Note : when I started "dreaming" about that event, I thought of vaudeville theatre featuring the husband, the wife, the lover, and the one who spies on them. Except that in this case, the husband is no longer officially.
From the beginning, I had a vision, that of Rhett observing the scene, as described by Charles Aznavour in the song "Et moi dans mon coin", and his english version "And I in my chair".
I remember the long afternoons when my mother would iron to the sound of Charles Aznavour (and Tino Rossi) records. I enjoyed standing next to her listening to her talk about the past. I still remember the slightly burnt smell of the thick blanket she used to protect the tablecloth from the heat of the iron, while we both listened to "Et moi dans mon coin". I eventually dared to listen to that song again, which made me cry, like all the music my mother used to sing, in order to write this chapter. Because the lyrics describe exactly the scene he is witnessing on this June 7 of 1876, what he sees, what he thinks he guesses. Charles Aznavour wrote the English version of this song.(*) Both versions are perfect for getting under the skin of Rhett Butler.
How can I thank you for your loyalty in following "The Boutique Robillard"? By trying, from chapter to chapter, to convey the emotion I feel in "living" this story. I try to progress. Inspiration is a mystery that surprises me every time.
Sunday, June 7, 1876, Peachtree Street
"Are you sure you don't want to stay for dinner, Uncle Henry?" Scarlett felt compelled to insist. Only for form's sake, she had to admit to herself. To her satisfaction, he confirmed it, citing a busy schedule the next day that would require him to go to bed early tonight.
She stayed in the hall for a few minutes to straighten her hair in front of the full-length mirror. Her guests were sitting quietly in the living room sipping Duncan's champagne.
The last half hour had passed very quickly. The parents had come to collect their offspring. How she had appreciated their heartfelt thanks! She remembered that only two years ago, she was the one the Old Guard no longer considered worthy of entrusting her with their children. "Times change..." she concluded fatalistically.
The buffet had been promptly cleared away. Ella had insisted that Wade's stars continue to shine in the garden until the next day.
She was proud that the birthday party had been so successful. "If I could make up for all the years I neglected my daughter..." Just as quickly as she'd thought about it, she brushed off the regrets, "The past is the past."
She heard movement at the front door. Rhett had taken the initiative to bring in the theater and the stage, helped by Pork, as the platform was cumbersome, and then he had left him to go doing his own work.
She noted that, to be more comfortable, he had taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.
He easily carried the heavy platform with his powerful arms and did the same with the three large panels.
Why did her eyes remain riveted on her former husband's bare forearms? The halo of light coming through the front door played on his figure, and, with a shadow effect, accentuated the protrusion of his muscles. So powerful. So... dangerous. How long had it been since he'd displayed his bare arms in her presence? Since that night.
He passed within a few inches near her. So close that she saw the black hairs on his arms glisten with sweat. Hair that she remembered as surprisingly soft when he had spent hours embracing her, the last night.
She was seized by a flush that shot through her to her lower part. "Good thing he didn't look at me. I'm so hot my neck must be crimson."
"But... why was he setting up the theatre in a recess of the hall instead of putting it upstairs? What else was he going to invent?
"Rhett! Don't you dare! This room is not a playground. Set it up, please, in the children's playroom."
She hoped her tone would be convincing enough. Obviously not.
His answer was emphatic. "It will be fine here, Scarlett. Everyone will be able to admire it at their leisure. Don't forget that even Harry considers it a work of art."
Ignoring her objections, he fitted the three panels around the platform. He turned his back to her and began to adjust the safety hooks. "And so you can participate in the progress Ella and I will make in puppet manipulation."
Did he think she hadn't noticed his mocking tone? What nerve! Disappeared for almost three years, and here he was taking the initiative to invade "her" house and show off in front of her!
She tried to calm herself. Her guests were only a few feet away. It was not the time to raise her voice. It was better not to get involved in his game, and to show her indifference to his new hobby. She reflected: "I find this sudden desire to become a game show host quite suspicious. But, if I object, he will take the excuse to call me a bad mother who is not interested enough in her daughter's entertainment.
It wasn't her main concern, by the way. Had she heard him correctly when he'd said without preamble, "It just so happens that I'll have to stay in Atlanta on business for a while." What did he mean? What business was he going to undertake here while his new life was in Charleston? For how long? And where was he going to settle?
A pervading suspicion made her shudder. "He would not dare to take up his quarters with that Watling!" This dreadful doubt was working its way through her mind. "Of course he would, and he doesn't care if he stigmatizes his former wife again in the process. When I have had so much trouble to make the whole town forget that humiliation! But nothing can surprise me any more from him. What a vulgar being! Did he not surreptitiously caress-yes! caress-the arm of his probable mistress within a few paces of his bride, the very young and very stupid Roselyne Tucker?"
Scarlett felt a wave of rage wash over her. She had to regain her composure. She took a deep breath, checked her perfect outfit again, and decided, "Anyway, I don't care! At Duncan's reception, I had a chance to make it clear that nothing he did affected me, and that I'd moved on from that disastrous marriage."
As she watched the subject of her wrath continue to turn his back to complete the fixation of the puppet screen, an idea occurred to her. She had just found the answer to his arrogance.
"What better way to prove to him that I don't care about him than to have fun, in front of him, with Ashley? He is no longer jealous of the men who court me, so be it! But he has hated him for so many years that this is likely to exasperate him. We'll see who can pull the strings better tonight, Rhett Butler!"
"Ah! There you are! We missed you! Your brother-in-law was telling us how well you managed your plantation, your sawmills and your hardware store. He was full of praise for your courage!"
She had taken advantage of Scarlett's absence to find out a little more about Ashley Wilkes and to try to understand the two men who surrounded the owner of Peachtree Street. But, as a gentleman, he had limited himself to banalities about the importance of the charitable work of the well-born people of Atlanta to the needy. He began to launch into a philosophical logorrhea on the values of Georgian generosity and hospitality, and the importance of perpetuating the eternal traditions of the Old South in the face of vulgar business imported from the Northern States.
Harry was happy to reinforce his convictions, assuring him that his ambition, as Director of Arts and Culture for the City of Atlanta, was to revive the intellectual and artistic dynamism that had proliferated among the aristocracy and upper class before the Civil War.
Taisy inwardly congratulated herself that her husband was making connections with two prominent Atlanta men who could introduce him to other fruitful relationships for his work. But by what providence were these two men close to Scarlett O'Hara, when they could hardly conceal their mutual animosity?
She was getting bored with the way the conversation was going. She decided to prod the gentleman on to a far more interesting subject, that of Scarlett. Heartily, he declared that his sister-in-law was the brightest embodiment of the courage that Southern ladies had shown during the war and Reconstruction.
She noticed that the elegantly discreet man had suddenly become inflamed at the mention of the young woman's past actions. And that his eyes were glowing.
Even more so when she appeared in the living room. She looked a little flustered, but after Taisy told her of Ashley's glowing description of her, she reserved her beautiful smile for him.
He seemed delighted and coming alive, whereas half an hour ago he had looked so glum. Taisy remarked to herself that his silent attitude had corresponded to the moment when Rhett Butler had announced that he was going to teach Ella the art of puppetry.
"Speak of the devil... Here he is, joining us in more than casual attire. His shirt collar open, his forearms uncovered, humm... This man exudes virility. He moves like a feline, a wildcat more precisely. And again this icy visual exchange between the two men. I wonder what's going on between them." Taisy thought to herself, continuing to observe the three characters, or rather, the three actors in a play.
Spotting the latest arrival, Ashley Wilkes moved closer to her friend. "Scarlett, I was very proud to read the article about you in the Atlanta Gazette. Congratulations! You have become the queen of the finest city in the United States. The reporter was very complimentary about you. I wish I could have seen you in that dress. "Thunder of Georgia", wasn't it? You must have looked stunning! I'm not surprised. You look radiant no matter what you wear."
Taisy relished in watching the scene. "Oh... His gaze lingers a little too long on Scarlett's lips. She looks delighted. I think she's having the time of her life. He's hesitating, hanging around... He doesn't look very comfortable."
He tried to take a detached tone. Not enough for the smart New Orleans woman not to detect that it was feigned. "You never told us about this designer, Scarlett. I had no idea... Duncan Vayton, is it?" His voice trailed off for a moment. "Have you known him long?"
Taisy was glad to be sitting in a strategic location. Thus, she could study at leisure the reactions of their hostess, of Ashley Wilkes next to her, but also of this troubling Rhett Butler.
He was standing next to her husband, elbow on top of the fireplace, one leg crossed, sniffing his cigar. The epitome of a confident man.
His features showed no interest in the words Scarlett and Wilkes were exchanging. "His face is a mask," she concluded. It seemed to her, however, that he was watching for Scarlett's response.
She only looked at Ashley. She made a small gesture with her hand, as if her words were of little importance. Fully aware, however, that all eyes were on her. "Very little time. In fact, I had only seen him twice before, the first time when I went to Charleston to inquire about his ready-to-wear collection. The second time, he came to Atlanta to bring me the dress I had chosen to represent his collection in my store."
There was a piece of information missing. Taisy was dying to know more. "Only twice, Scarlett? But when did he decide to draw 'Thunder of Georgia' for you?"
Her answer was evasive. "When he came to Atlanta and met Ella, he thought about including her in his parade. As for me..." Taisy didn't miss her discreet glance from Rhett Butler's side.
"As for me, he admitted to me that he had been working on the sewing pattern of 'Thunder of Georgia' since the night we met in Charleston. Amazing, isn't it?"
For a woman used to be surrounded with male solicitations, this "astonishment" seemed dubious. Especially since she had given this precision with a touch of defiance. Intended for whom? Ashley? Rhett? The first looked away, disturbed by what he had just heard. The second simply straightened his chest and stood motionless next to Harry.
The petulant Mrs. Benett could not help titillating where she had observed discomfort, so intrigued was she by this trio. "My dear, it would seem that the prince of American fashion fell under your spell at first sight."
She was rewarded for her little game when she noticed that her friend's eyes were sparkling with pride.
"That's what Duncan told me when I arrived, before the performance with Ella, to get her outfit on. The 'Thunder of Georgia' was there. Duncan told me right off the bat that I was going to be the one wearing it for the fashion show. It was waiting for me, fitting me perfectly. I must admit I was surprised as hell!" Her cascading laughter echoed through the room.
When Taisy expressed surprise, she told her that before she left for Atlanta, Duncan had asked his seamstress to take down her measurements in detail. "It's true that for the purpose of altering the hem of a dress, this information gathering was more than superfluous. But I would never have suspected that he was already planning..." Her air suddenly seemed dreamy.
Taisy lost nothing of the imperceptible reaction of the man talking with her husband. "Oh, but isn't Rhett Butler's fist a little too tight?"
If she had sensed a tension in him at Scarlett's clarification, he reinvested his displayed indifference the next second. He walked over to the sideboard and said in a nonchalant tone:
"Taisy, would you like some more champagne?"
The young New-Orleans citizen, accustomed with her husband to libertine exchanges, had the impression that he undressed her with his eyes. "This man is a born seducer, a predator around which any woman should feel troubled. Even in danger, for fear of succumbing. Has that ever been the case with Scarlett? I could swear to it..."
Taisy nodded, "What elegance in his simplest gestures, like pouring the champagne bubbles into a glass!" she thought.
But his behavior intrigued her more and more. Why was he turning into the host of the house, wanting to serve the guests? On what grounds ? Scarlett hadn't even raised an eyebrow. Ashley looked dejected, though not too offended by it.
The modulation of the evening waiter's voice became more mocking, "And you, Scarlett? Surely a brandy must be necessary to take your mind off this exhausting afternoon."
Taisy remarked to herself: "I think he's forcing his detached air a little too much. And without waiting for her answer, he hands her a glass, with, it seems to me, a mocking sneer. What a familiar attitude... She accepts, chin up, as if to defy him. Definitely not! I'm not leaving this house tonight until I find an explanation for this strange atmosphere."
Rhett continued the service. "Ashley? Whiskey or are you continuing with the champagne?" Oh the shell of the unflappable male seemed far too controlled. The voice had become indifferent, so indifferent that it sounded icy.
Scarlett's brother-in-law found it difficult to maintain his perfect southern gentleman's attitude towards Rhett Butler. These two seemed to be having an epidermal reaction to each other. "Thank you, I haven't finished my glass," he replied coldly.
Taisy felt more and more like the indiscreet witness of a three-character play. A love triangle?
Rhett had already turned away from him, as if to mark his contempt. Now he was addressing Harry. "I'll give you a taste of a vintage cognac that's out of date. It's exceptional." Turning to Scarlett, "I can't find the bottle. There must be some left. I'm surprised you drank it, since you don't like this type."
Taisy's first reaction was to wonder how he could possibly know the composition of the bar in the mansion.
"The last drop was savored by Duncan on his first visit to Atlanta."
Taisy could not believe her ears. "Am I mistaken or did she giggle when she said those last words?"
In any case, this did not please his guest. His jaws tightened. He grabbed another bottle. From her seat, Taisy felt for a moment that he was going to smash it. Then, as if nothing had happened, he answered calmly:
"Good. I hope he enjoyed this rare vintage to the fullest."
Despite her ability to read the thoughts of those around her, this time Mrs. Bennett could not read the slightest emotion in the face of the improvised sommelier.
On the other hand, their hostess' features breathed contentment. Scarlett O'Hara's admirer was amused: "She has the mutinous look of a child who has just played a good trick on her father. And who continues on her way with delight."
Her tone turned bantering: "He enjoyed it, indeed. Even more so when I pointed out that this was all that was left in this house from my former husband."
Harry, suddenly aware of the situation, looked at his wife to share his bewilderment. His eyes seemed to say, "What? Could it be possible that...?"
This time, Rhett didn't hide his black look anymore. With rage. Yes, he was ready to pounce, Taisy realized. "Is this really her former husband? That would explain his ease in this house, his closeness to Ella, his knowing looks at Scarlett. But, in that case, why is he with us now? A divorce is an indignity, and implies an irreparable hatred between the former couple. I must know- discreetly." Taisy felt that she was close to discovering the key to the mystery.
Scarlett, may I..." She cut her off and looked at her and Harry in turn, "Just so there's no ambiguity, I might as well tell you. Rhett is my former husband. We're divorced."
A clear sentence, precise as a cleaver, pronounced with indifference, to make it clear that it was only a detail of no importance.
Taisy found it hard to hide her amazement. It was a good thing she was used to keeping up appearances in public! She noticed that Ashley had stiffened, and Rhett... For a few seconds, his gaze was lost. His eyes became misty. Misty ? Was he that moved? He, this manly man?
No, his mask was back in place. With an ironic face. "Glad he helped you get rid of those remnants," he said.
As if nothing had happened, he said, "In that case, Harry, may I offer you a whisky? I cannot guarantee its excellence, for it was not I who chose it. But I'm sure Scarlett now has other fine connoisseurs to advise her on matters of oenology."
He laughed at his own repartee, and shook his shoulders, as if to move on.
She detected a quiet displeasure in Scarlett, like a slight frustration, and surmised, "My dear friend doesn't seem to have been rewarded for her acidic words."
Taisy sensed that Harry wasn't sure how to react. It was quite right to change of topics! "I can't wait to admire the famous 'Thunder of Georgia' masterpiece!"
"Gladly, Taisy. Will you accompany me to the bedroom while the men finish their drinks? I will show you this treasure before we move to the dining room. Dinner will be ready soon."
She had caught Ashley's interested look on the fly. Knowing her husband's tastes, she knew that he too was dying to see this work of art, but... worn by their hostess. That's why she specified: "I'm sure we'd all love to see you wearing it tonight. Please say yes! I will assist you in putting it on."
She understood that Scarlett was tempted. "That's a good idea. It will be a credit to Duncan Vayton's talent to display it for you. Could you help me, Taisy? Then she saw her hesitate, "No, I'll have to lace up what Duncan had specially designed for me first..." She stopped in time, glancing briefly at Rhett and blushing. Scarlett O'Hara, so sure of herself, blush? Accustomed to feminine contingencies, Mrs. Benett knew immediately what this was all about. Spying the reaction of Wilkes and Butler, they seemed to understund the delicate problem. Ashley had the lost attitude of one who wanted to disappear underground, while Rhett... She had not realized, until now, how dark his irises were...
Scarlett pulled herself together, "Prissy will help me, it won't take long. I'll let my cook know that we'll be ready to eat in ten minutes. Please excuse me." And she left quickly.
While waiting for her, Harry settled into an armchair, and enjoyed sniffing the cigar Rhett had given him.
She saw that Scarlett's two guests had surreptitiously stepped aside. Who had dragged the other away? In any case, they were both now on the balcony.
Giving in to her never-satisfied curiosity, she discreetly approached the French window to listen to their conversation. Which astonished her.
The tone was rising between them. If at first they seemed to be exchanging banalities, the conversation quickly escalated.
"I get your little game, entertaining Ella so you can be reintroduced here. You have the nerve to act like you're still the master of the house. I warn you, Butler. I will not have you disturbing Scarlett's peace any longer. You nearly destroyed her! But she's so brave...so...she's managed to rebuild herself. I will not allow you..." Ashley's oh-so-steady tone no longer hid the rage that drove him, even as he tried to modulate the force of his threats.
She saw Rhett Butler clutching his jacket sleeve. In a voice engorged with contempt, "You won't allow me what, Wilkes?"
He was so threatening, so violently displaying his hatred, that Taisy was afraid this discussion would turn into a fistfight. And that the gentleman's slim figure would soon be on the ground.
Yet Ashley Wilkes did not back down. He challenged him by assailing, "What do you think Scarlett is going to say when she finds out that, as soon as you arrived in Atlanta, you were publicly flaunting yourself on the streets with your whore?" He shook with disgust. His revulsion was so great that he felt he could take it to this thick brute. "How dare you be in the same room with her, Scarlett, so pure, so..., when you waded through the mire only hours before?"
Flabbergasted, Taisy then watched as the mighty Rhett Butler surprisingly backed down, his tone less confident. "That's not..." He paused. Scarlett's voice was clearly audible. The two men separated.
He made an effort to control his tremors and resume his nonchalant posture. The cynicism of this debauchee disgusted him. But when he turned around, he gasped.
An incandescent apparition! Flamboyant! His eyelids fluttered under the glitter of gold, silver and emerald green. Almost shyly, his eyes caressed the wide, mysteriously shining ribbons, inexorably draining the gaze from the bottom of the moccasins to the waist.
Scarlett's waist, so slim... recognizable to him among thousands. Just begging to be embraced. Here magnified by sparks of gold and silver. Right down to the bustier.
Ashley realized he was breathing heavily. Was it a feeling? Could the people around him hear him, could the frantic beating of his heart reach Scarlett's ears? Or were only his temples throbbing with the pressure of his boiling blood? He was afraid she would realize his cheeks were on fire.
And if it were only his cheeks... He dared to detail the bodice which seemed to consist of a piece of jewellery whose emeralds competed in richness with the gold and silver inlays.
But the most beautiful jewels were those he guessed. Which were practically revealed, so low was the cut of the bodice. He was mesmerized.
How many times had he discreetly admired the curve of the young teenager's breasts, when they were just budding, then those of the flowering girl, until those of the gloriously blossoming young woman? Thousands of times, at each of their meetings.
He had not forgotten how much he had dreamed of them during the war. In the harshness of winter, under his ragged uniform, when the mere mention of them was enough to give him a breath of warmth. Under the violence of the machine-gun fire, when, to escape the hell, he remembered the tender swell of a breast, which he had brushed "accidentally". That sweet memory carried him away from that world of fire and blood to a place that consisted only of rustling petticoats, bursts of laughter, inviting dimples and tender jade lakes.
And so many nights, lying next to Melly... He could confess it now. Anyway, she had never guessed. When, during their rare moments of intimacy, his hands had clasped her poor chest... God! Yes, how many times had he imagined his beautiful Clayton County nipples hardening at the touch of his fingers...
His eyes stopped on the edge of the bustier. The thin tulle surrounding the collar was not there for modesty. No, its transparency let even more guess what decency had to hide: the mysterious valley between the birth of perfect globes.
Ashley ran the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip. Strange that anyone would notice. Hypnotized by the white flesh he couldn't remember it being so exposed. God, how he longed for her!
His desire became so demanding that he was aware of having to move in order to try to hide the protrusion that threatened to be visible in his crotch.
He looked up and met two emeralds, the intensity of which made the brilliance of her bodice pale. She was staring at him. Of all the people present, her friends, and even this Butler, he was the one she was looking at, seeming to watch for his approval or comment.
He could not, for his mouth was so dry. He took hold of her hand, and, in contradiction to the rules of propriety with which the Wilkes had been saddled for generations, simply whispered in a hushed voice, "Scarlett," and laid his burning lips on the skin so thin on the inside of her wrist.
How long did he linger, tasting the grain of her skin? A minute? An eternity? Long enough for Scarlett to gently withdraw her hand and, with an air that seemed too innocent, said in a light voice: "It seems that you appreciate the 'Thunder of Georgia' model.
He had straightened up, smiling gently at her in assent. He came out of the trance into which he had plunged with delight, and at last became aware of his surroundings. He saw the figure of Butler, at the back of the room, standing against the fireplace. Motionless, wearing an impassive mask. He was surprised, with irritation, by Benett's air of lust, who was undressing their hostess with his eyes. Then he listened to his wife flaring up at Scarlett's outfit.
This diversion suited him, allowing him to calm the fever that had invaded him. He listened to her exclaim:
"Queen Scarlett O'Hara! I can see why Mr. Vayton named this model Georgia Lightning! What man wouldn't be struck to the heart when he saw you embodying it? No doubt you were his muse! The lightning taken up like a leitmotif, that abundance of emerald green..." Mrs. Benett looked at her with a knowing look. "If he began creating the pattern as soon as you left his workshops, he must have managed to etch the exact shade of your emerald eyes into his memory to sprinkle throughout his model!" Taisy was convinced.
This remark hit Ashley right in the heart. He'd found out about the designer when he'd read the article, at the same time as he'd learned that the designer had named Scarlett as his muse. He had had to read the story several times to force himself to admit that a new man had appeared in the life of "his" Scarlett. And not just any man. A rich man, admired by all. And an artist who had set his sights on her at first glance, offering her the opportunity to shine with the finest of South Carolina.
Looking at this dress, which the journalist called his 'masterpiece', he had no doubt that this Vayton had less avowed views on the young woman, the subject of his inspiration. This flamboyant display of luxury, in Scarlett's colors... Ashley revolted at the thought that the tailor had designed, expressly to fit the plunging neckline, a corset. This man could have the vanity to think he had cut the most intimate object to the exact dimensions of Scarlett's breasts. A nagging doubt gnawed at him. Could it be that he had seen her... No! Scarlett, being a great lady, would not have allowed it.
But, had he had the audacity to make advances to her when he'd found an excuse to come to Atlanta to see her? Invited to her own home, not just her store as a professional relationship. To the point of drinking a bottle belonging to her former husband. Ah, Ashley would have almost laughed at the slap in the face Butler had had to swallow a few minutes ago. If this stranger's presence in Peachtree Street didn't seem so threatening.
The two women continued to comment on the sophistication of each embroidery.
"Scarlett, I need you to reveal the mystery surrounding this work of art. What is its secret that myriads of lights glitter like this? Could this man be a wizard to illuminate you with a wave of his magic wand?"
With pleasure, he found before his eyes the carefree teenager who loved to talk about women fashion in Tara. As a true professional of women's clothing that she had become so quickly, she revealed the secret of the dressmaker, of the silver or gold metallic thread that captured the light and reflected it, multiplied, with each movement of the dress. Each enamelled glass or gleaming brass sequin, each glass bead, encircled by this ingenious thread, seemed to catch fire.
Scarlett continued her explanations cheerfully, "Tonight I've dispensed with the long satin gloves and the gauzy emerald green organza tulle floating down the back. Troublesome, isn't it Rhett?" She looked at Butler. So this one had been present at this party. Not surprising since he was a Charlestonian. Ashley felt a pang of jealousy for the one who had witnessed the majesty of her sister-in-law's performance.
Butler had given the impression that he was totally engrossed in his conversation with this Harry Benett. But he answered at once. Of course, he was on the lookout for the slightest of their interactions. "I remember it. It was so light it was flying when I waltzed you, Scarlett." Ashley wondered if Rhett had answered that way to let him know that his former wife had granted him a dance.
He felt the old jealousy rise in him which had so often overwhelmed him when this one imposed himself upon her by marking his prerogatives as a husband, which did not prevent him, an hour later, from going to join his whores. "But the wheel turns, Butler! You have no rights over her anymore. On the contrary, you have been written out of her life. And I can at last openly show my attachment to her and openly court her, not that you mind." He silently relished this.
"I invite you to head to the dining room. The meal awaits us."
Ashley no longer cared to wait until Butler was gone to publicly enjoy the presence of his Belle of Clayton County.
The same long table, the same high-backed, bulky-looking chairs. Nothing had changed, except for the curtains which had finally been removed. This fortunate move gave a brightness back to the room where he had spent so many long hours in the dark, numbing himself with a bottle of whiskey.
To forget. To forget that his wife didn't love him. Had never loved him. Would never love him. Because she'd loved someone else since she was a little girl.
That other one, who was there tonight. Who was rejoicing because Scarlett was giving him her undivided attention.
He heard Benett's wife boast of the magnificence of the furniture, and then she marveled at the incredible long embroidered linen tablecloth, whose immaculate whiteness was enhanced by three silver candelabras. "What refinement, Scarlett!"
To be able to admire her in "their" house, in majesty, happy with the elegance of her reception, warmed Rhett's heart.
"If you could have admired the linens and silverware my plantation, Tara, abounded in, you would have been dazzled! Unfortunately, the Yankees-" Her voice broke.
He had a mad desire to take her in his arms to chase away the images of horror that had just assailed her. But he had no right to do so.
At least she now had a friend who shared her tastes. He felt reassured. He knew how isolated she had been, deprived of a friendly female presence for years.
Apart from Melanie of course. He missed the dear Melly. She had been so understanding with him during Scarlett's miscarriage. Melly who was no longer there.
And who, through her disappearance, had freed her husband, turning him into a widower, free to openly lust after the one he had leered at concupiscently for years, all the while assuming that his hypocritical gentlemanly demeanor concealed his lust.
"Would you please sit down ?"
Before she had time to tell everyone where to sit, Rhett took "his" chair at the end of the table. As master of the house.
He sensed that she was giving him an incendiary look. It didn't matter. He was going to take his place. No matter what.
Next to her.
"Harry, please stand opposite me and next to Rhett. That way you can continue your captivating talking. Taisy, your opposite will be Ashley who will sit next to me."
Of course, she made sure he was within reach.
He asked her, knowing she was not comfortable with fine wine choices, "What vintage have you selected for us, Scarlett?"
"First of all white wine, because the starter is poultry. A Bordeaux, Château Ykem if I remember correctly. If it's not to your taste, you can only blame yourself. It is among the bottles you had selected." She looked at him, chin up, and said, it seemed, regretfully, "As you can see, I didn't throw away everything you owned."
He found it hard to hide his satisfaction. Even if she denied it, she had not been able to remove all traces of his presence in this house. He thought regretfully: "I must admit, however, that the pecuniary aspect was probably not foreign to her decision. She could not, in all logic, sacrifice them, for she always took offence at the price of the wines in which I invested."
Rhett congratulated her: "Excellent choice! I suggest you keep it in your mouth for a long time. It's pure heaven this way..." From the corner of his eye, he saw that Scarlett was blushing. Had she understood the double meaning of his comment? His heart raced. No, she couldn't have such thoughts. It had only happened once, their last night. As for him, his wife's timid initiative haunted him for nights on end and inflamed his fantasies. Oh Scarlett!
Pork served the "bouchées à la reine". "A crustard of chicken purée with whipped cream," the hostess told her guests.
Smelling the dish, Rhett invited Taisy to taste it: "Dilcey makes the best 'bouchées à la Reine' in the world, believe me. I brought her the recipe from one of the most prestigious restaurants in Paris. She managed to surpass those of their Grand Chef."
Inwardly, Rhett was gloating. When she had composed the menu for her guests, had she chosen the starter at random? Or had she remembered that it was one of her former husband's favorite dishes? Rhett tried not to dwell on that detail. But Dilcey's crisp seemed even tastier than usual.
Taisy Bennett was again directing the conversation to "Thunder of Georgia". "I am amazed at the myriad of glass beads, so delicate and tiny. What a talent to have made them look like embroidered grains of rice! I am so envious of the beads that adorn your bodice and armhole... All this luxury debauchery... I now understand why Duncan Vayton's creations are only affordable to the world's greatest!"
Scarlett straightened, bringing her throat into focus, so that the beads decorating the top of her bustier were even more visible. "Indeed, he uses only the best for his unique creations. He has converted a spinning mill in South Carolina, to make sure he has the finest fabrics at his disposal."
She mechanically touched the indentation in her tulle-trimmed collar, where the pearly beads were nestled. "As for the pearls, he confessed to me that he insisted his supplier sell him the finest available on the market. Pointing out that the rarest of pearls would never match the pearlescence of my skin." Scarlett paused, her fingers over her mouth. Wanting to show that her words had gone beyond her thoughts, or rather that she had only broken the rules of propriety out of thoughtlessness.
But Rhett knew her by heart, could tell when she was sincerely sorry, or, more often, when she was feigning repentance. And, in this case, she had knowingly pressed where she could cause pain.
To whom? Him? He doubted she'd revealed Duncan's lust to annoy him. Since he'd found her that night in Charleston, his former wife's behavior toward him had been luminous. She'd moved on and had lost interest in him.
Rhett felt his anxiety grow. He was convinced that Duncan's shrouded hint had already turned into syrupy statements by the end of the dance, and that it wouldn't be long before he moved on to libidinous advances.
No, when she'd 'blurted out' that phrase that exuded the underlying sensuality between Duncan and Scarlett, she hadn't meant it for him, Rhett. She'd aimed it at her Ashley. And she'd undoubtedly succeeded. He, who Rhett always thought had a livid complexion, had paled at the mention. So, it was to make him jealous, and to make sure he was even more trapped in her sharp claws.
He squeezed the stem of his glass a little too hard.
She had regained her composure, forgetting her 'faux pas', and was swelling with pride. Scarlett, always so eager to shine. It was one of the many things that had always attracted him to her, this need to surpass others. It began with owning what was most expensive. He'd been glad to be at her side to allow it. He recognized that this greed was mostly transformed into strength, that of being able to move mountains to achieve her ends. His brave Scarlett...
He noticed that Wilkes was silent. Embarrassed. Obviously, he wasn't the one who could offer her pearls. Or maybe he was still pissed that the dressmaker had invoked Scarlett's "pearly skin".
But he himself, all those jewels he had covered her with; rubies to thank her for accepting one of his caresses; rivers of diamonds in the hope that one day she would initiate some ; emeralds, bigger and bigger, so that she would understand that her knight in shining armor could never offer her any, and that therefore she had to prefer him; and Tahitian pearls, as big as the ones she was swooning over now, so that she would forgive him for the many infidelities she had never heard of, but which made him feel guilty. Of which he would return, ashamed.
Not a ring on her fingers, not a bracelet, not a pendant, not even a hair comb, she wore, tonight, as at the Charleston reception, none of his gifts. As if they were no longer worthy of her.
Useless charms. Useless to him because this profusion of jewels had not won Scarlett's heart. Meaningless to her when she had been forced to divorce him, on fear of losing custody of her children.
He gripped his glass a little too tightly, pretended to study the transparency of the liquid. He could never atone for his cruelty. She wouldn't forgive him. And she was right.
He unconsciously clenched his jaws. To keep from moaning. To beg her. To take her hand and ask her forgiveness.
It was futile. It was too late. What did she have to do with his regrets when she was sailing freely between two suitors who were ogling at her, a rich young artist, and her first love, finally within reach of her dreams.
He listened quietly to Harry. Nodded his head in agreement. Responded with onomatopoeia to pretend to follow the conversation.
But he was not fooled by the game being played before his eyes.
Taisy, Scarlett and Ashley were discussing pearls. Or rather, they were listening to Ashley talk about the history of pearl beads: about the fishermen from the coastal villages of distant China who, from father to son, had first begun to harvest the rare pearl oysters at the bottom of the sea, so much so that they had managed to develop an uncommon physical resistance to dive and resist in the depths of the ocean; about Cleopatra who loved them and paraded them to make her rivals jealous.
The former master of Twelve Oaks told the two young women that the chiefs of the Indian tribes used them as a means of payment with other tribes, and that America had become the largest supplier of beads to Europe in the early 16th century.
Rhett perked up his ear even more, honing his ubiquitous skills to follow his tablemate's conversation as well as Ashley's, when he noticed that Scarlett was genuinely interested in what he was saying. Not, as he had seen her do on many occasions, to simply please him, while the display of the cultured Ashley's bookish culture mattered little to her. No, it seemed to her former husband that she was drinking in Wilkes' explanation of the use of pearly oysters in buttonholing.
"What you say is exciting, Ashley! My favorite haberdashery items in my store are these lots of mother of pearl buttons I bought. They come in all sizes, but each one is unique. Some scales are perfectly white, others with darker parts. Some surfaces are flatter than others, or of irregular thickness. But each one has a unique iridescence, which can give pink, blue or violet reflections. I would spend hours looking at them!" Scarlett had become heated, and had moved a little closer to her brother-in-law.
Rhett did not miss the smile of satisfaction on his rival's face. The latter hardly turned towards him, wanting to signify, with a simple glance, "See here, Butler. I can't afford to buy pearls for Scarlett, but my culture, which you've always mocked, allows me to offer her what she needs, some dream, which she can exploit in hard currency to argue the sale of her buttons to her clientele."
Rhett bitterly concluded that he had decided to rectify his mistakes, by trying to approach Scarlett with more concrete subjects, and thus, to better capture her interest.
The arrival of Pork, accompanied by Prissy, cut short the attention Scarlett had intensely showered on the storyteller.
Prissy cleared the plates of the first course, perfectly emptied of the smallest vestige of croustade, so much had the guests feasted. Pork presented, on a silver platter, a piece of steaming, fragrant meat.
Rhett repressed a victorious look. Had Scarlett really done it on purpose by choosing the simple, but tasty, main course Rhett loved? It was a distinct possibility, provided it was cooked in a certain way.
Scarlett announced to her guests, "Let's move on to the Roast Beef with Pepper Sauce and hash browns. I promise you that this unpretentious dish will make you salivate, so tender is the tenderloin. Dilcey has made a habit of presenting it like this, swaddled and tied with thin strips of rind."
He sensed that she was satisfied to display the tastiest dishes for her new friends, for they would not fail, afterwards, to extol the excellence of the menu served at Peachtree Street.
Before he could inquire what drink would accompany the red meat, he caught the small air of satisfaction she gave him directly when she announced: "Drizzled with another French wine, from the territory of Burgundy, a Romanée-Conti."
Rhett's eyes sparkled, answering Scarlett's. She was definitely making good use of the cellar he had left behind when he left.
Lifting the decanter whose crystal facets showed the ruby color of the red wine, Rhett addressed the old employee. "How long have you been decanting it, Pork?"
He answered confidently, "For two hours, Missie Rhett. I did as you taught me. I remembered all your instructions."
Yes, Rhett was more and more convinced that this meal was reinvesting him, by the minute, in his prerogatives as master of the house alongside his hostess. That should have satisfied him completely. But Wilkes' parasitic presence was spoiling his pleasure.
"That's fine, Pork. I'll take care of serving the wine. You just worry about slicing the roast."
Taisy had finally given up champagne. They were able to enjoy the new vintage together. This delighted Harry. He formally congratulated the lady of the house on the excellence of her cellar, and gave an appreciative mimic to Rhett for making the wise purchase.
Pork presented him with his plate, garnished with three thin slices of the roast. As a gourmet, he enjoyed the thin crust, which was seared to perfection, while the inside showed a bright red, full of juices. Rhett exulted. Scarlett must have instructed the cook to serve the meat "blue", not "rare", as she personally preferred. Because that was how Rhett usually required the beef to be cooked.
True, it was only a small attention, a trifle, but Rhett wanted to interpret it as Scarlett's willingness to indulge his tastes. Unless she wanted to warn herself, through all these reminders of her former husband's habits, of the harsh criticism she was used to receiving from him... Rhett replied inwardly, "I've changed, Scarlett. The days of cruel taunts that I used to enjoy showering on you in front of everyone when you made me suffer too much the moment before are behind us. I will no longer make the mistake of belittling you publicly. At least, I shall try-"
All eyes turned to him and Harry as he said, "Will you satisfy my curiosity? I was very much surprised when you showed Ella your present a moment ago, to recognize Thomas Holden's puppets. I was in Philadelphia in March 1874 (**) when his company performed there. This talented artist had just left Bullock's Royal Marionettes, for some disagreement, and had created his own company. Since you too attended his show, you will understand that I, as Director of Arts in New Orleans, strongly urged him to bring the Imperial Marionettes to my city. It would have brought even more magic to our cultural activities. Unfortunately, their tour schedule was full. I then urged him, almost begged him, to agree to sell one or two of his ingenious dolls to the Louisiana Museum, since he was the author of the invention that made their manipulation even more mysterious. (**) Unfortunately, nothing was done. And yet I was prepared to be very generous - at the expense of the Town Hall, of course."
Harry continued, tapping his new friend on the shoulder in a friendly manner, "So, Rhett, did you have to threaten him to get him to agree to sell you not one, but four models?"
Rhett burst out laughing. He felt all eyes on him. Scarlett was watching him, curious.
"I didn't need it. I met him in a game circle I am accustomed to. He told me he was looking for a distraction from the strife he was having with his former partner John Bullock. He invited me to come see their show the next day before they left for another city. I must admit that, at first, I was a bit dubious about going to a puppet show. I usually favor other... " - Rhett paused, looked Scarlett in the eye - "other distractions."
Satisfied with his little effect: the anger had turned the calm green of her irises into that emerald green dotted with golden sparks that he loved.
He continued: "They are a phenomenal success, both with adults and children. It's deserved, I must admit. Anyway, I found him that evening at my poker table. Happy with the revenue that the number of tickets sold had generated. Very sure of himself. Too sure of himself. He started betting big. I had let him win a few rounds to... build up his confidence."
Rhett stared at Mrs. Benett, as if he wanted to apologize for his attitude. "It's the rules of the game, don't judge me too harshly, Taisy. To win, no matter what is at stake, and even more so when it is important, you have to know how to progress by small steps, to finesse, to make your opponent believe that you are giving up in front of the difficulty of the obstacle, to grant him a few small favours. And, when you finally feel him too sure of winning ... " - Rhett suddenly turned his dark gaze towards Wilkes-"when he thinks he has you down, you strike, you reveal your cards. That's how I usually win the bet."
With satisfaction, he noticed that Wilkes' mouth had twisted into a bitter sneer.
"In short, poor Holden lost a lot that night. So much so that, in order not to "dip" into the troupe's common fund, he asked me if I would forgive his debt for four of his puppets. I admit I scoffed at his proposal at first. And then... " Scarlett was still staring at him, wanting to know how Rhett had won Ella's gift, "And then I thought of a little girl - no, two little girls - whose eyes might have marveled at those magical dolls."
He was mad at himself because his voice was starting to falter. Not to show his sorrow was his new credo.
Scarlett took advantage of this. Her words were unkind: "Why did you keep them so long before giving them to Ella if they were meant for her? You had enough opportunities, parties and birthdays that you forgot about."
His tone was cold, but Rhett read sadness in her eyes.
What should he say to her? Tell her about the fight he'd been putting up with over the last three years to avoid contact with his stepchildren - and his wife? First of all, the flight, the will to break everything, to cut everything that attached him to Scarlett. And thus sacrificing her children. Cruelly. Unjustly. Then, the shock over, the divorce papers in hand, the stupefaction, the emptiness, the pain of having officially destroyed what mattered most to him. Trying to forget, again and again. Meanwhile, Ella and Wade were growing up away from him. No longer officially sharing a bond with their former stepfather. The shame of wanting to come back into their lives after abandoning them. The fear of rejection. Like the one Wade was rightly inflicting on him now.
No, he couldn't tell her that. Not in public. Not even in private, he couldn't tell her the truth.
"I kept them in my room in Charleston. They were waiting."
He knew that his answer could not satisfy her. But that was all he felt able to express.
Then he returned to a light tone to address Harry, "In conclusion, Ella has become the proud owner of these cardboard, rag and leather figures, which will prove magical once she and I learn to handle them."
Harry seemed satisfied with the story, which added to the legend of the English puppets. He concluded, "When you are ready, I would love to see such a demonstration. And why not consider a public performance later?"
Rhett laughed. But the ambitious idea appealed to him. And it would allow him to extend the long hours of learning in the house on Peachtree Street...
He replied with a cryptic "maybe!"
At a sign from Scarlett, Prissy came to clear the plates, and Pork presented the dessert on a wheeling side table.
Scarlett addressed her guests, "How about we finish with a light sweet? A watermelon with sweet liquor Porto, and its round of ice cream scoops, some vanilla, some coffee." All enjoyed noisily.
Rhett was proud of her. Even though he'd denied her the title since their first quarrel in the Twelve Oaks library, Scarlett was the epitome of the great Southern Lady tonight, elegant, racy, and a master of all the arcane rules of hospitality. "Well, not a Southern lady in every way..." He laughed under his breath, but not quietly enough.
Scarlett, thinking he was making fun of her, snapped, "Who is it that is so laughable, pray?"
He smiled at her, "Nothing, my dear. Everything is perfect. You are perfect tonight." And, without her having time to object, he took her hand and kissed her fingertips. For a moment, which he would have liked to turn into an eternity, his whiskers met the fleshy part of the middle and little finger. His greedy lips caressed them. He had to restrain the urge to lick them, because the many glasses of wine, not to mention whiskey and champagne, were beginning to release the inhibitions he had to keep up with her.
When she withdrew her hand abruptly, he considered it a small victory because she had remained quiet to let him lavish his caresses, long enough for him to succeed in making her shiver. Her bare arms confirmed it.
The flickering flames of the candelabras, placed in front of her, illuminated the grain of her skin, right there at the birth of her breasts, where this Vayton had viciously nestled the pearls. She was so close to him. The scent of her perfume, which he would have recognized among all others, mingled with her own smell, intimate, unique, unforgettable, intoxicating him more than all the great wines of the world.
Had there been even one night of respite when she hadn't been present in his head, in his dreams, in his fantasies when his body was crying out for relief?
What spell had his seductive witch cast on him to keep him wanting her so badly? The heat radiating from her body inflamed his to the point that it was painful.
Just as he was dreaming that one day, perhaps, one night, he might finally possess her again and lose himself in her, he heard her address that damned Wilkes.
"I'm jealous, Ashley, because you were served coffee ice cream, which I love. But I only got vanilla."
He realized, with a tightness in his throat, that she had modulated her voice, similar to that of the County Belle who wanted to draw all her beaux to her feet. Was it to get back at him, because he had dared to make her shiver while she boasted that she was totally unaffected by his presence?
With disgust, he caught the widow looking at her with a libidinous air, taking advantage of it to plunge his salacious eyes into her cleavage. He replied, in that syrupy voice always intended for Scarlett, and that Rhett had always hated: "Never mind, my dear. I'm happy to share it with you."
To Rhett's indignation, instead of dropping the damn ice cream on her plate, he handed her his bulging spoon of ice cream, continuing to hold the handle. Without hesitation, the former Mrs. Butler lifted her head a bit to lick the iced coffee off.
Rhett, who had undertaken to light a cigar to calm his ardor, crushed it angrily into the alcoholic watermelon he had not yet touched.
How dare they both?
In another time not so long ago, he would have grabbed that bastard by the shoulder and thrown him out like a piece of trash, whether or not the Old Guard was present, or even Melanie, the poor woman who had been "intellectually" cheated by her husband since day one.
He would have made her tremble, treated her far more savagely than he had on that famous birthday night.
But they would never have dared at that time to display such vulgarity. In front of the husband!
He, corseted in his garb of respectability and hypocrisy, adored husband of Saint Melanie, coveting another's wife with concupiscence, while boasting of being the perfect husband faithful to his wife.
She, blaming him for sharing the bed of whores, swearing, hand on heart, that she had never agreed to a physical relationship outside the sacred bonds of marriage; the marriage she didn't give a damn about, her three husbands never having stopped her from throwing herself lasciviously on the arm of that limp rag, but behind Rhett's back. Always behind his back. Until India Wilkes walked in on them.
How loudly she had proclaimed her innocence then! He doubted it now, seeing them both behave in front of him her husband, like a couple crossed at the brothel, she, licking the spoon of the other with the promise that a treat would follow this suggestive demonstration.
He vaguely heard Taisy clear her throat, felt her gaze on him. She was staring at him, seeming to want to give him a message. She patted her hand discreetly on the tablecloth, as if to soothe him.
This had an immediate effect. He settled comfortably in the back of his chair and took his glass in hand. He stared at the wine, seeming to want to detect its nuances like the best sommelier.
In reality, he was trying to hypnotize himself in this silent observation, to anesthetize his pain; to curb his anger; to crush this violence that only the vision of the slimy blood of the one who had been rotting his life for fifteen years could soothe; to calm this primal desire to make Ashley Wilkes disappear forever from the face of the earth. This man so respectable among his peers, defeated losers like him; so respected by the leeches of Atlanta's good society who were ready to sanctify him while wanting to stone the unfaithful woman; this perfect gentleman so debauched as to want to fornicate with another man's wife.
But she was no longer his wife. He no longer had any rights over her. She was free. Free at last to let herself be openly courted by her great love. Free at last to publicly initiate caresses towards the one who was also now free of all ties, even in front of her former husband.
Rhett felt exhausted. No matter how much he had pretended to be the master of Peachtree Street again, it was a sham. He'd gone back to when he'd first met Scarlett. When everything was still to be built, because he was nothing to her, neither husband, nor beau, nor friend, not even appreciated.
But he wouldn't let go. He promised himself, he would get his family back. And Scarlett.
For that, it was important that he not fall into the trap that Wilkes had just set for him. He could see clearly in his game now. To push him to the limit so that he would become violent and Scarlett would close her door for good.
Taisy asked him about the dances held in Atlanta, which ones he thought were essential to meeting Georgia's finest. Harry listened, attentive as a good organizer of festivities.
When one or the other answered, he could not help but glance discreetly to his right. He could see Ashley gazing feverishly at her, surreptitiously brushing her bare arm, lowering his voice to accentuate his ridiculous cooing, and prove the privacy of their intimate conversation. He could hear the former Mrs. Butler laughing out loud at the nonsense her valiant knight had to tell her, a laugh that seemed to prove to the face of the earth, and incidentally to Rhett Butler, that she had never had so much fun in her life, and that she was finally happy.
He was looking forward now to the end of the evening.
The liquors were quickly drunk. Everyone had had their share of alcohol today.
Taisy was the first to testify to her tiredness and to thank their hostess for the delicate food, the warm reception, and the distinction of the mistress of the house. He noted that Harry prolonged the hand kiss to Scarlett a little too much. A coincidence? A moment of inattention due to the excess of drinks? Or something else? Rhett promised himself to keep an eye on him.
He pretended to settle back down, light a new cigar and pour himself another drink. Signs that he intended to linger.
Even though Wilkes had decided to court Scarlett in a relaxed manner, he certainly felt that the three of them in this huge dining room made the atmosphere a little too heavy. He took his leave, not without murmuring compliments to Scarlett and lightly caressing her bare upper arms. He did not have the impudence to pretend to be civil to Rhett. The two of them only exchanged a brief nod in farewell.
Rhett found himself alone with Scarlett. He sensed her discomfort. She must have been looking forward to getting rid of him, to rush into her big bed and dream of her eternal love.
So he pretended. "Remarkable evening, Scarlett. Everything was perfect, the food, the wine, your guests. I thank you for inviting me. It's time for me to leave you, too. I have somewhere else to be. I'll be back this week to see Ella to begin her apprenticeship. Good night to you."
He did not stoop to beg for a kiss that meant nothing to her. He greeted her as he had done Wilkes, with a simple nod of the head. The hypocrisy of this reception had exhausted him sufficiently for him to cut it short as soon as possible.
Prissy was waiting patiently to undress her. She knew that her employer would not have been able to get out of that formal dress alone.
Scarlett skipped the ceremonial hundred strokes of the brush through her unraveled hair. She was exhausted.
Relieved that Ella's birthday party made her daughter happy. Satisfied that her new friends appreciated her welcome. Reassured that her power of seduction was still having an impact on her first love.
But she went to bed with a bitter taste in her mouth. Her attempt to stir up Rhett's old jealousy of his obsessive rival had failed miserably. He hadn't raised his voice once. Totally indifferent to his former wife's new love life.
"I am expected elsewhere," he had blurted out. She had easily understood where this "elsewhere" was located. In other warm sheets.
She found her people freezing, and took a blanket out of the trunk. She was cold. Cold in her heart.
Notes on Chapter 30:
(*) Charles Aznavour, "And I in my chair" :
"He, he observes you from where he sits, you, it unnerves you, you lose your wits. He, he ignites you with eyes aflame, you, it excites you, you like the game.
And I, in my chair, though I hardly speak, I notice each innuendo. And I, in my chair, I'm stricken with fear at seeing the end so near.
He, out to win you, he woos with style, you, you continue to coyly smile. He, with his quarry on hunting ground, you, only sorry that I'm around.
And I, in my chair, though I hardly speak, I see just how well he's doing. And I, in my chair, I'm trying to hide the dread that I hold inside.
He, his eyes flatter, your glances touch, you, now you chatter a bit too much. He, like a gypsy, he serenades, you, you grow tipsy, your laugh cascades.
And I, in my chair, though I hardly speak, my heart's on the verge of crying. And I, in my chair, my heart understands, love is now changing hands.
No, no, it's nothing, a little headache only. Maybe I had one too many? Well, we'd better go home now. Yes, this was a beautiful evening. Indeed, a beautiful evening. "
English version : Charles Aznavour, " And I in my chair" - Charles Aznavour, watch?v=X-6ysSO3aNw&list=LL&index=3
French version : Youtube, Charles Aznavour, " Et moi dans mon coin " - Mauro Piffero, watch?v=_TKUVUOcBDs&list=LL&index=2
(**)William John Bullock (1832-1882), British puppet theatre director and puppeteer. In the fall of 1873, Thomas Holden went to America with Bullock's Royal Marionettes. He broke away to form his own group. Starting in Philadelphia (March 1874), then moving on to Cincinnati and San Francisco, they toured the cities of the West. Thomas Holden is credited with the archal wire, the vertically striped stage backdrop to make the puppet's strings less visible (source: World Encyclopedia of Puppetry Arts, org -
Disclaimers: I have no rights to the characters and story of Gone With the Wind, which belong to Margaret Mitchell. I create the "world" of Duncan Vayton and Blanche Bonsart.