Free Mata Hari's Last Dance by Michelle Moran Page B

wood . . .”
    â€œStunning.” He opens his eyes. “Jeanne, how long were you planning to keep this creature from me?”
    â€œAs long as possible.” She winks at me.
    â€œYou are terrible. A woman this beautiful should never be hidden.” He’s still holding my hand. I take it back and Jeanne offers him a seat, but he refuses.
    â€œI’m afraid I am meeting someone,” he says. I wonder if it’s a woman. “Another time. Where are you staying, Mata Hari?”
    â€œWith me.” Jeanne smiles, and I know what she wants him to think.
    â€œOh.”
    â€œIt’s temporary,” I say. “I have an apartment.”
    He reaches into his pocket and hands me a card. His name and address are printed on the front. There is also a number. I have never been given a card with a number. I thought that only lawyers used these.
    *    *    *
    I don’t call Givenchy. When I return from my stay with Jeanne, I call Guimet instead, knowing that’s what Edouard would want me to do. He is hesitant at first, but I am all sweetness and honey with him on the phone. “I will make it worth your while,” I promise.
    As soon as he arrives, I regret this decision. He’s dressed in an overcoat and hat. He removes neither one when he takes a chair in the salon.
    â€œSo tell me about your performance,” he says.
    I sit opposite him, crossing my legs so that the silk of my dressing gown parts along my thigh. “It was nothing like the performance I gave for you.”
    â€œThat’s not what I heard.”
    I try to turn the situation light. “It’s true. There were only women in this audience. How boring! Can you imagine?”
    â€œNo. I cannot. Why anyone would want to spend time with the Comtesse de Loynes I cannot imagine.” He emphasizes the word comtesse to indicate he knows how she came by the title. “I thought you had better judgment, Mata Hari.”
    â€œNo. Apparently not. Good night, monsieur,” I tell him.
    Guimet stands, affronted. No woman, I’m sure, has ever spoken to him this way.
    â€œPerhaps I will see you when you’re in better spirits,” I say. I don’tsee him out. I disappear into my room and when I hear him shut the door, I call Givenchy.
    â€œI’ll send a car for you,” he says.
    *    *    *
    The marquis is similar to my aviator at the Rothschilds’: slow and tender. He makes love as if the two of us have all the time in the world and nothing is more important than my pleasure. I know he has had women hundreds of times before, but there is something in the way he holds my gaze that lets me believe that none of his other women have mattered. It is us—only us. This is why he’s the most eligible bachelor in France. By the time we have finished our last glass of wine the sharp memory of my fight with Guimet is only a dull recollection; it means nothing.
    Perhaps Guimet senses this. The next evening before I’m finished dressing for the night a large package arrives.
    â€œMata Hari?” the delivery boy asks.
    â€œYes.”
    He holds out a box with a familiar logo and a single printed word: HERMÈS . I take it inside and unwrap a cashmere shawl and gloves. The note inside is signed by Guimet. “I’m sorry,” it reads. I am trying on the gloves and wrapping myself in cashmere when there’s a knock at the door. Guimet! I open it at once but Givenchy is outside.
    â€œNot a good time?” He looks past me, thinking he’s caught me with some other lover.
    â€œNo. Come in.” I take him into the salon. Guimet’s note and the box from Hermès is still on the table.
    â€œA gift?”
    I shrug. “They come sometimes.”
    â€œI imagine it’s more than sometimes.”
    I see he’s carrying a box as well. It’s small. Jewelry? He holds itout for me and I unwrap it