The Image (2 page)

Thinking back, as I waited for her on the ter race of the Royal, I couldn't remember having seen her act differently with anyone else. She was very uninhibited, however, sure of herself, reckless, and purposefully scandalous. But she instantly discouraged any sentimentality as well as, for that matter, any more down to earth proposals she might have the honor of receiving.

On at least one occasion I happened to be present at the execution of one of her suitors. I thought I could discern, at the time, a sort of loathing in the icy, merciless way she did away with him. The scene shocked all of us, back then, for it involved a handsome boy, not without sensitivity or intelli gence who, the rumor sometimes went, had been her lover.

It was little Anne whom I spotted first coming toward me.

She was wearing the same white dress as the evening before. In order to get by the other customers without disturbing them she wriggled her way between the tables and chairs, raising her arms, swinging her hips like a pretty little dancer. When she finally reached my table she greeted me with her same curtsy, rather ceremonial, the kind they teach to children in religious institutions.

And her voice, too, reminded me of a well-behaved young schoolgirl.

“She is here, Monsieur. She is waiting for you in the car.” This pronouncement astonished me, not only because Claire's name hadn't even been mentioned, but also because of the extraordinary respect she gave to the word “Monsieur.” I got up to follow her. Claire's car was parked at m little distance, in the rue de Rennes. Before reaching it I had time to ask the girl several casual questions, but all I could get out of her was

“Yes, Monsieur,” “No, Monsieur,” or “I don't know, Monsieur,” as though she were a child.

The car was a brand new 15 CV Citroen. Anne opened the door for me, and I said hello to Claire, who was sitting in the driver's seat. She didn't an swer, merely gave a little nod of her head. I helped Anne in, and then got in myself and sat beside her on the front seat where there was just enough room for three people.

Claire started off at once, driving calmly and precisely. In spite of the heavy traffic she made good time, and soon we were out on the less congested boulevards.

It was a beautiful day. Neither woman said a word but just sat, staring straight ahead. Anne held herself erect, her legs pressed together, her hands clasped on her knees.

I had squeezed over next to the door so as not to take up too much room, and put my left arm be hind the girl along the top of the seat. In doing this I accidentally brushed against Claire's shoulder, and she instinctively pulled away. I hastily removed my hand.

Turned, as I was, toward my neighbor, I became aware of her perfume. It was discreet enough not to attract attention, except by being utterly unlike her. But it did seem strong, compelling, very musky, what is usually called sensual, I believe, and certainly not the perfume for a young girl in any case.

I remarked that it was a beautiful day, not speak ing to anyone in particular. No one answered. We drove on in silence. I didn't really feel like talking anyway.

We left the car at the entrance to the park, and Claire led us to the rose garden. Once there, instead of letting us wander from flower to flower, Claire made us look at the three or four varieties that she admired the most, knowing exactly where each one was. They were all the same type of flower: large, but not very full, with curled-back petals each quite separate from the other, and a center, or heart, that was still partially closed.

The most beautiful of all, according to our guide, was of a delicate flesh color, darkening near the center where the half-opened petals formed a deep pocket of shadow, making the center appear to be of a much more intense pink.

After a few moments' contemplation, Claire took a quick look around us. We were alone in this deserted part of the garden.

The nearest people were about twenty yards away, not looking in our direction, evidently absorbed in a much grander display of roses.

When I turned again to my two companions I saw that Claire was no longer looking at the flesh-coloured rose, but at her friend who stood, as though frozen, at the edge of the flower bed, her eyes lowered as usual, less than a yard from the flower. I was standing a little back, next to Claire. I looked from the young girl in the white dress to the flower, and back at the girl again.

Claire, beside me, broke the silence.

“Go over to it.”

It was a command, given calmly, with no reply expected, by one who is accustomed to obedience. Yet her voice seemed different, lower and more vehement than when she was simply ordering us about the garden or comparing the merits of the various roses.

Anne seemed to know just what was expected of her. After the slightest hesitation she glanced at us to make sure that, where we were standing, we shielded her from the more frequented parts of the garden.

“Come on, hurry up!” Claire told her.

She took a step into the flower bed, her narrow shoes and high heels sinking into the loose earth. I hadn't noticed before what delicate ankles she had. What one could see of her legs was equally admirable.

“Now, go ahead,” Claire ordered.

Anne held her right hand out toward the half- opened flower. Very gently she ran her finger tips around the outer edges of the petals, partly closed, barely touching their tender pink flesh.

She ran her fingers several times around the closed, heart, very slowly. Then she delicately spread open the inner petals and closed them again, using all five fingers.

When she had, in this fashion, spread wide and closed again the flower's center two or three time's, she suddenly thrust her middle finger deep inside it, where it almost disappeared entirely.

Then she withdrew her finger, very slowly, only to plunge it in again as far as it would go.

“She has pretty hands, don't you think?” Claire asked. I agreed. In fact, her hand was very pretty indeed, white, little, fine-boned, moving with grace and precision.

Claire was speaking in the same aggressive, cruel tone of voice of the evening before, in the cafe. With a look of disdain she gestured toward the young girl, who was still attentively caressing the interior of the flower.

“She likes doing that, you know. It excites her. I can prove it to you, if you like. At the slightest provocation she gets all wet.

Isn't that right, little one?”

There was no answer.

“All right, that's enough,” Claire told her. “Pick it, and bring it over here.”

Anne withdrew her hand but then stood motion less, her arms held stiffly at her sides.

I turned back to look down the path we had taken, off the central walk, but nobody was coming in our direction, or paying the slightest attention to us. Claire went on, in an even harsher tone:

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

“I don't dare,” said the young girl. “It's not allowed.” One could hardly hear her, she was so afraid of saying the wrong thing. Claire gave me an ironic smile, making sure that I was aware of the stupidity of her protégée.

“Of course it's not allowed... neither is walk ing in the flower beds... or touching the flow ers. There's a big sign, at the entrance to the park.”

Then, more softly, as a mark of sympathy, she added:

“Nothing that I like is allowed either, you know that.” Anne started to reach for the flower's rigid stem but quickly drew back:

“I don't know how to do it,” she said all in one breath. “And besides, all those thorns.”

“Well, you'll simply have to get scratched,” Claire said.

The girl reached out toward the flower's rigid stem, seized it between her thumb and forefinger, and snapped it off. Then she jumped backward and rushed over to Claire as if she were a refugee, holding her trophy in her two fingers.

Separated from its plant, the rose seemed more beautiful than ever. It was perfectly shaped, and the delicate texture of its flesh made one want to feel it, or bite it. Claire condescended to voice her approval.

“Very good. And you see, it wasn't so hard after all... But of course you will be punished, for having hesitated just a little bit too long.”

The girl did not dispute this, merely lowered her eyes and blushed in a charming gesture of submissiveness.

I asked, “What are you planning to do to her?”

“I don't know yet. But rest assured, she will be punished in your presence.”

Anne raised her face, shaking her head, her eyes full of fear, no doubt wanting to plead for clemency. But her expression changed suddenly and she whispered:

“Some people are coming.”

“Well, then, let's be off!” Claire said, indicating the other part of the path.

The girl, who had been hidden from the new comers by Claire and me, wheeled around and we fell into place on either side of her.

We continued our walk, three abreast, at a leisurely pace.

Anne, in the middle, held the rose against her breast. Since there was no one in front of us, no one could detect her crime.

As we passed the mutilated rosebush Claire said to her young friend:

“Look, do you see your footprints?”

Indeed
,
the imprint of two high-heeled shoes was clearly visible in the loose earth.

We continued our walk, a little faster now.

We soon came to a sort of grove, or thicket, more or less closed off from the rest of the gardens, and completely deserted.

Since it was bare of flowers we thought that perhaps here we could find some privacy.

Set back against a dense mass of foliage there were two iron garden chairs which looked fairly comfortable. Claire settled herself in one of them, and waved me into the other.

“Sit down, Jean,” she told me. Then, when I hesitated, “The little girl will have to stand. After all, she has to think about where to hide what she has stolen.”

Accordingly, I sat down. Anne stood in front of us, elegant and straight in her pretty white dress dappled with sunlight, still holding, both hands against her heart, the flower she had picked.

Her eyes were lowered.

We looked at her for a long time, Claire and I.

The cut of her skirt showed off her hips and the slenderness of her waist. Under the top of her dress, with its wide bateau neckline, one could tell she was not wearing a bra. Or was that just my imagination? Claire returned to her subject:

“That rose must be hidden.”

It would have looked beautiful against her breast. She could simply pin it to her dress and pretend that she had been wearing it when she arrived. Unless, of course, the sign also said you were not allowed to wear flowers in the garden at all. I pointed out some very thick underbrush on our left:

“All she has to do is throw it in there. No one would ever find it.”

“Yes, obviously,” Claire said, thinking it over. “But it would be a shame to lose such a beautiful flower. Don't you agree, little one?”

“Yes... No... I don't know,” the girl an swered.

After a moment of thought, Claire, who was studying her friend carefully, announced:

“It's very simple; you'll just have to hide it somewhere on you.”

When the girl didn't seem to understand, since she was neither wearing anything with pockets nor carrying a handbag, Claire was more explicit.

“Under your skirt.” She quickly went on, “Here, you'll see.

Come over here.”

Anne went up to her.

“Lift your skirt,” Claire ordered.

At the same time she took the rose from her hands. Anne leaned over to catch the bottom of her skirt and turned the hem up, to show it to Claire, lifting it up to her knees. Claire burst out laugh ing.

“No, no, little idiot. You're supposed to lift it
all
the way up!”

Anne blushed again, and stole a quick look at me with her wide green eyes.

Then she looked to the right and to the left. She must have been reassured that we were in a relatively safe spot: even if someone came along he couldn't tell what we were actually up to.

She turned back to us, holding the edge of her skirt in her hands, and exposed her legs to just above the knees, two round smooth knees on which the stock ings were barely visible.

“Hurry up,” said Claire.

As though lashed by a whip the girl, in one motion, revealed her thighs to us. Her full, pleated skirt was ideally suited to this operation; one could have raised it up to her face with no trouble at all. The thighs were round and firm, and very pleasingly proportioned. Above the discreetly embroidered tops of her stockings the radiant silky flesh, white and dazzling, was a startling contrast to the narrow black satin straps of her garter belt.

“Higher!” Claire directed, losing her patience. Little Anne gave me a look of complete despair, this time waiting to see what my answering look would be. Never had her eyes been so beautiful, deep and somber, suffused with terror and surren der.

Her mouth was partly open. Her breasts swelled with her quickened breathing. Just below her waist her hands, which held up the pleated skirt of her dress, were far enough apart from each other to afford an ample view.

As I had thought the night before, she wore no underwear at all, just a simple garter belt of black lace. The short golden pubic hair appeared under this graceful arc, with its narrow little ruffle.

The pubis itself was rather prominent, nice and soft, plump, small but inviting.

Again I sought her eyes, but she had closed them. She resembled a sweet and gentle victim, calmly waiting to be sacrificed.

“Well,” Claire asked me, “what do you think of it?” I replied that it all certainly seemed most agreeable. The design embroidered in black on the tops of her stockings, delicate leaves intermingled with tiny roses, I thought was a particularly charming touch.

Claire raised her left hand, which still held the flower, to the curly pubic hairs and stroked them with the petals. Then she showed me the thin, red dish green stem, about six inches long: