The Princess of Cleves #06

The Prince de Cleves had put off his visit to Paris as long as he could, but it was necessary he return tomorrow. Rosalind would be alone, as it would not do for the Chevalier to attend his wife in his absence. Everyone knew of the Chevalier's love for her, and enough comments were made about the fact that he was welcome at all. He would have to hope for the best. Before, he had fantasized about being a cuckold and a spy to his hypothetical wife's illicit affair. Now his heart was tight with jealousy, even as the thought still excited him.

He was getting ready to retire. Rosalind was already in her dressing gown, reading. It may have been his imagination, but he thought he saw the tapestry twitch. He turned away to hide his excitement. There was no doubt, that if the Chevalier was indeed hidden there, he would have seen the direction of the Prince's gaze. It was one thing for the Prince to know the Chevalier was spying on them, but all the fun would be ruined if the Chevalier realized this was his intention. He stood behind his wife, and began combing his fingers through her hair. She turned to him, smiling. When she saw the look in his eyes, she blushed.

The Prince knelt in front of her, and brought her sex to his mouth. There was a residue left on her lips. The Prince looked up at her. "What have you been doing today?" he asked.

Her face turned red.

"Is that why the library door was locked, again?"

Her neck colored as well.

"Were you touching yourself?" he said, rubbing his cheek on her thigh. "It is a sin, Rosalind."

"I...I did not think it mattered, now that I married," she said.

The Prince smiled. "I had not thought of it in that way. Can you show me?" he asked, taking her hands. Her pale fingers began to stroke her moist sex, and the Prince became so engorged it was painful. As she touched her little bud, the Prince began to lick her, then thrust his tongue into her womb. He started as a hot liquid washed over his face. Rosalind was panting, and he pulled her forward to touch his tongue to her anus.

"What are you doing?" she asked, but as his tongue flicked over her, she fell back limp. Her fingers again began to work at her sex. With one hand she massaged her womb, with the other she gathered the folds of skin around her bud and rubbed furiously. This time, she jerked and grunted. The Prince could feel her entire groin contracting and releasing; her asshole fluttered on his tongue.

Painfully aroused, he lifted her from the chair and threw her on the bed. When he pierced her, she was tight, and it required patience to work himself into her. When he took her, it was with a fury that belied his gentle nature.

Behind the tapestry, the Chevalier de Guise was holding onto his phallus, working the tip of it. He was using his own seed to lubricate his hand. Surely the Prince knew he was here, and this was a show for him. Never had the Chevalier conceived of pleasures such as watching a man ask his wife to touch herself as he knelt in front of her as if at prayer.

The Prince watched Rosalind, and the Chevalier watched him watching. He almost spilled his seed upon seeing the surprise on her face when her husband kissed her anus. It was her orgasm, which was to ugly too be feigned, that made him come. She grimaced and uttered cries like an animal. With her husband's ardor after that, his lithe body moving over Rosalind, he found himself again excited.

The Prince finally came, and the Chevalier came again. In the throes of his orgasm, the Prince had turned his head, his eyes on the crack in the curtain. The Chevalier thrust himself into his hand, knocking his head against the wall as he felt his entire being leave his body through one tiny hole.

Now, he would curl up, and fall asleep leaning against the stone. When he awoke a few hours later, the Prince and Princess would be sleeping. He had a queer dream where the curtain twitched open and an eye peaked in. It felt to be about two in the morning when he awoke. He shuddered, an unlucky hour to be about. The manor around him creaked and he jumped, there was the rustle of mice and his heart stopped. His neck was sore, as it often was. He needed to find something else to occupy his time. As he thought of the past hour, he found himself overcome, and snuck into a room to stand in front of the fireplace and touch himself. After that, he scurried away.

While Rosalind slept deeply, the Prince tossed and turned. He had gotten up to look in at the Chevalier and found him gripping his knees to his chest, somehow asleep cuddled against the wall. The Chevalier's eyes flickered, sage touched his nostril, and the Prince crept back to bed.

He laid beside his wife, and matched his breathing to her's. He felt guilty about what he had done. Had his wife discovered the Chevalier crouched behind the tapestry, she would have become apoplectic. A blankness settled over his mind when he contemplated the scene after this: the Chevalier implicating the Prince for providing him with his hiding spot. Of course, if it ever came up, he would deny it. It was not like she was entirely innocent, for lately he saw in her signs of a grief and unrest not caused by her mother's death.

His breath stopped for a moment. If his wife had an affair, she would be unable to reproach him for encouraging the Chevalier to spy on them. It would please her as well, to have the love of this nobleman, to be caressed by him. And he could watch. Sometimes he caught glimpses of the Chevalier creeping around, and he was beginning to understand how the man went about unnoticed. Had he not been looking for him, he would have never seen the figure hidden behind a curtain, crouching behind a chair.

He was getting himself ready the next morning, and was surprised to find the Chevalier waiting for him. They bowed to one another.

"Tell me Chevalier, how may I help you?" the Prince asked.

"I thought I would accompany you to Paris."

"Ah, well, as you wish then," the Prince said. Despite himself, he felt his cheeks flushing red. He tried to hide his agitation from the Chevalier, but the man was too shrewd.

"Did you sleep well last night?"

The Prince pressed his handkerchief to his face. When he looked at the Chevalier, he found a wicked grin on the man's face.

"You are not very subtle Prince. I wanted to thank you for your performance last evening, and to let you know how very handsome you were," the Chevalier said.

The Prince did not know what to say. He had not thought about the Chevalier watching him like he watched the Princess. They had a silent breakfast together, the Chevalier smiling at him.

In the Chevalier he found an unexpected friend, and a source of sexual excitement. He wondered what his hands felt like? What would he feel to creep into a room with him to spill their seed into the ashes side by side?

As the Prince's cheeks grew ruddy, the Chevalier found himself growing hard. Never before had he acted in collusion with someone to spy. He felt a special bond with the Prince, the only person to whom he had confessed his secret, and probably the only man in court who would not challenge him to a duel after such a revelation. He slumped into his chair, placing his foot alongside the Prince's. They maintained that small area of contact throughout the meal. The Chevalier was enthralled by the way the color red crept all over the Prince's face.

* * * *

Abandoned by both her husband and her Chevalier, Rosalind paced the garden with her little dog at her heels. They would return by tonight; she would not be left overlong with her thoughts. Looking around the garden, she stuck her hand behind the statue and was disappointed to find nothing. Perhaps she could compose a letter to the Marechal. Hearing a rustle behind her, she turned, and nearly screamed to see the Duke on the path.

He immediately dropped to one knee. "Forgive me, but I fear if I do not spend a minute in your presence, I shall die."

She was about to proclaim this nonsense, but then she saw how haggard he had grown, how his beauty had faded: the only thing left was his crooked smile. "If you must, but not here." He looked up in wonder as she took his hand and led him to a bower. "We will not be seen here. This is very improper you know."

The Duke began kissing her fingers. Suddenly, he thrust her hand inside his jacket, holding it to his chest. Leaning forward, he rested his cheek against her's. His skin burned.

"Feel this, feel my heart beating beneath your palm." He pressed his hot lips against her cheek. "It is your's Rosalind." He took her in his arms, and she swooned against him. He covered the nape of her neck with kisses, pulling her close to him.

The Duke's mouth was like a hot coal moving up and down her throat. If she did not remember to breath, she would suffocate.

Finding her so pliant, the Duke held her face and trailed his lips everywhere. When he reached her collarbone, that she had drenched in attar of roses, she spoke.

"Please, please stop," she whispered.

He slid to kneel by her feet as she hid her face in her hands. Somehow, their lips found each other. Their tongues joined and writhed. Rosalind embraced him, and the Duke wrapped his arms around her waist. They were both shaking with desire. She would not deny him.

He pulled away from her to catch his breath. "Do you know when you return to Paris?"

She shook her head. "Soon, I think."

He looked up into her eyes, and they shone at him. "When you return, we will arrange a tryst there."

She nodded. The Duke's eyes had that dull look like one does with a fever.

He laid his head in her lap and nuzzled her legs. One hand crept up her thigh, and she opened her legs so he could touch her sex. He pressed his face to her skirts, inhaling her scent as he caressed her. She stroked his hair, and when she came, he felt her hands close in fists. He sat back, and gazing into her eyes, licked her moisture from his fingers.

Her cheeks flushed bright red. She dabbed her face with her handkerchief.

The Duke reached up to take it. "May I have a love token?"

"Yes, but not a handkerchief. I have already lost one." She felt in her pockets, and pulled out a thimble. "Will this do?"

The Duke laughed. "Yes, my love, that is perfect." With the thimble clenched in his hand, he slunk away.

She sat on the bench for half hour, her heart pounding. When she thought her feelings for the Duke were abating, she found herself alone with him. How fragile he looked, how lovesick for her, pining away. Courtly love was just as her mother had told her, only Madame de Chartes had always spoken of the joys in a flat monotone, and of its sorrows with great vigor.

With a pang of guilt, she rushed to her bedchamber. Wetting her handkerchief with some toilet water she dabbed her temples and the back of her neck. She first sat at her desk, then laid her head on it.

Dear M.--

I have not heard from you yet, though it has only been a few days since I wrote. I should be more patient. My husband has gone to Paris for the day, and I am without C--. I met D-- in the garden. We kissed, and he touched me. I feel guilty and ashamed now. There is to be a tryst when I return to court. How I wish I could tarry longer in the country. I wondered how I shall write to you there, and I think I will just stick my letter behind a statue and hope for the best. I'm sure your man is clever enough to find it.

The weather has been perfect. Lily likes to lay in the sun while I read in the library. I leave the windows open so I can enjoy a breeze.

I hear things go well on the battlefront, and that you will soon be home. I look forward to your return, and even your overly familiar greeting.

R--

She sealed her letter, scented it, and put it outside. Surely the Marechal had received her first letter by now. She pictured him sitting in his tent, breaking the seal, inhaling the fragrance. Around him there would be the blast of canons, the snort horses, the murmur of men. That was as far as her mind went. When she thought about men, standing there as muskets fired, falling, bleeding on the ground, she felt faint.

At a loss, she ran to her room and fell into her bed. It was the afternoon, she would not have to wait for her husband much longer. She thought of the Duke, of her letter to the Marechal, and she began to weep. How many ways could she find to betray her husband? As she cried, she remembered, there was something between the Prince and the Chevalier.

She had heard rumors about men with other men. Her cheeks colored at the thought, but still, when they looked at one another, she knew that expression, desire that stretched between them. It was a strange desire, and not something that they felt for her. She sighed, and picked up Lily. The little dog licked her face, and she watch the sun move across the floor.

At five she sprang from bed and began to pester the servants about dinner. She had three places set, for her, for her husband, and for the Chevalier. The servants had told her how the Prince ate with the Chevalier and left quite early that morning.

At seven, she was sitting at the table, ten covers waiting. At seven thirty, she had a glass of wine. When it was eight thirty, she started to nibble at the tepid roast. As the clock struck nine, all but one of the servants retired, and she ate. The food was cold and congealed, the texture repulsive. Half of her plate she left untouched. At least she could go to bed now. She opened her window, and a fragrant breeze from the garden blew in.

She was half asleep when a noise startled her, and she realized the Duke de Nemours was peeping in at her. She was furious.

She leapt from the bed to the window. "Get out of here," she whispered.

"Rosalind, your husband is occupied in Paris and I..."

"I don't care. Leave, now."

He reached out to take her hand, smiling. "Do not be so angry," he said, and he jumped up to sit in the casement.

Incensed, the Princess pushed him off. He landed on his feet, a look of surprise on his face. "Go, or I'll scream," she said.

The Duke began to cry, little hiccups and sniffles.

She sighed. "You may come in, for a minute, but I am not in the mood--"

He rushed to her and cut her statement short. "No, that is not why I came. Go, lay in bed, and I will sit in a chair, and we will talk."

For an hour, the Duke whispered to her, Lily sitting on his lap. He charmed her; in the light of the fire, his cheeks looked ruddy, and his eyes sparkled. His wicked grin sat proudly on his face. It was as if their earlier meeting had restored him to health. When the Rosalind's eyes closed, he kissed her cheek, paused to inhale the fragrance of roses, and slipped away.

* * * *

As the Prince rode home he fretted about his wife. The Chevalier rode with him, and comforted him, much as he did with Rosalind.

Mme. de Tournon had passed away, and the Prince's friend Sancerre had gone mad with grief. He had left Sancerre in the care of his brother, but he knew he could no longer put off returning to Paris. It would necessary to fetch his wife from their retreat. His mood was somber, as Sancerre had told him a troubling tale about the recently deceased woman.

"What is it Prince that makes you frown? Is it that you will no longer be able to keep the Duke de Nemours from your wife?" the Chevalier asked.

The Prince scowled. "I had not thought of that. Instead my mind was on a different affair."

"You will be with your wife soon; I am sure you will feel better then." The Chevalier chattered on as they made their way home.

Rosalind had woken early. She picked at some food and was wandering around the halls, half expecting the Duke to spring from some corner. She heard the clatter of hooves and ran to the door.

The Prince was just dismounting when she flew into his arms. She did not reproach him, but her tears felt like an accusation. The Chevalier was left standing with the horses as the Prince led his wife inside.

The Prince waited for her to calm down before he began his explanation. "The Madame de Tournon unexpectedly passed away yesterday."

"Oh no! But she was so young, how awful."

The Prince's face took on a hard look. "Please, do not weep for that woman. As you know, she spent many years mourning her husband. By accident, I found out that she and my friend Sancerre were in love."

Rosalind took her husband's hands, troubled by his dark expression. "What happened?"

"One day overheard the Mme. de Tournon repeating a bit of gossip I had told Sancerre under the strictest vows of secrecy just the night before. When I confronted him, he confessed everything to me." His bright blue eyes clouded over. "I found her insistence on keeping the affair secret worrying, but he was happy. He proposed they marry, and I found that foolish, but she agreed." As he spoke, he stroked his wife's fingers. "When she began putting off the wedding, I urged Sancerre to ask if there was not some reason for this hesitation."

"Pardon my saying so, but Sancerre was not an appropriate match for her."

"No, you are right and I told him this. He even said he found her attitude toward him had grown cold. I urged him to discover the truth." For a moment the Prince became silent, lost in thought. "I would want my mistress to be honest with me, even if it meant she confesses to loving another. He must respect her sincerity, for it is a great virtue; he did not want to hear this."

Beside him Rosalind felt her heart flutter. Did her husband realize her love for the Duke? Did he wish for her to confess it to him?

"She again reassured him of her love. When I first arrived in Paris, I found Sancerre prostrate with grief. I left, and when I returned I found him insane with rage." Frowns kept pulling his lips down as he spoke. "Etouteville had visited him, and unaware of his relationship with Mme. de Tournon, he revealed that they were to be married. She had even convinced her father to order the match, so she would appear blameless in the eyes of Sancerre." He sighed, shaking his head. "The duplicitous woman had even forbid Etouteville to speak with Sancerre about the matter. It seemed she fell in love with Etouteville at the same time Sancerre perceived her cooling toward him."

"That is awful," Rosalind said.

The Prince turned to look in her eyes. They shone with love, but it was not for him. Sancerre had been torn with grief and anger, and the Prince knew too well the rend of such ambivalence. On one hand he found himself very jealous of his wife, and on the other, he wished for other men to see her, to enjoy her.

Could the lightness in her face be from a visit from the Duke? Or could it be her secret correspondence with the Marechal? He was very surprised when the Chevalier had revealed to him how she had hid a letter in the garden which was retrieved by the Marechal's lackey. There was the Chevalier, he had ample opportunity to woo Rosalind.

The Prince decided that it might be best not to think so much. He bend down to kiss Rosalind, and she responded eagerly. He took her to their bedroom. Glancing at the tapestry, he did not sense the Chevalier's presence, and he was disappointed.

He made her stand as he ducked under her skirts. He nipped at her thighs, and she giggled and danced. Laying back on the floor, he pulled her hips down, smothering his face with her sex. As he tongued her bud, she began to undulate over him. His face would emerge from her lips and he would gasp for air. He grabbed her waist, and thrust his tongue inside her as she became more heated. When she came, his mouth was filled with a hot liquid. Now, he bent her over the bed, and took the hard tip of his phallus and rubbed it on her anus.

"Prince, what are you--"

He cut her question her short by taking her. Her womb was tight, but wet, and he forced himself inside her. He felt his sex touching the very back of her womb and she moved her hips to meet him. He could not last long, and soon spilt himself inside her. They lay together for a moment. "Love, I am afraid we must return to Paris soon."