Chapter 2: Beauty

Toulouse-Lautrec.

Our patron saint, the one who took all our deliberate flaunting of virtue to the outside world. He painted as he lived; vivid, solid lines of colour that grated on the narrow sensibilities. He was delightfully mad, and ridiculously Bohemian. I never saw Toulouse without some lover or other he was busy flirting with or lusting after. I once heard a rather notorious pimp grumble over Toulouse's habits of having a brothel girl on one arm and some slim young artisté on the other.

But he wasn't cruel; oh, never that. We all loved him, even the Dogs at the Moulin who professed to deplore their costume designer. His purse was never empty for those in need, and his heart never closed for anyone. I can't even begin to list the number of happy couples Toulouse brought together with his zany matchmaking. He was peculiar, yes, and a genius, every inch of him.

And one day he painted a girl.

He had nicknamed her Belle' in a fit of fondness rather than truth, for she didn't have the classical grace or pert figure that the whores usually boasted. The lines of her face were drawn sharply with an ink too thin for prettiness, and there was a certain sense of earthiness about her limbs that brought her down from heavenly comparison. But she was poor, and Toulouse wanted a new model to illustrate a poem he'd persuaded me to read at a party the week before.

Thewe you awe! he exclaimed as I picked my way past absinthe bottles and half-painted canvases. Did you bwing youw poetwy?

I nodded and blushed at the puzzled look he'd thrown my prim white organdy when I'd entered. My reflection this morning had assured me that I looked merely dainty and neat, but in this shabby studio, I felt ridiculously overdressed. Toulouse's unspoken words resonated through my soul. This girl? A Bohemian? I felt the familiar choke of tears swell up in my throat. I'd always been sensitive about my appearance, relying on Mother's strict advice to dictate what I wore. But I could no more stand before Toulouse dressed as a pretty young maid than wear calico to Mother's salon, regardless of what anyone had ever told me.

Excuse me, Toulouse, I said quickly, turning out the door. I left some--something outside. I'll return in a moment.

Biting back tears, I pulled off my hat and tossed it in a pile of rubbish near the door, sending the pearl hatpin after it. The black velvet ribbon I wore around my neck followed, and, on a sudden, savage impulse, I shook my hair free of the neat pompadour I always wore. Mother probably would have keeled over at the very thought of wearing my hair down, but the rush of rebellion overrode any objections my mind supplied. After tying my thin black shawl around my waist in a gypsy-like fashion, I took an unsteady breath and nodded.

In retrospect, my sensitivity to dress was absurd. But at the moment, it symbolized nothing less than the purest freedom our Revolution held. I have always felt fettered by the fashions. I am amazed that we women permit ourselves to be bound so, by their cages of crinolines and corsets.

It took me a moment to realize that Toulouse was eyeing me from his doorway. Awe aww wight?

I said, shifting my weight to stand proudly. I was a true child of the revolution in those moments, heart and soul devoted to the ideals. I'm coming.

Marguerite told me a month or so after our first meeting, that she'd never seen anyone more beautiful than I in that doorway, with my hair down and my face flushed with such a minor triumph.

I hesitated for a long moment and laid my pen down. I was living through these words, as Christian had told me I would. Grammar, description, verbs-- these meant nothing to me the moment the ink touched the page.

Why was I writing this? It wasn't for publication's sake, that much was for certain. No one in this time of prose will accept the poetry of two women in love, and I still have hopes of being an acclaimed writer. I had a good many things I ought to be doing in lieu of languishing over an old love-- the letter Christian had brought me this morning was just another reminder of that.

The answer came to my lips simply, and I spoke to the waiting air, listening for the soft sound of my voice to reassure me.

Because you loved. . . because you still love her, more and more with each passing moment, no matter how many letters you receive or jewels you wear.

Toulouse said with a flourish, pulling a young woman by the hand towards me. I glanced up, my cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and felt my breath steal away from me at the sight of the model. Is our Belle, Mademoiselle Marguerite.

Bonjour, Mademoiselle, the woman before me drawled, her rich contralto blending perfectly with the thin puff of smoke she drew in from her cigarette. Her slim figure, draped in some thin white cloth, stood poised against the dirty morning sunlight like that of a weary dancer's. Her thick auburn hair, twisted up into coils of living bronze, struck me as a peculiar reflection of my own. I put a hand up to my own, feeling slightly faint. Her eyes studied mine and then softened, lending her the final charm to ensnare my heart.

Anne -----, I said softly, breath sliding through parched lips. My name is. . . Anne.

Her eyes drifted down my figure, taking in my body with such a frank appraisal that I nearly took a step back in shock. Her cool dark eyes regarded me brazenly; wantonly, I realized, still faintly stunned by the encounter. She gave me one last amused lift of her eyebrow and then turned follow Toulouse, her slim hips swaying with the sweep of the cloth.

So you're a poet? she called back to me as she positioned herself on the faded chaise.

I said, a little hesitantly, drawing nearer as Toulouse busied himself at his canvas. She threw me a sardonic smile.

That's what they all say, darling. Try to to prove yourself right, won't you?

That must have been the first and last time I saw for as she truly was. A pretty, half-clever, coarse sort of girl with just the right sort of allure to garner a few frances. But she aspired to be more, and I loved her for it. There were moments-- moments that swelled with the golden lyric of love-- when she would turn away from the window, her hair loosely pulled back, her rouge wiped away, and smile wistfully at me.

. . . that's the trouble with me, isn't it? she asked me once, a little sadly. I won't ever be anything more. I kissed her shoulder and rested my arms about her neck.

You are more, my love, I had whispered into her ear, and her face brightened unaccountably, as if . . .

I bit my lower lip and pressed the pen to paper in a vicious blot of ink. There was no use in recriminations.

And even less in remembrances.

Let me hear it! she cried dramatically, earning herself a stern look from Toulouse and a blush from me.

Hear it? I repeated-- words all too common in the vernacular, but my fascination with words had failed me for the moment. The softly dimpled lip that she curved up in a mysterious smile-- oh, what was poetry to that?

You'wd bettew go ahead and wead, Anne, Toulouse advised me, dabbing fiercely at the canvas as he spoke. Ouw Mawguewite is stubbown.

Marguerite scolded, her tone of voice noticeably dimmed by the virtue of speaking between her clamped teeth.

I'd wike to heaw it again, too, Toulouse added, his tone growing more serious. It would hewp me. I'm awmost done hewe, but thewe's something mithing.

Something missing? I hadn't been able to fathom Toulouse's motivation for wasting his talent on my poor verses from the very first-- now I was completely baffled by his apparent energy in illustrating it. I opened my mouth, ready to offer a polite refusal, but I caught an amused glimmer from Marguerite's eyes. They flaunted their beauty at me, laughing at my encounter with modesty. I raised my chin in response, and her eyebrows rose. Does the little one dare to trifle with me? her expression asked coolly.

Yes, Mademoiselle, the firm set of my lips replied. She does.

A Shower, I began, and Toulouse grunted in acknowledgment. Marguerite's lips definitely twitched that time, evidently suspecting a rainbowy verse celebrating the life-giving rain. I smiled slowly and deliberately at her, and was pleased to she that her cheekbones shaded themselves with the most becoming pink.

The sputter of rain, I continued. Flipping the hedgerows and making the highways hiss-- how I love it!

I heard the soft intake of breath from Marguerite's direction, but continued my recital to Toulouse. Part of me rejoiced in the pettiness of disregarding that bewitching countenance-- the rest burned to see those eyes just once more.

And the touch of you, I said softly, drawing on the letters as I spoke them. The very act of speech has always seemed poetry to me in purest form, lips and tongue and teeth moving together to whisper and scream. Upon my arm, as you press against me that my umbrella. . . may cover you. Unable to resist the temptation of Marguerite's delicate chin any longer, I turned to face her. Any pretense that I was reciting this for Toulouse's benefit had dissolved somewhere in the second line. I could feel my heart sharply beating beneath my corset, my skin cool and untouched beneath the fine lawn undergarments, and the lower curl of fear and passion in my entire form. Speaking poetry-- real poetry, not these careful imitations of life that seem to be in vogue-- is the most sensual experience a woman can have. To feel your lover sitting up besides you, her lips spilling forth a sudden breath of Shakespeare. . . that is akin to the unalloyed wonder of a first caress.

Tinkle of drops on stretched silk, I finished even as my eyes traced the fine line of Marguerite's jaw more than a little hesitantly. Wet murmur through green branches.

I remembered the purely kinetic experience that inspired this poem; walking in the rain, feeling the sharp dashes of water slide down my hair, liquid punctuation that finished with a zest. The carriages rushing past and sending white sprays of rain on the flowerbeds that overflowed with colour; gold, purple, crimson flowers that looked as if the gardener borrowed a handful of some particularly gorgeous sunset. But like all my poetry, I never wrote without wishing I had someone to write to. I always dreamed a lover to stand next to me, to lean her head on my shoulder as I slipped on words as other women try out silks.

Marguerite's breath came softly as I finished, and I watched the sharp angle of her mouth soften itself into a gentle circle. Her eyes flicked up to meet mine, her dark irises shaded black with laughing alarm and puzzled wonder.

Toulouse breathed. Don't-- yeth-- Mawguewite-- howd it-- Anne-- go next to hew-- and just--- put youw hand--yeth-- wight on hew awm--

Automatically I obeyed, my small hand gliding down to rest on the pale arm. The skin was cool and smooth beneath my touch, veined with slender lines like expensive marble. I drew in a long breath, realizing how close my fingers were to feeling the pulse at the base-- imagining my lips brushing against that join of palm and wrist, teasingly blowing a warmth breath up to the tiny silvered scar near the curve of the heart line.

Ith it. . . Toulouse whispered hoarsely, dabbing frantically at the canvas. Don't move--- don't--

I don't believe any of us could have moved had we so desired. Toulouse was completely drawn into his canvas, Marguerite's breath was nearly coming in soft gasps, and I was lost in watching her parted lips move slightly. It could only have been a few minutes until Toulouse threw his brush down and smiled shyly up at us, the sweet, slow smile of someone who has finished a labor of months, as a new mother beams at visitors to her birth chamber.

The painting is gone now, one of the many taken by Toulouse's creditors-- why they took his art, God only knows. Probably wouldn't even know which side was up. But, oh, can't I see it even now? The dark glitter lure of water pooling beneath Marguerite's bare feet, the soft fall of her dress-- the faint shadow of my hand pulling on her arm--

Beauty, now the shadow of a love.

A/N: Lots of love and thanks to everyone who has reviewed! Sorry it's taken so long to get this chapter up-- midterms interfered with more interesting pursuits!