Note :
Thank you very much for your encouragement - and perhaps your criticism. It is greatly appreciated.
June 13, 1876, Atlanta
The storm was coming. It did not rouse him from his lethargy. He continued to caress the head of the little girl, whose face was protected by the angel's wings. It had been a very hot day, so hot that the turquoise veins of the Carrara marble had turned to a more intense sheen.
Where jet hair should have been silky under his palm, only the impersonally polished surface of the stone benefited from his caresses.
Pathetic..." he admitted lucidly. But, if not, to whom could he pour out his heart of sorrow?
How long had he been like that, slumped against the stele? An hour? Two hours? He couldn't have said.
After leaving Wade and Ella, his footsteps had dragged him to the only place where he could still feel alive. Just a little. Among the dead in the cemetery. Near his beloved daughter. His love. His certainty, the only one he had left, because if not...
The world had just fallen apart. Scarlett to Tara. Vayton to Tara. Scarlett and Vayton at Tara.
There was no more doubt. No more convoluted justification for their closeness, displayed for all Charlestonians and himself to see.
Suddenly, everything became clear, everything was explained! They had officially met in February. As if by chance, at the end of the month, she brazenly informed her former husband that she no longer needed his money, neither for herself nor for the children. Worse, she made the affront of reimbursing him the totality of his alimony.
His former wife's decision to spit on his money - even though she had married unabashedly for his wealth - had shattered Rhett, so incomprehensible and brutal was it. Today, the explanation was obvious: she had had no problem suddenly despising her former husband's dollars. Simply because she had found a more fortunate man on hand: the rich heir to the Vayton empire!
Had he already asked her to marry him? Rhett had to wipe his sweaty brow. Panic was building, slowly, insidiously.
Perhaps they had become intimate even then? It was a behavior contrary to the character of the Scarlett he knew, the one who, despite her mad passion for her "Ashley," had not dared to have sex outside the symbolism of marriage.
But maybe she had decided to break all taboos after their divorce?
They were together now. All day, and evening, and night approaching.
Together in the same bed. It was no longer the nightmarish visions of a sickly jealous husband, but the reality, he would have bet. In a few hours, when Tara's people slept, they would be sharing the same bed. Maybe even her teenage bed that he himself hadn't bothered to know about.
The thought of his wife in the arms of his neighbor made him want to vomit.
Nothing made sense anymore. No hope of ever winning her heart back. Now it belonged to someone else. It was a given that she would be willing to introduce him to her beloved Tara.
Tara... So adored by Scarlett that she had married Frank to pay the three hundred dollars in taxes, which he, a poor fool, had refused to provide out of wounded pride. Tara where he had never set foot, despite the new bride's repeated requests. Deemed too dull, smelling too much of country manure for the sophisticated Charlestonian. How he regretted his shabby attitude, his contempt for the world to which Scarlett deeply belonged! Now it was too late. The other had taken over the place.
And her body... Her body that this impostor would caress tonight. It was he who would undress her, to make her pearly skin glisten. It was Vayton who would admire her perfect breasts, run his finger over the pinkish halo of her breasts. And then he would possess her. Would she moan with pleasure as she had during their last night?
He had to sit down for a moment, for his legs could no longer carry him. He was trembling. He ran his hand over his hair mechanically. It was soaked with sweat.
Finally he stood up, feeling the physical need to touch the stone to communicate with the small body trapped under the slab. His two loves were gone. Gone forever...
The lightning burst. He muttered, "Thunder of Georgia ..." A torrential downpour flooded the earth of the cemetery's walkways in a matter of minutes, slamming down on Rhett's shoulders, targeting the felt of his hat, dripping around the leather band, soaking his suit with warm moisture.
The sky had darkened. When his view was obscured by the curtain of droplets spilling over the brim of the hat, -or was it because of the tips of his drowned lashes? - when the letters engraved "To my cherished daughter" blurred, he decided to finally detach himself from his ominous haven of peace, to return to the aggressiveness of the city, under hordes of rain.
The rumble of thunder had subsided, and the storm had moved south. He thought, with bitter satisfaction, that it would not be a good idea to take a moonlit walk this evening around Clayton County.
June 13, 1876, Tara, Clayton's County
"Imagine! Twelve venerable oaks surrounding, in an almost perfect circle, a mansion with its white columns, so harmoniously proportioned that it looked like a Greek temple. In this plantation, all was elegance. The magnificence of the Old South. I had dreamed that one day-" She paused.
"What did you dream back then, Scarlett?"
Her face turned wistful: "To become its mistress. Oh, that was just a teenage fantasy."
"Whose little paradise was this?"
"To John Wilkes. In later years, his son, Ashley, would become its master."
Duncan sighed. Always that Ashley Wilkes...
Scarlett swept the horizon sadly with a gesture: "The Yankees burned it down. Like many of the plantations in the county. Or they've ransacked them. I showed you earlier the properties of our friends. Little by little, they are proudly raising their heads above water. But poverty has affected many of these families who were living in opulence. You experienced the same earthquake in South Carolina, of course. But, fortunately, Tara was saved!"
Since that morning he had noticed that whenever she mentioned his plantation, her face lit up. Even her voice became caressing and soft, as if she were talking about a dear friend.
"From what Mr. Wilkes reported, it was you who saved Tara. I'd like you to tell me what happened."
"I am sincerely touched that you are interested in my house. Let us go home, for it is getting late. I will tell you the story of this tumultuous episode before dinner."
He had slipped his arm under hers, and they were now walking around the building.
From the beginning of their buggy ride, Duncan had been trying to focus on the stated purpose of his visit, to observe the restoration efforts of the antebellum homes.
But the mere proximity of her warmth and her bewitching scent made him plunge back into the ecstasy he'd experienced only a few hours ago. His mouth was still reveling in the taste of the thin skin of her neck under his tongue.
Oh, how easily he would have satisfied his burning desire quickly by pressing the young woman against a tree, or in the grass, or in the buggy, so craved was he to possess her-if the object of his lust had been any girl or married woman. But this was Scarlett. The only Scarlett O'Hara.
He only allowed himself to tighten his embrace around her arm so that the fabric of her dress brushed against him at every step they took.
"This wing was partially set on fire by a Union soldier who was displeased with the orders received by his superior. Even Melanie, who was so weak after giving birth, helped put out the flames. In the house, you will no longer find any trace of the paintings that lined the walls and the fine china and earthenware belonging to my mother. These objects of art reflected the refined lifestyle she had lost when she left Savannah. Valuable furniture was confiscated, others vandalized. This is a lesser evil because it is only material goods that can be replaced. But what about the human soul when the people of Tara witnessed the desecration of our ancestors' graves and the slave cemetery in search of valuable relics?"
Scarlett paused for a moment to calm herself as the memories flooded in.
"God! Were you present at that time?"
"No, I was a widow living with my first husband's aunt in Atlanta. I can assure you of one thing, Duncan: until my last breath, I will hate the abject human wreck that stole my mother's rosary. Damn him to hell!"
Duncan was impressed by Scarlett's vivid fury as she recounted events of almost fifteen years ago. And amazed by the myriad sparks that flashed from her green eyes.
She pointed to the outbuildings formerly used for slaves, which had been burned down, and since rebuilt as housing for the plantation and house employees.
They passed the stables and barns, and then came to a large stretch of carefully tended land.
"This vegetable garden is the result of the physical labor of Will Benteen, my sister's husband. It allows the farm to feed all our employees and family year round. The orchards below have the capacity to provide enough fruit for Jonesboro's largest produce business. The cattle, hog and sheep herd is growing year after year. Will has set up a distribution network - under my direction and strategic assistance, I concede - which enables us to sell our meat at a profit, while taking care to keep the prices reasonable."
"Bravo! What a renaissance!"
Nodding, she cast a circular glance around her. "Now close your eyes and visualize what I found when I returned from Atlanta. There's nothing left. Not a single head of livestock, no more fruit hanging from the trees, their stumps ripped out for fire, no more tools to work the land, the pantries emptied of everything edible, the granaries looted of every last seed, the vegetables excavated from the ground in such a way as to leave only the smallest root remaining..."
Duncan was concerned when sweat beaded on her forehead. Her chest heaved frantically.
She stared at him feverishly, "I remember it like it was yesterday. That fateful night... Atlanta was on fire. The Confederate army had given up and decided to retreat further south. Before abandoning the city, they burned the food and ammunition depots to prevent their looting by Sherman's Yankees who were approaching. There were five of us, terrified, myself and four helpless beings: my little boy of two, Prissy, my servant, more of a burden than a help, poor Melly at the end of her tether, and her baby a few hours old."
Duncan sympathized, "You were so young yourself, Scarlett, barely out of your teens. Surrounded, but so alone to face this hell."
"I understand your astonishment. Yes, that day I swung into horror. I was nineteen, and scared to death, because I was carrying on my shoulders the responsibility of delivering Ashley's wife. Rhett got us out of that fiery inferno wall, by stealing a half broken carriage pulled by a horse too old for having been looted. And then he left us."
The mere mention of his neighbor in Scarlett's past irritated him. "Are you saying he abandoned you on the way?"
He noticed her grimace.
"It is useless to explain why. When we finally arrived, and I saw the silhouette of my Tara in the distance, untouched, I told myself that the nightmare was over. But it was only the beginning. My mother had just died the day before of typhoid. My father had lost his mind. The house had been the headquarters for Union troops. That's why it was still standing. But it had been stripped. They had set fire to the entire crop of our cotton, stored in the barn since the blockade because unable to be shipped to England."
Duncan realized Scarlett was giving him a great gift by confiding in him. In an attempt to comfort her, he stroked her back with a back-and-forth motion of his hand.
"In one day I was orphan of mother, and, in reality, of father too. Everyone in the house turned to me, crying for help, as if I was the only one who could find the magic solution to save them. It was all complaints. My sisters were the most vocal: Scarlett, what are we going to do, we have to eat to get over the illness! Wade tried to be brave, until his little body gave out on him. He begged, "Mama, I'm hungry! Dilcey, Prissy, Mammy, and even the valiant Pork, were wailing, "Ma'am Scarlett, we are hungry!
She nervously dug up a carrot.
"I remember one night. I had taken my meager ration and given it to Wade. I was so hungry... I came to this garden. I scraped the earth with my bare hands, until at last my fingers found a rotten root which I crunched raw and smudged with dirt..."
Instinctively, she put her hand over her stomach. Duncan had a vision of her eating appetizingly at the restaurant.
She looked at him defiantly. "I took action. With the exception of Melanie, who was not recovering from her delivery, I forced everyone to harvest the poor cotton plants that had escaped the vicious destructive urge of those brave soldiers. Even my two sisters who had barely recovered from typhoid. They hated me, cursed my cruelty for turning these pampered damsels into forced laborers. The few slaves who had remained faithful to us revolted against me, because I forced them to do manual labor that was degrading for domestic workers. As for my father, he threatened to tell my mother because I was nagging those around me to work hard, and it was not proper in keeping with good manners..."
A flush of tenderness carried him to her, "You did the right thing, because you saved them from death, my dear Scarlett."
She justified herself aloud, "Yes, I had to. I didn't demand anything more of them than I had to do myself. I worked harder than an abused slave on a bad plantation."
She took off her gloves and scanned the soft palms of her hands. "They were nothing but sores, cuts and blisters at that time." She paused, looking away, other memories seemingly resurfacing. Then she nodded her head in denial, pushing those thoughts from her mind.
"Our hard work was rewarded, for we succeeded in raising a few hundred pounds of cotton bales, enough, we hoped, to buy some food and seed."
She quipped, "But no, I guess we hadn't paid our dues enough. A small Yankee detachment again set fire to our only hope of survival... But I did not give up. For a reason too long to explain here, I found some money that allowed us to buy new cotton plants. Then... That's another story..."
Duncan was overwhelmed with emotion. He held her close. "I am deeply touched that you have deemed me worthy of hearing this tragic tale. My brave Scarlett... I have such admiration for your tenacity. All alone, so young, responsible for so many mouths to feed... And you did it. Look around you!" With a sweeping gesture, he pointed to the plantation resurrected from nothingness.
She moved away from him a little. "It's true, thanks to my sawmill purchased after my second marriage, I've managed to keep my people from starving, and the crops growing again. But, if Tara is now regenerated, it is to Rhett's generosity and fortune that I owe it."
June 13, 1876, 7 p.m., Atlanta, at "A Girl of All Seasons."
Business was looking good, even more profitable than on an ordinary Sunday. The main lounge was already packed. And the evening had barely begun! Thanks to the storm!
Gentlemen, and those who were less so, seemed to have found a pretext for the torrential downpour to take refuge in Belle Watling's famous saloon.
The poker players were rubbing their hands together. They would have no trouble harpooning inexperienced pigeons and skinning them to the last dollar. Familiars of the establishment were engaged in heated political discussions, as fiery as the trees in the adjoining park that had been struck by lightning. Lonely drunks drowned their sorrows in alcohol, feverishly watching for the waitresses to pass by to steal a pat. Upstairs, the rotation of clients in the girls' rooms was already starting, while the respectable gentlemen had not yet left the Sunday table set by their wives. Decidedly, the warm Atlanta rain was an invitation to seek out the boisterous promiscuity of Georgia's most famous pleasure spot.
She was sitting at her favorite vantage point with a boy from a good family who had just come of age and was slumming. He had indicated his preference for redheads. It was a good thing, the tawny hair of the owner of "A Girl of All Seasons", thanks to an effective dye, still attracted many admirers. Why not have some fun with him tonight? He was young, far too young, almost a virgin from the shy look on her widely exposed chest.
Yes, he was distracting enough to awaken in her the pleasure of the senses, largely dulled for years. Three to be precise.
She looked at the newcomers. Some of the faces were unfamiliar to her. That was good. It was necessary to rejuvenate her clientele to keep her status as the most fashionable brothel in Georgia!
Then she froze. That face was not unfamiliar to her. Oh, how much!
She could have blindly traced the wrinkles that had deepened, year after year, on his forehead, the bitter creases marked at the corner of his lips, and his mouth, his mouth... In the depths of darkness, she would recognize among dozens of others the man's build, the hair on his chest that had gradually grayed, the looseness of his stomach, a sign of overindulgence, the same as his love handles that she had clung to so hard to try to keep him... His long, muscular thighs that encircled her in a pincer movement. And… and...
Her breathing became excited. Tame your midget heart, Belle! That's when she really looked at him.
He had not seen her. He was standing in the doorway, looking absent, a stranger to the surrounding agitation. She recognized the white suit he liked to wear, especially when he was planning to go out with the other one, she remembered with resentment. It was soaked. Traces of mud stained the hem of his trousers and the thin leather of his shoes.
She had the reflex to signal to one of her "girls" to take care of her shy client who seemed happy with the exchange. Then she stood up.
Taking care to sway her hips exaggeratedly, Belle Watling approached Rhett. Like a praying mantis ready to devour its prey.
"Good evening Rhett!" The modulation of her voice was meant to be seductive. "The Saloon missed you. I missed you."
With a possessive gesture, she put her hand on the lapel of his jacket, near his chest. It was at that moment that she realized that he was trembling.
She looked at his haggard expression and said, "Rhett! What's wrong? Are you sick?"
He did not answer her, so she bade him, "Follow me." Naturally, she slipped her hand under his arm and quietly led him away, careful that regular customers who knew the dashing Rhett Butler would not notice his odd behavior.
He still hadn't said a word, which intrigued Belle the most.
When she reached her chambers, she ran her fingers over his forehead and noticed that he had a fever. "You're burning up. Rhett, you can't stay in those wet clothes. You'll catch pneumonia, if you keep this up."
With authority, she relieved him of his hat and damp jacket, and made him sit in the chair that had welcomed him so many times.
"You forgot some clothes in your room. I'll get you a clean suit."
Not waiting for an answer from him, she retrieved a key from a drawer and entered Rhett's former domain. When he had left Atlanta, financially freeing himself from the Saloon, she had not had the heart to use the room for other purposes. A way perhaps of not coming to terms with the fact that he was gone forever.
The clothes Rhett had left behind had been properly stored in the wardrobe. She chose the summer suit that was hanging, checked with an expert eye if the size of the trousers was big enough, because she had noticed when she had met him at the florist's that he had gained weight.
When she returned to her room, she saw that he still hadn't moved. His head leaned back, his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes closed, his expression was not at all serene.
What was he thinking? Or rather, who? It's not a mystery," Belle admitted. There's only one person in the world who can put him in that state.
She shook his shoulder. "Rhett, please! Do something! Here are some dry clothes. I'll help you get undressed."
Her heart pounding, she knelt down, remembering much more intimate moments... His waterlogged shoes were promptly untied. She was going to dry them as best she could.
When she began to unbutton his sleeveless vest and then his shirt, he grumbled. For a brief moment, the cabaret owner wondered if he was drunk. No, it wasn't that, he didn't smell of alcohol.
Tenderly, she dried the wet hair on his chest with a towel. How was it possible to still desire him with such intensity? She wanted him. Madly.
She cleared her throat, "Rhett, you can't keep those pants soaked. Get up, please, and get rid of them.
He obeyed obediently, appearing to be in a trance.
She helped him unbuckle his belt, so much his fingers were trembling.
He wavered. In a pasty voice he said, "I don't feel well. I feel hot. Everything is spinning around me. I'm hot..."
"You're exhausted, Rhett. Come lie down!" She helped him to the bed. The bed he knew the slightest creak of the metal springs of the box spring.
For a moment, Belle looked at him, mesmerized by the scene: Rhett Butler, back in my bed!
Her practicality took over. She fetched a wet towel, then maternally moistened his lips and sponged his forehead in an attempt to lower his temperature. Then she demanded that he drink a glass of water, all without the slightest protest.
In the silence of the landlady's soundproof apartment, lulled by the enveloping caress of his former mistress on his forearm, he gradually sank into a lethargy.
Belle rested a careful hand on his forehead. The fever had risen again. Accustomed to the animal heat he gave off, she was distraught at his scarlet complexion. His body was burning up. Perhaps she should send for the doctor who attended to "her girls"?
After a few minutes of quiet sleep, he began to stir, turning his head from side to side, a prisoner of his dream. A stream of incoherent words escaped from his crimson lips. In his ramblings, he stammered something, but the sound was so held that she had to bend over.
Of course! she exclaimed when she realized: "Scarlett! Pronounced timidly. Then he grew bolder, and it was a plaintive melody in the form of a poem. "Scarlett, my sweet, my love!" In a low voice, for his brain too forbade itself to utter this declaration, so long buried in the depths of his heart.
Belle rebelled. Listening to the man she continued to love harp on his love for this bitch, in his state of semi-consciousness - sweet words that he had never given her, the consoling mistress - was simply unbearable!
Hell, he's the one who wanted a divorce! Lately he's been telling me over and over that their marriage disgusts him. So why does he keep whining? But, of course, she was still attracting him by the tail!
Her blunt words made her feel better. Because it was the sad reality.
Belle Watling forgot her maternal concern for her former lover's health, and let her sixteen-year hatred of her rival run wild. Sixteen years that that bitch had been poisoning her life, forbidding her to enjoy Rhett alone.
She would have liked so much to remove from their existence the famous day when he had met this pest! On his return from a barbecue in the countryside, he had told her, like it was nothing, that he had met a very young girl, without giving any other details, for once.
She had barely raised an eyebrow, so accustomed was she to her lover mentioning his new conquests before her, with the vanity of a predatory male. In fact, it added spice to their sultry relationship.
Belle, selling her body to whoever wanted it since she left childhood, had not the audacity, the idea not even having occurred to her, to claim the slightest exclusivity from her lover.
As soon as she met Rhett's dark eyes for the first time, she knew she would be willing to die for him. And then everything changed with the birth of her child. A troubled time, which ended the day Rhett decided, as a gentleman, to take the boy under his wing as a tutor. There followed happy years when they were bound together by sex. Rhett could be away for weeks at a time. He always came back to her, just as passionate and greedy.
She saw a succession of flings... They only lasted for a few nights. For, as soon as the pleasure of discovering a pretty naked body was exhausted, whether it was that of a virgin or a respectable lady whom he had enjoyed corrupting, he always returned very wisely - or rather ardently - to the bed of his mistress in title. The one with whom, she was convinced, he would eventually "settle down".
After the hell that "Miss O'Hara" had put them both through, now at last he was back in Belle's bed! But so was his shrew! Nothing had changed: tonight, through his unbridled unconsciousness, Rhett Butler was crying, in the lap of the too-understanding mistress, his eternal love for this ungrateful woman.
Finally, she made an effort to silence her resentment, and became attentive again as he gesticulated more and more.
The whispered mawkishness gave way to laments. No!" of revolt alternated with "It's over" that he moaned, like a wounded animal. The word "Tara" came between.
Why Tara? Belle had heard him speak of Scarlett's plantation in mocking terms. He swore to her that he would never waste his time visiting farmers in the dull countryside of Clayton County, let alone spending a night in that ridiculous, classless building, so ill-proportioned that it reminded him of a white elephant. So why was this Tara haunting his hallucinations?
And what did this defeatist litany mean? What was over? Belle was intrigued.
It would soon be three years since his marriage was officially over. She suddenly remembered the two bouquets he was holding at the florist. One was probably intended for his poor daughter. But the other? For Scarlett? Of course, always for Scarlett...
She pressed herself against him and tried to calm him down, murmuring reassuring words while patting his forehead. But the "Hush!" and other "It's all right!" were not as successful as expected. On the contrary!
His delirium became aggressive. Filthy insults came out, like lashes from a whip. Stunned, she distinctly heard "Bastard!" "Son of a bitch!"
But who was he talking about? Wilkes? That Ashley Wilkes again? That rival who obsessed him, the more or less official lover of his unfaithful wife, and against whom he had fought for years, in an unequal battle, as futile as tilting at windmills.
What had the widower of that saintly Melanie Wilkes done to enrage him so? Perhaps he had finally decided to ask his sister-in-law to marry him? Belle glimpsed the gates of heaven at this prospect.
She suddenly felt all of Rhett's muscles harden. His head wobbled even more. He bent a knee to tap the mattress with his heel. His arms flailed. It looked like he was about to strike an invisible enemy.
But what did he say?
With rage he belched, "You Vayton bastard! I'll kill you!" This threat stunned Belle, for it was incongruous in the mouth of a Captain Butler who was usually impassive under all circumstances.
He joined the gesture to his vengeful words and raised his arms to lower them heavily, with rage, fists clenched, to better strike the fatal blow to his opponent. Unfortunately for Belle, instead of the mattress, the violent impact fell on her thigh. She let out a cry of pain.
Tomorrow she should mask her swollen skin with ointment.
He continued to hurl insults at this Vayton.
Vayton... I've heard that name lately. Suddenly, the mystery was clear. It was in the paper about "Miss O'Hara"'s exploits in Charleston. The pretentious Scarlett flaunting herself on stage like a common clerk in her dress shop. In full view of Charleston's respectable families. Charleston, home of Rhett.
What had been the reporter's comment? Oh yes, she remembered. They had been amazed at the elegance of the 'Thunder of Georgia' – She, who destroys everything she touches, it suits her well, commented Belle.
What did he call her? "The muse of the American Prince of Fashion".
Vayton - Duncan Vayton...
For the experienced woman who was the proprietress of the famous "A Girl of All Seasons", Rhett's inflammatory reaction had just been justified, at least partially.
To trigger such a jealousy crisis, his former wife had not been content to play fashion representative with the famous couturier. She had finally stopped being a minx and shown herself for what she really was, a bitch who flitted from one rich man to another. Everything was explained. Well, almost... What was Tara doing in this story?
Duncan Vayton... The sketch of the designer's face, published in the article next to dear "Miss O'Hara", had intrigued her. A feeling of "déjà-vu"...
Curious, Belle bought a women's magazine published in New York the next day. Three pages were devoted to the tailor, with many details on the innovative style of the Haute Couture creations of the artist who had become famous in Paris. The story was enhanced by several engravings of his masterpieces, along with another portrait of the Charlestonian.
Those features were familiar, she was sure.
Her job required her to be a physiognomist, to instantly identify regular customers, problem consumers, bad payers, quality people who needed to be pampered... Suddenly, Belle remembered.
That's why the image of the stranger in the newspaper attracted her. She had already seen him, met him, and talked with him in her Saloon! He had even introduced himself...
Huge blue eyes, wavy blond hair, and a body... so appetizing she'd immediately dreamed of tasting it. Dressed in sophisticated fabrics, far superior to the outfits worn by the wealthy men of Atlanta's good society. She had just understood why: the famous Prince of Fashion, in person, in this place of debauchery.
She racked her brain to recall their conversation. She'd pulled out all the stops for him, with a bottle of champagne to welcome him. From his accent, she guessed he was from Charleston.
The mention of this city, where her lover was hiding, made her ramble a bit. But transfiguring reality and sticking her own dreams to it, had done her good. The handsome Apollo had encouraged her, moreover, by showing himself particularly attentive when she evoked "her friend from Charleston".
By what mystery he had learned of the existence of the mistress of his "muse's" former husband, she would never know. Though it was not very difficult, if one was interested in Rhett Butler's life, to link him with Belle Watling...
She was convinced of that. His coming to her brothel had only one reason: not to seek female companionship, for he had rejected her offer. No! He'd wanted to find out about Rhett Butler. And, unknowingly, she had served him lies on a platter - which he had had to take at face value, having no reason to doubt their credibility.
Belle's sharp memory kicked in. She had said, in a boastful way, something like this: "my friend, to whom I am very close..." - No doubt Duncan Vayton had put a name and a face to that appellation-"had asked me to move in with him in Charleston, and I'm ready to accept..."
What possessed me to say such nonsense? How many drinks did it take for me to formulate such fantasies? In any case, he probably believed it, convinced that the other Charlestonian was ready to officially replace the former Mrs. Butler with Belle Watling.
What was he planning to do with this false information? Use it against Rhett, no doubt. Had he ever mentioned it to that "saintly" woman?
Belle interrupted her thought, for she was unable to analyze its scope, as her lover lay beside her in her own bed.
The patient's last fit of rage had driven off his excess adrenaline. He seemed to relax at last. His breathing resumed its normal rhythm.
For the umpteenth time, Belle checked his temperature. It had come down. The expression of his rage had had healing properties for the former blockade breaker's resilient metabolism.
Reassured, she succumbed to the temptation to lie down beside the one she had long considered "her man". His steady breath was such sweet music to her ears that she dozed off.
When she woke up, the portable clock on her bedside table read almost ten o'clock.
The nap had perked her up. Rhett snored. His face, crimson with fever, had regained its natural complexion.
The fear that he was really ill faded. Finally, she could enjoy the intimacy she hadn't even dreamed of two hours ago. Rhett in her bed. So close.
With the unexpected appearance of Duncan Vayton in the life of his Thunder of Georgia, hope was reborn in Belle. Rhett Butler didn't have the right cards in his hand to fight this new rival. The Scarlett was smart enough not to pass up such a great match. Rhett would sink into depression again.
And she, Belle, would be there to comfort him.
If she moved finely, she would succeed in luring him back to her bed, but not just to sleep in it this time!
This prospect was so pleasing that she could not resist any longer.
Her expert hands brushed the birth of his neck, progressed gently to his chest, stopped on a nipple to excite before attacking the second. Emboldened, they twirled to the folds of his belly to the cord of his boxers. She held back from venturing even lower. It was really not the proper time.
But, in ordinary times, the body of her lover, so receptive even in full sleep, would have already reacted to these lascivious cuddles. With regret, she did not see the shadow of a small erection. Where was the tireless stallion that had made her swoon so much? It is because he is not well, she reassured herself.
However, the erotic touching finally woke him up. His frowning eyebrows showed the greatest astonishment.
"Belle? What am I doing here?" as he scanned the room, then the bed, then herself.
She explained documantly, as if to a child: "You felt bad, and you even had a little delirium attack. Why, Rhett? Tell me what's wrong."
He ran a hand through his hair and rubbed his eyes. He spoke, or rather thought aloud, "I'm in a nightmare." Then he admitted to her that he was powerless: "I'm not going to make it, Belle. How can I go on living now?"
As usual, he comes crying to me to repair the damage she caused... She was tempted, for a second, to send him to the devil, and answer that it was well done for him. But the reflexes of unconditional devotion over twenty years, took the first place. She had to play the role of the understanding confidante, to become indispensable to him again.
"What did she do this time?" Speaking her name was superfluous.
He closed his eyes. Perhaps to hide the reality from himself. The intonation was hesitant: "She's in Tara with a man." Then, pretending to laugh, "Isn't that funny? While I'm in this bed, with you, she's sleeping with my neighbor!"
Belle hadn't expected this. This time, the scandalous O'Hara had exceeded her expectations! She feigned indifference, "Your neighbor?"
He chuckled cruelly, "Yes, my neighbor in Charleston. The house next door to my mother's. She didn't go far to find her new lover."
"In your delirium, you said the name Vayton. Is it Duncan Vayton?"
"So you, too, have heard of the famous, the talented, the artistic, the immensely wealthy, the most respected Charlestonian, the perfect son, the handsome, young Duncan Vayton! Ah, my Scarlett deserves only the best, doesn't she?" His tone, intended to be mocking, broke at the end on a sob he could not suppress.
"Rhett..." Cajolingly, she ran her ringed fingers over his cheek to show her understanding. Her other hand began to frolic towards his hips, inexorably making its way to where his body always betrayed him.
But, with a sudden gesture, he threw off the arm of his former mistress, got up quickly and left the bed.
The prostitute was speechless, offended. She had never been rebuffed in such a way.
Meanwhile, Rhett had recognized his summer suit lying beside the bed. He dressed nervously, having some difficulty buttoning his shirt and tying his shoes.
Clearing his throat, he said, clearly embarrassed, "Thank you for the suit, Belle. I'll send for the other one tomorrow. I'm grateful to you for looking after me. It's time for me to go."
Still staggering, he left the room, without a glance behind him.
Belle poured herself a large glass of whisky. In the solitude of this large room, she cursed, for the thousandth time, the one through whom the misfortune had come.
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.