the same arm around her shoulders, making sure there was as little space between them as possible.
"So, Mademoiselle," he rumbled, casting her a sidelong gaze as he sipped his wine, "tell me about yourself."
Brows rising, Satine had to think for a minute, taking a sip of wine to occupy herself. She couldn't very well just sit there—otherwise she was afraid she might fall for the Marquis's charm. "Hmm, well… Where do I start?"
"Where all good stories usually begin, mon pomme:" he chuckled, "at the beginning."
Giving a small, amused snort, Satine shrugged, trying to figure out where her "beginning" was. "Well, I was born in a small village in the country just outside Amiens," she began, "My parents were farmers, but they were so thrilled when I took an interest in painting that they had the whole village posing for me. When my mother died, my father sent me here to receive the finest schooling in art available with the money they had been saving in secret. Since then I've managed to take care of myself."
"Yes, I should think the Revolution turned out just swimmingly for you," he said with a wry smirk, his eyes finally returning to her face, ceasing roving her body as they had during her entire personal history.
Satine laughed, unable to hide the ashamed blush that his cynical humor instilled in her. It was true—the Revolution had been quite kind to her, but cruel to many of her clients. The aristocrats were, after all, primarily the ones who could afford to pay her for her services; whose halls were lined with their impressive portraits. Lately she had been painting angry mobs and scenes of mindless brutality, things she normally wouldn't touch if she didn't need the money she made doing it.
"Ah, do I detect a hint of remorse?" crossing his leg over his knee so that it overlapped her own, he rotated slightly so he was facing her instead of glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. "My peach, your bleeding heart pulls at mine," –though his grin said otherwise. "As an aristo, may I be allowed to demonstrate my appreciation of your sympathy?" he growled, tilting her chin up with a single graceful finger.
Satine quickly pulled back a few inches, rolling her eyes with an exasperated sigh. "You've found your niche in the Revolution same as I have; you do not trouble my conscience."
Caught, he merely laughed and took another sip of wine. "Perhaps not in that regard…" His hand finished his sentence, brushing lightly down her slender neck, "…but I sense something troubling you…"
"You know very well what's troubling me, Marquis," she retorted with a smirk, fighting through the veil of animal lust he had laid enough to hold up the witty banter.
"Well, fret no longer, cherub—it's only natural. Allow me to tutor you, will you?" came his voice from low in his throat as he began to close the distance between them.
"I don't know if I trust you…"
"You shouldn't."
Their lips met then. Simple at first, almost chaste, but the Marquis's patience was short, and the moment his hand secured her head against his, his tongue forced its way inside her mouth.
Satine stiffened, trying unsuccessfully to pull away, but as his other hand wove itself in her hair—where his wine glass had gone, she didn't know—she felt herself strangely soothed, and soon ceased resisting. Her own glass slipped from her hand, falling luckily on a patch of uncovered stone floor with a loud clink, just missing the expensive Turkish rug. Timidly she placed her hands on his shoulders, which seemed to only spur him on further. Soon she found him tugging at the laces of the back of her dress, hands exploring every patch of bare skin he could find. She knew she should stop him, but a part of her refused to listen to reason; a part of her wanted to surrender to him. It was thrilling to be wanted so, to be swept away by such intense passion. He had been a gentleman, albeit a brazen one, to her so far. He wouldn't hurt her, would he?
Her question went unanswered when there came a firm knock on the door. Not wanting to be seen in such a state by the Abbé, who she suspected it was, she quickly peeled herself from him and darted to her easel. A moment later the young priest entered, seeming a bit surprised to see them apart.
"I'm afraid our patients will be retiring soon," he said with a polite smile. "Have you finished?"
"Not yet," she answered with a shake of her head. "The oil dries slowly, and I haven't yet applied the details."
The Abbé curiously approached to examine the painting, his face reddening as he pieced the rough figures together.
"I add the clothes later," she said quickly, feeling like a fool for saying something so preposterous. "First I paint the figure beneath the clothes to keep my subject proportional."
Unseen by the Abbé, the Marquis shot her wide grin, obviously amused by her explanation.
Fortunately, the Abbé was not an artistic man, and seemed to believe her.
"I shall have to return later to finish it," she continued, trying not to roll her eyes as the Marquis shot her another wicked smirk. It seems he was no longer disappointed that their correspondence had been cut short, now that she had just stated that she would be returning.
"Tomorrow is our Lord's day," the Abbé explained, a bit confused that she wanted to come back, "but you may return Monday at any time you like."
"Thank you, Abbé."
"Yes, thank you, Abbé," the Marquis chimed in, his smirk almost giving them away.
Satine packed up her things with ease, trying to hide the color that rose to her cheeks as she looked at her painting, excitement rising in her at the thrill of keeping this naughty secret from the naïve priest. Remarkable how fast the Marquis had worn off on her! She avoided conversation with him as she moved to the door, acting as indifferent as she could.
As the door closed behind her and the Abbé, his low chuckle rose from the silence and echoed across the halls, sending chills down her spine.