Paris, 1872 CE
These French auteurs sure loved to hear themselves talk, Kassandra thought, mind made fuzzy by the alcohol. The divan on which she was lounging was plushier than most beds she'd slept in; she almost felt as if she could sink in it, drowning in all those cushions. She loosened the collar of her dress shirt and even unbuttoned her waistcoat: a terrible societal faux pas that would have brought her many derogatory comments in any other circumstance. Servants scurried about in the richly decorated parlour, filling cups here, carrying trays there. Nobody saw them but Kassandra, it seemed. Those men loved to speak of freedom and justice, but only for themselves, of course. She wondered how they would react if she were to bring them to the faubourgs sprawling outside the city like moss on a rotten log—if they would keep to their lofty ideas when faced with the hollow-cheeked children who prowled those dirty streets in search of an easy pocket to pick. Somehow, she doubted it.
The air was thick with the stench of tobacco—and Kassandra could smell a touch of opium as well, no doubt coming from a nearby room. She had not indulged in either of these plaisirs artificiels; the first brought sad memories of Miigwaans and her grandmother, who had taught her the subtle art of making smoke rings. And she was wary of the second, having seen the ravages of drug and drink among the literary elite of the Ville Lumière. As such, even as she joined them in their soirées, Kassandra partook in neither opium nor la fée verte—absinthe. People sometimes called her an old biddy in the body of a Greek goddess—which was not too far from the truth, really, she thought with a snort.
Verlaine went on and on, emboldened by the wine, smug now that he had the entire attention of his audience. Gods, but Kassandra missed old Baudelaire, who had introduced her to this crowd, half a decade ago. Much like his contemporary Alexandre Dumas, the poet had been an infrequent contributor of the Assassins' cause; he and his mistress Jeanne Duval—la Vénus Noire, a shrewd-minded Antillean beauty—had often gathered free thinkers and artists of all sorts at their home of the Île Saint-Louis. There, these fine minds had dreamed of changing the world, debating about great ideals such as beauty, love and freedom—while drinking copious amounts of wine, of course.
Watching them now, those men (because they were always men) who believed they could shape societies with words, Kassandra was hit by another wistful memory. Things never changed, she mused, remembering the symposium in which she had participated in Perikles' Athenian abode. Why was it that a civilization's brightest minds also happened to be the pettiest, the most immature? Sophokles had written some of the world's most tragic tales—but his ego had been easily bruised, much like sour-faced Verlaine. Euripides had been blessed with a cutting wit, paired with a deep insight into the nature of his fellow men, just like Kassandra's old friend Dumas—but the two men had been easily led astray by their appetites, both for good fare and for… something else. In contrast, there was Victor Hugo, whom she loved the best out of all the literary coterie of Paris; the man had this wistfulness in his eyes that cut deep at Kassandra's heart, a trait he shared with Sokrates, who had also sought the betterment of mankind through his words and work.
There was a new face tonight, though Kassandra already knew who it was. Young Arthur Rimbaud—a pretty little thing who surely had not yet reached his majority—seemed to hang on Verlaine's every word while the poet built a monument to his own ego. That too, Kassandra had often witnessed, she thought with a pinch of the mouth; the men of Ancient Greece had made it an art to woo impressionable youths, after all. The boy reminded Kassandra of Alkibiades, vying for an older man's attention with reckless abandon. But this Verlaine was no Sokrates; she'd heard that he had abandoned his wife and young son to pursue his new lover. Kassandra wished she could grab Rimbaud by the shoulders, shake some sense into him. But why would he listen to her? They never did, in the end.
(One year later, Verlaine would shoot Rimbaud in a drunken rage, injuring the young poet and bringing their idyll to a violent end.)
Kassandra massaged her temple, wishing she just could shut Verlaine up. How could people praise such mediocrity while the poems of Sappho had all but been forgotten by the world, like the fabric of a masterfully woven tapestry that had faded over the ages? Baudelaire, at least, had had an edge in spite of what his self-indulgent attitude suggested; Kassandra remembered that he had regaled her with witty poems concerning the dominion of cats over men, for example, but also a dreary composition about a decomposing cadaver. Much like the poets and dramaturges she'd met in her early days—Sophokles and Euripides and Aristophanes and all the others who were now regarded as legends to emulate—he sought something more than self-actualization through self-aggrandizement, something that transcended the ages.
(Kassandra had seen enough of the world's history to know Baudelaire would gain what he had so desperately pursued—but with a caveat. His name would be immortalized, yes, but so would be his sorrows, sprawled before all eyes for an eternity to see.)
"So what you mean," said one man in Verlaine's audience, snapping Kassandra out of her reverie, "is that the woman—the poet's muse—is made more beautiful by her lover's adoration?"
Who is this ignorant sot? Kassandra thought, squinting at him, head pounding from the wine. Gods, but she was tired—and far too old for this pretentious nonsense.
"It is a reciprocal relationship," Verlaine said, and suddenly Kassandra wanted the couch to swallow her whole. "Through our words that beauty is made immortal. For one, we have la Vénus Noire, who was Baudelaire's muse as well as his mistress. Without her, we would never have works of art such as the Fleurs du Mal."
"Without her, you wouldn't be here," Kassandra said, shrugging her shoulders. "She was the one who prepared all these little soirées which brought all of us together. Baudelaire just wasn't interested in such matters." Baudelaire just couldn't be arsed, she wanted to say, but she doubted this crowd would enjoy this sort of crudeness from a lady—even if Baudelaire himself would have laughed out loud at her coarse words, as he always did.
In response, Verlaine scowled, though Rimbaud looked at Kassandra, no longer spellbound by his lover's words. "You do make for a curious sight, Mademoiselle Athanasiou," said the young poet, "I've never seen a woman wear men's clothing before."
Kassandra shrugged. "Why should it be unusual? Who made it so?"
Verlaine looked like he wanted to say something, but Rimbaud cut him off, asking, "True enough. They say George Sand dressed like a man and smoked cigars. Are you an auteur as well? I've confessed I've never heard of you before…"
"Oh, no," Kassandra answered, "I've no talent for the written word. But I've been around, so to speak. Played in a few classics, even."
It was obvious young Rimbaud's interest was piqued. The rest of the men—poets and philosophers and politicians, an interesting selection of France's liberal elite—turned to her with curious, outwardly polite stares. Verlaine's glare grew more pronounced. Kassandra almost gave him an insolent glance. Almost.
"You are Greek, are you not?" asked Rimbaud. "I could see you as an Atalanta, yes."
"I was Leonidas, actually. In a production depicting the last stand of the three hundreds of Sparta."
"Please," Verlaine said with a scoff, "who would have a woman play Leonidas of Sparta?"
"Someone with better taste than you, evidently enough," Kassandra shot back.
Young Rimbaud chuckled, as did the rest of their companions. Verlaine's face became puce. It was not a good look; he now matched the draperies, which were a deep purple.
Kassandra tried not to let her amusement show. Somehow she could almost hear Alkibiades laughing as well. Surely he would have taken young Rimbaud aside, telling him, "You deserve better than this uncouth boor, darling. Here, let me introduce you to one worthier of the chase, a man whose intellect can only be matched by his virility…"
Sokrates, of course, would only have rolled his eyes.