L.

[4.] Acts of War

I have had houses given to me. I have lived at the pleasure of others. It is quite another thing to live at one's own pleasure.

My house in Paris, I miss it, and I resent being made to give it up.

It was two floors, and the first with a wide inner room leading off into the back room and forward in the foyer. The foyer was made up for sitting in, and the back room for dining with a long table. Both had rather large windows.

The inner space was without light for most of the day, and contained Dasius's secretary desk. The desk had drop down leaves and locked hidden drawers. A good-sized room, it used to contain a grandfather clock given to me as a gift, though Dasius put it in the foyer because of its ticking. 

On the right of this inner room was a small bedroom, and on the left a larger one with a floor to ceiling window. This window had been fitted with the largest, clearest glass panels. 

Upstairs there was a small ballroom, or drawing room where we kept things in storage, and small, empty quarters in a row. There was an attic but we did not use it. There was a sewing salon inside, and it locked. 

We mostly lived on the first floor, but it was very quiet on the second, so sometimes it was nice to sit up there. I often sat there alone, looking down on the street. We were at a three way crossroads, with a view down the approaching road. Everything was cobblestones, and there was very little ambient sound, so one could hear coming and going from far away. 

Perhaps I am a frivolous person, but not without wisdom. Change comes unheralded.

Marie had arranged for the house to be put into my name in an effort to secure me in the event of his death. For a long time, I had been in possession of an identity on paper -- quite without stain. 

The house was good, but not too good for someone like me.  

Marie left the furnishing to me, waving me off any further financial assistance. I did not need it anyway. But because of that, the house was somewhat bare for a little while. 

In that time, feeling wounded, I was living in very close quarters with Dasius. His poisoning me had introduced something vicious and dangerous in our affection, and I found sleeping beside him thrilling because I could not find it terrifying. Who was he all of a sudden? No longer my young man. I kissed him often, but he pretended not to care about me. He began to wear nicely tailored pants and wore his stockings well, and kept his hair always set prettily. I often held his hand while he read to me at night. In the absence of open war, there is often the appearance of peace, and with the passage of time, one grows accustomed to such a state. But one does not forget.

In the deepest part of the night, I always went out. In those days, the best parties went until daybreak, and no one worth seeing came until the witching hour. That is when I went. 

There was a network of young dandies who gave such parties, hoping to become influencers. The fetes were given for this or that grand person in houses not their own. I only went if I recognized names, and I never gambled or chatted with young lotharios. Such men are a danger to themselves and others. Unpredictable even to themselves. They possess no sincerity. 

Most of those I did consort with went by pet names. My parrot. My leopard. My lily. It was good fun, and even better when they came knowing what I am, and willing to play. My flesh. My water. My life. 

But, when the hours grew long, I grew weary and dim. 

By then, I had known Marie, my Marquess, for half of a century. 

He had weathered much. The loss of reputation, after the war. The Regency, forcing him into retirement. The loss of his children, and later, his wife.