Monday, August 17, 2009


It’s still warm outside as the sun begins to wane. I open the beveled glass windows to allow a breeze to run through my bedroom. Like so many Parisian apartments, this two-century old building, encompasses a courtyard. If the draperies are pulled back one can get a glimpse of any neighbor in
the building. About half of the other windows are open, as well. I assume the others remain closed because the occupants have left Paris in the mass exodus of August.

I pick up a book to read when out of one of the windows comes the enchanting sounds of a bow sweetly caressing the strings of a cello. A violin joins in shortly thereafter. The book no longer holds my interest. There is something more romantic about the music being heard. The two musicians are undoubtedly practicing for a concert, but my mind begins to wander creating an additional storyline. I grab a pen and paper and begin to write it all down.

As I look around the apartment which holds so much history, I begin to see how it must have looked when the first occupants lived here. Its 18-foot ceiling with elaborate crown molding accentuate the grandeur of the space. The wood floor has had many who walked upon it over the previous twenty decades and I wondered how many stories these walls carry and if they will ever unlock their secrets.

I move back in time and visualize its first owner as an 18th century pre-revolutionary aristocrat. This is the meeting place he has for himself and his married lover for their seductive rendez-vous. She had been given a key and is awaiting his arrival.

Not that there hadn’t been plenty of offers over the years for an extramarital liason, considering this woman has a particular wit that is only surpassed by her beauty. However, she had never done anything like this before and she could feel the butterflies dancing in her stomach. She had long since decided, after all, she would go through with it for she didn’t love her husband—she never did.

It was announced to her at the age of  sixteen that she would marry a duke. It was her obligation. So, she walked down the aisle knowing very little about her betrothed. It didn’t take long before she grew to detest him. Now, at the age of 25, she had met the one man whom she truly loved and she wanted to experience for the first time what making love was really like.

She stood looking out the window at the pink roses blooming. She thought how their color matched her silk dress. He had said how he loved seeing her in this dress, so she made certain to wear it for him. She had her maid lace her up that morning a little more tightly than usual to show a bit more cleavage than she normally displays. In her mind she pretended this was her real wedding day. She was glowing. She couldn’t have looked more radiant.

Her lover was a musician; not by trade, but rather as a hobby. The seductiveness of his playing is what first captured her attention. He carried his violin wherever he went. His friends never tired of hearing his artistry. He played with such joie de vivre, she couldn’t help but want to know more about this man.

He had gained a reputation in courtly circles as a ladies man—the quintessential dragueur. His sensuality was not reserved merely for his violin. He may not have been a titled man, but because he had his own fortune, inherent good looks, and his unchallenged talent for the violin, his lack of a royal title never seemed to impose upon him in any way.

The king adored this man’s tales of seduction, but he would have become irate had he known what he was about to do with his youngest married cousin. This had to be kept a secret. While this man had broken many hearts in the past, this woman had conquered his own heart for the first time in his life. She was the only one he wanted now and forevermore, no matter what the cost.

He sneaks up the back stairs to the third floor of the Marais apartment and as soon as he closes the door behind him, he begins to play his violin. She hears him from the other room. She closes her eyes and smiles as she takes in a deep breath. He is finally here. The time has finally come. She couldn’t contain her bliss. She continues to wait by the window in the boudoir for him as he slowly maneuvers his way back to her. With each passing moment, they both become more and more entrenched with desire.

The music grows louder as he approaches her and she can not help but be entranced by every note. He is only a few inches behind her now and he can not wait any longer—nor can she, the anticipation is too strong. He wraps one arm around her waist and with the other he takes his fingers and tenderly strokes the back of her neck. She turns around to meet his gaze. They peer into one another’s soul as they kiss for the first time.

The music coming from the other apartment stops at this moment as does my pen. The story I created in my mind is over. I arose to thank the musicians for their glorious playing which gave me my titillating story. Alas, while out on the balcony, I could not see them from my vantage point. They were no longer near the window. I imagine further that the two musicians got just as caught up in the romance of the music as I did and had to continue their passion in another manner. I only hope they practice again on another day.

…Just another moment in Paris.

Thank you for reading and bonne journée!