Note : this is the last chapter of the day of 27th of March, ending with Rhett at the Gentlemen's Haven. It is also rated "M".
March 27th 1875, 10 :00 p.m., Charleston, Gentlemen's Club Haven
Leaving the smoking room, Rhett staggered toward the grand staircase. He stumbled up the steps to the second floor, clutching the wrought iron banister.
He knew the way. He had walked it many times since his return from Atlanta. At the top was his haven. Wasn't the place called Gentlemen's Haven? A mirage of an oasis, to be sure. But at least it was a refuge for the wounded man that Rhett had become for a few years.
Usually, he took the time in passing to admire the works of art exhibited upstairs by the French owners.
The De Boulogne couple had been great collectors of art in Europe. They were particularly fond of themes celebrating women and had invested their money in works by famous painters of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries known for their depiction of the female nude. They were also familiar with London and Parisian art galleries exhibiting the paintings of artists of obscure fame. They bought their paintings betting on their eventual success and an increase in their quotations.
When Pierre and Amandine De Boulogne decided to emigrate to the United States of America, they decided to sell their collection at a prestigious auction in Paris. The prices went through the roof. This is how the couple, who had bet on artists in the making, were able to make substantial profits by selling their works at high prices.
Upon arriving on the New Continent, they acquired paintings and prints by American artists, preferably from South Carolina, which they promptly displayed in the salons of the Gentlemen's Club Haven.
From their small personal museum, they kept only a few paintings by French masters. Naturally, they had the idea of using them to decorate the second floor of their new establishment in Charleston.
Rhett became friends with the owner of the Gentlemen's Club by taking an interest in his pictorial tastes.
Pierre was the stereotype of the French aristocrat: good manners, a remarkable culture, a nonchalance in dealing with money, and an undisguised enjoyment of the pleasures of life, good food, good wine, pretty women.
Naturally, the two men hit it off. Rhett was even surprised that they had not met in Paris, for they frequented the same distinguished places of pleasure... of all kinds. For his part, Pierre de Boulogne was immediately seduced by the colorful character of the former blockade breaker, so much more interesting than the polite men of their milieu.
In a few words, the Frenchman explained why he and his wife had come to Charleston. The aristocrat was much appreciated by Emperor Napoleon III. This is why, when they were confronted, like all Frenchmen, with the Franco-Prussian war, the exile of Napoleon III, the proclamation of the Third Republic, until the tragic insurrectional events of the "Commune" in 1871, they decided to leave this country that they no longer recognized. And, quite naturally, to choose the New World to live a new adventure.
Pierre de Boulogne already held a large part of the capital of the Compagnie Générale Transatlantique, which was nibbling away at the market share of the English companies operating the Le Havre to New York crossing. He decided to invest in the rapidly expanding cargo ships in the Battery's port in Charleston.
This gentlemen's Club Haven was in a way "his dancer", a pleasure that reminded him of his frivolous Parisian life. Rhett congratulated him warmly, and the two of them enjoyed the best wines from the Haven's cellar while telling each other about their tumultuous adventures.
When Rhett cautiously raised the question of Madame De Boulogne's acceptance of the existence of the second-floor Haven, Pierre revealed that they were a "free couple" with his wife. The important thing was mutual respect, the elegance of their exchanges and discretion.
It was then that Rhett began to confide in him about his broken life, his Bonnie, and his failed marriage. After a few drunken and smoky evenings, the Frenchman knew all about the tigress with the green eyes which had lacerated the heart of his friend. This is why he was septic when this one declared him to have drawn a line on this failure. „Qui vivra verra !" "Who will live will see! "he thought.
As if to prove to his new friend that he now wanted to move on, Rhett regularly "visited" the Haven on the second floor.
The French art collector had decided to integrate his most beautiful paintings of nudes into each of the eight boudoirs intended for the entertainment of the Haven's amateurs.
Rhett knew five of these pleasure salons. As an aesthete, he had nonchalantly taken the time to admire their decoration. There was no lack of taste. Each hostess greeted the visitors on the second floor with a smile, in her costume - or rather, in her stage „lack of costume" that matched the theme of the room.
The gentleman could choose to be entertained in the "Castle": in a medieval atmosphere, a large bed with a central canopy occupied the middle of the room. Colored stained glass windows served as a screen. Facing a large mirror, a painting by Jean-Baptiste Mallet depicted a "naked young woman emerging from the bath", illuminated by the light of the gothic window.* More than once, Rhett had undone the bun that imprisoned the blond headdress of Gwendoline, the prostitute occupying the premises.
He often visited "Paris", his favorite room that brought back good memories of the French capital. Corinne, the hostess, had a red hair, hazel eyes and a cheeky smile. Her transparent silk outfit, widely indented, did not hide anything of her welcoming forms. The picture chosen to illustrate the spirit of the place suited her perfectly: a woman with long red hair, completely naked, floating lasciviously on the water protected by angels.**
He had also used the services of the tenants of "Venice", "Amsterdam" and "Vienna" and had admired in passing a painting of Venice, its gondolas and sailboats skimming the Doge's Palace at sunset***.
The originality of this place of pleasure was its refinement. No fault of taste was allowed, whether in the employees who rendered their services or in the interior decoration of the "stage" where they played their game. The gentlemen of Charleston's good society who were admitted to this restricted circle demanded the same luxury here that they were accustomed to in their family homes with wife and children.
Five nights out of seven, eight young women took over these special boxes. They had been carefully selected by Pierre de Boulogne for their exceptional beauty, a healthy body and a well-shaped head. Here, vulgarity was forbidden, even their laughter was codified. Their level of education should allow them to exchange intelligently if, by chance, their client wanted to make a cultural disgression before their lovemaking.
The girls were not to stay too long at the Gentlemen's Haven. Three years maximum so as not to bore the regular members, but enough so that they could establish comfortable relationships.
The prostitutes could leave any day if they wanted to. Their salary was comfortable, enough to save up to build a life elsewhere. They did not pay rent and had their meals together. Their laundry was taken care of by the laundress.
Every month, a trusted doctor examined them and gave them all the information and methods known to avoid getting pregnant and protect themselves from transmissible diseases. At the slightest cold, they stopped working to regain their strength and not to contaminate their visitors.
Above all, they were protected, because the strict rules of the house forbade any attempt at sadism on the part of the clients. If one of them pretended to hit one of the residents, he was immediately expelled from the Club. This had only happened once. Enough that this retaliatory measure reached the ears of the other members and the rules of Charleston's luxury brothel were respected by all.
Hector, the butler on the floor, was in charge of welcoming the gentleman entering this "haven". He would tell him what "places" were available to him at that moment, and introduce him to the hostesses of the castle, Amsterdam, etc... He took great care to ensure that the guest had alcohol, cigars and petits fours at his disposal. His third function, less unofficial, was to keep his eyes wide open for any event that could disturb the serenity of the place.
As a connoisseur, the regular of the Belle Watling brothel appreciated all the more the class of the one in Charleston. The sophistication of his hometown was decidedly superior to Atlanta's, even for its pleasure houses.
However, one room was to remain off limits to Rhett. He had promised himself on the first night that Hector had introduced him to the eight residents: the room called "Rome", with its hostess, Rosetta.
When he had glimpsed her, the prostitute was wearing a short, draped dress, revealing one of her shoulders, in the ancient fashion. She sported a long curly brown mane, running down to the hollow of her loins. A hair similar to the one of a certain former beautiful of the County of Clayton. Under the shock, Rhett had instinctively the desire to seize her and to bury his head in this black waterfall.
He had come to his senses immediately. Since leaving Atlanta, he had become adept at censoring himself when a memory brought up the ghost of his ex-wife, and immediately cauterized the beginnings of any emotion.
That day, he had promised himself never to succumb to the temptation of choosing Rosetta as his companion for a moment and to cross the door of "Rome".
On that night of March 27, 1875, as usual, Rhett was greeted by Hector, who invited him to one of his favorite available rooms. The discreet servant was surprised by the disheveled appearance of the usually nonchalant and elegant guest. Opposite him, a man smelling strongly of alcohol, with a disturbed look, was lurching.
At the outset, the man asked for the famous "Rome" room for the first time. If Hector was surprised, he did not show it and went to warn Rosetta. There was definitely something wrong with Captain Butler tonight.
Rhett walked through the doorway of "Rome" with the feeling of a convict accepting his sentence. He knew what awaited him when he chose the girl with the long brown hair. It was a surrender. He finally admitted to himself that he fantasized to tighten Scarlett in his arms. And, if it was necessary this evening to be satisfied with a substitute of his wife, he did not have the choice. It would be Rosetta.
The prostitute knew the gentleman by reputation. His colleagues, whom he usually chose, were full of praise for the laughing and generous lover that he was.
That's why she was taken aback by the man's dark look, his jaws clenched.
He stepped forward and abruptly ordered her to undress and lie down.
As she did so, he removed the blue lavalliere that encircled his shirt collar.
He leaned towards the girl and tied the silk scarf behind her head to block her vision. He didn't care if she looked at him, but he didn't want to be confronted with any other eyes than Scarlett's emerald ones.
"Not a word, not a sound! Do you understand? " His voice was icy cold.
The girl simply nodded. She was used to satisfying the most incongruous requests of her clients. This one was not disturbing.
He lay on her with all his weight. He had not taken care to undress.
He grabbed a lock of hair, rolled it around his finger. And he closed his eyes. Sensation of silk. He smelled the hair. It wasn't that! It wasn't her perfume! But, if he thought about it very hard, maybe it would be an illusion?
He selected a longer braid and wrapped it around his neck. Sweet memory of tender moments after love when Scarlett was abandoning herself tenderly in his arms.
He buried his face in Rosetta's neck until the jet hair covered him completely and acted as a light silk sheet, so light.
"Scarlett! " The word was out. He had held back so much... Almost two years. No, it had been longer than that when he had last held her in his arms. After that day, he had taken great care, when choosing a whore, not to consciously say her name when he would cum. It had become an automatic reflex just before he relieved himself. A survival reflex that commanded him, "No! I won't think of her. »
This time however, wrapped under the long black hair as the night, he allowed himself to whisper: "Scarlett". He positioned himself against the sex of the foreigner, feeling the desire to win him.
The Rhett who had always been an admirer of the female body and who was generous to lavish pleasure on the ladies with priced pleasures, did not try tonight to caress or kiss the submissive girl under him. He especially did not want to break the spell.
Now, never the skin of the girl could equal, and by far, the texture so soft, so silky, so elastic to the touch, of his wife, so tender where Rhett had finally dared to kiss her down that evening, so fragrant in her intimacy that he had become intoxicated by it.
While he lost himself in his emotions, he had the vision of Ashley Wilkes embracing Scarlett, lying in the bed which had been his, going through the skin of his ex-wife, kissing her... Mad with jealousy, he revolted: "No! Not that! »
"Oh Scarlett! " His cry was desperate.
The girl wondered who this Scarlett was. A lover? A mistress ? Certainly not a wife. The men who came here were not looking for a good time with their wives in mind.
For Rhett, the dam of feelings was open now. The flood of words of love buried for all these years was breaking through.
"Scarlett, my sweet! I want you so much! " And he tightened the braid around his own neck.
The girl of joy emitted a grunt. Immediately he ordered her curtly to be quiet. "Not a word," I said! "He cursed her for interrupting this fantasy moment.
"Oh no! It wasn't enough. The illusion couldn't end there. »
He stared at the girl's headdress, as if hallucinating. His memory transported him to the room on Peachtree Street. At that moment, he imagined freeing the bun of his beautiful jade-eyed girl, and brushing her hair until it crackled. How many times had he laughed to himself that this ritual had all the makings of a celebration of a pagan rite. It was not a thought to share with the beautiful Clayton used to praise. Her vanity would have been fed!
Finally freed from the censure that he had imposed to himself these last years not to wake up the most beautiful memories of their couple, tightened against the heat of the girl of joy, he remembered their wedding night: his fear to her, in spite of her two previous marriages; his stupefaction to him in front of so much beauty, in front of this body that he desired since always.
With an expert hand, he raised himself slightly, unbuttoned his pants in order to release his erection and spread a little more Rosetta's legs.
The contact with this unknown skin projected him again towards his first night spent with Scarlett, during those magic hours.
Reading her face like an open book, he had caught the surprised look of his young wife enjoying the long caresses he was lavishing lovingly on her. The virgin Charles and the old Frank had not accustomed to these soft touches.
At the time, Rhett was fully aware that he was holding back. He would have liked to kiss her more passionately on every inch of her body, to lick her, to absorb her... But he was afraid of frightening her. He was especially afraid that she would perceive the intensity of his adoration - and that she would use it against him. Then, until the famous night of Ashley's birthday, he compressed the power of his embraces until giving himself the appearance of a nonchalant lover.
On their wedding night, he had showered her with kisses, and had wanted to prolong those intimate moments he had dreamed of since their meeting in 1861. So many nights when he had fantasized that she would offer herself to him, open her arms to him, and stick to him, murmuring with pleasure, in her sensual voice: "Rhett! Oh Rhett! »
"Yes! She had surely said his name at least once during sex during their years of intimacy. Didn't she? "He wanted to convince himself. But he doubted it very much.
"Yes! Maybe one night, the famous night. "He had drunk so much that night. She had hurt him, so much. So he had been brutal. Had he really raped her? Yes, he had convinced himself, regretting his violence a hundred times over. Despite his drunken mind, he remembered his savagery. Yes, he had forced himself on her.
But, was it a hallucination or, after all these years, had he transformed these fragments of memories into desire or into reality? Had she really responded to his passion by embracing him back? Had he not dreamed of hearing her plead, "Rhett, kiss me! Hold me tighter, tighter! ». Had he fantasized that this longed-for woman had touched him in turn and furtively caressed his sex until he cried out in pleasure?
Of a violent blow of kidney, he penetrated the girl.
Especially not to open the eyes. To preserve the illusion, to prolong this mirage so that finally his only love is there, under him, that she welcomes him in her heat.
He felt like he was close. "Scarlett, I love you! " And he exploded.
Then he withdrew from the girl, stood up and tightened the lace of his pants.
He looked at the hostess of "Rome" and whispered in a dull voice, "Thank you. "She had removed the tie that obscured her eyes. He did not take it back, and left the room quickly.
Rosetta was stunned. How strange this sequence had been with this man who had only kissed her hair before the act, had shouted a hundred times the name of a woman, to then thank her!
In fact, Rhett Butler was grateful to the prostitute for giving him the illusion, for a few minutes, of being in the arms of Scarlett O'Hara.
In the corridor, he readjusted his suit in front of the mirror, now devoid of the lavalliere. His reflection gave him the image of a desperate man who would never be able to eliminate the poison that ran through his veins.
"Scarlett, what have you done to me? How can I go on living now? It hurts so much that I can't touch you - ever again. »
The cry he had made at the moment of cumming was still echoing in his ears. The echo was reproduced like a deflagration. "Scarlett, I love you! »
It was said. He had finally recognized it. The pithy phrase he had uttered the night Melly died had never been true. His love had not died. It had simply frozen. Surrounding his emotions with a hard and icy bark to avoid suffering. And tonight, because the thought of Ashley and Scarlett kissing freely in Atlanta had driven him mad, that shell had just burst in the arms of a mere whore.
Rhett panicked at the truth that hit him so hard. By divorcing her, he had mortally wounded the woman he loved. He had humiliated her with his cruelty. She would never forgive him.
"How will I go on living knowing that I will never again hold you in my arms? Never again will I breathe in your gardenia scent, the sweet taste of your skin under my tongue! »
Panic seized him. He felt like he was suffocating. If he could never again see the woman who burned his heart, what was the point of continuing to live? All those long years he would have to spend without her. How could he bear the absence, the lack of Scarlett, the longing for Scarlett?
The intensity of the devouring passion that was once again consuming him frightened him.
He had to get away. As he had always done, so many times, tearing himself away from Atlanta to try not to think of her again, as in December 1873.
He was going to go to Europe, to Paris and London to take care of his business.
He clung to this solution like a lifeline.
It was Europe, or he was going to break down and take the first train to Atlanta. And then what? To be confronted by a Wilkes finally claiming to have won the long battle that had kept them at loggerheads for fourteen years? Rhett had no doubt that he would be the loser. That Scarlett would reject him out of hand.
He straightened up. "Yes, Europe is the solution. And then, why not go to Egypt as the visit to this Vayton gave me the idea? "In the shadow of the sacred pyramids, he was going to resource himself. It was necessary that he took back forces.
And, who knows, in the eternal silence of the desert, maybe a small inner voice would help him to get out of this precipice, and give him back the desire to fight?
He went down the stairs, holding the banister with a firmer hand. These emotions had sobered him up. He didn't even bother to return to the central lounge of the Gentlemen's Club Haven. He had made his decision. The next day he would book a ticket across the Atlantic.
At the same time, Duncan opened the door to the smoking room and walked out, accompanied by John. He caught his neighbor from Magniolas' Mansion coming down from the second floor. He concluded, "Clearly, Rhett Butler hasn't lost his old Atlanta ways! »
Notes on Chapter 13.
*Painting Jean-Baptiste Mallet, 1759-1835, The Gothic Bathroom, 1810.
Painting by Alexandre Cabanel, 1823-1889, Birth of Venus, 1863.
*** Painting by Felix Ziel, 1821-1911, Venice, Gondolas and sailing boats in front of the Doge's Palace
Disclaimers : I do not own the story and the characters of Gone with the Wind which belong to Margaret Mitchell. I created the "world" of Duncan Vayton and Blanche Bonsart.