Devious Vows: Arranged Marriage

Mafia Romance (Luciano Mafia Book 1)

Aj Wolf
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 Devious Vows
Copyright © 2023 AJ Wolf

Cover Design: Graphic Escapist

Formatting: AJ Wolf Graphics
Editing: Rumi Khan

All Rights Reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including
photocopying or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief
quotations used in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, plots, and incidents are a product of the author's imagination or have been used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental. The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked
status and trademark owners of all word marks, products, music/lyrics and brands mentioned in this work of fiction.

For more information: ajwolfauthor@gmail.com

 Content Warning
Cheating (NOT between main characters), some blood/torture, expeditionism (sex in public places)
You’ve always been mine.

—
TABLE OF CONTENTS
COPYRIGHT
CONTENT WARNING
EPIGRAPH
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
COMING SOON
MORE BY AJ WOLF
ABOUT AJ WOLF
 PrOlOgue

I remember it like it was yesterday.

The day I met Remy Oliver Luciano.

Truthfully, I had known him years prior—did my best to avoid him and his crude behavior—but
this particular day was when I really met him.
Snow dusted the yard, frozen footprints and a snowman sat outside the kitchen window from the
day before. Christmas lights still hung along the stair banister, twinkling around decorative pine cones

that smelled like cinnamon. The new year had just begun and I was stilling living off the high of the
holidays.
Because my father works closely with the Capo Famiglia as his consigliere, it wasn’t uncommon
for us to go to the Lucianos’ for their over-the-top parties and gatherings, so when my mother had laid
out one of my prettiest gowns and told me to get ready for dinner I thought nothing of it. When she
fussed over my hair to tame my curls I rolled my eyes and allowed her to. And when she told me to
add gloss to my lips I did so without argument.
I’d spent countless hours on the Luciano estate, I knew their property as well as my own. I played

with the youngest Luciano, Delaney, who was only a few years younger than me. I spent my summers
reading books and skipping rocks in the back pond with the oldest Luciano, Gavino. Capo Famiglia
was always kind to me despite his reputation, and his wife spent every Tuesday at brunch with my
mother.
The only Luciano I didn’t spend a lot of time with was Remy, the oldest legitimate child of Capo
Famiglia and the future Capo Famiglia. Where Gavino was kind and comfortable to be around, Remy
was moody and dark like a storm cloud. He had a weight on his shoulders that he carried since the
day he was born, a future made for him before he had yet to live. He was foreboding and in the few
interactions I had been forced to have with him, intimidating. He was cold to anyone he didn’t deem
important enough to let into his world; he was exactly what you’d expect the future Mafia boss to be.

And someone I had zero interest in being around.

The announcement came in the middle of dinner. It had taken me years to ever want to eat beef
Wellington again after that. I still remember the way my heart had stopped, how I’d dropped my

silverware, the way my cup had spilled my sparkling cider across the pristine white tablecloth. I can
still feel the tears that had clogged my throat when I’d politely excused myself from the room and how
loud my chunky heeled shoes had sounded as I ran toward the pond the second I was out of sight. But
what I remember most, what I can feel most vividly, was how he looked at me.

“We are happy to announce that Remy Luciano and Beverly Esposito are arranged to be married
after Beverly’s twenty-first birthday.”
Everyone had cheered. Everyone smiled and congratulated.
Everyone but me.
Everyone but Remy.
The look he had given me was enough to haunt my nightmares for weeks after. So dark, so angry,
so disappointed.
That’s what hurt the most back then. Knowing that I wasn’t what he wanted, that having to marry
me was disappointing.

Not even the comfort of the pond could give me solace that night. My hands and toes had nearly
frozen I sat out there so long, my tears clinging to my icy cheeks. If it hadn’t been for the soft glow of
the solar lights, I never would have seen the black swan near the edge of it, her long neck curled as
she watched me sob on the shore. It was atypical to see them so early in the season, atypical to see
them at all around the area. But I didn’t care about any of that because for a moment I had forgotten
about the arrangement watching her large, beautiful feathers in the dark. I sat in awe of her for longer
than I can even remember now, my skin covered in gooseflesh and my nose numb to the cold. I don’t
know what had made me do it, but with freezing fingers I inched closer to the water’s edge, my arm
stretched, fingers reaching to touch her smooth feathers.
 That’s when he had shown up.

With his brooding eyes and angry touch he had yanked me back, effectively scaring off the swan in

a swarm of splashing water and feathers.

His touch had brought me back to reality, one I didn’t want to be in, and I lost the last of my

composure. In a fit of frozen limbs and lace, I had fought his hold as he tried to shake some sense into
me. But one phrase had struck a nerve, one that continued to sting for years after.
“You’re mine.”
A phrase he never let me forget from that moment on. And one that I hated for so long.

One that I hated, until I wasn’t his.

 Chapter One
BEVERLY | 12 YEARS OLD

“Are you excited?” Julian’s voice chimes beside me, a slight crack in the question that makes my
lips twitch.
Puberty can be such a bitch.
“For?” I ask, despite knowing the answer. It always drives my brother crazy when I play dumb.

A soft puff of breath blows over my cheek as he huffs, his finger lightly digging into my side as he
jabs at me. “To see your boyfriend, of course.”
Even though I knew the teasing was coming, I still feel my teeth bite into the inside of my cheek. “I
have no idea who you’re talking about,” I say simply, raising a brow at Julian as his hand moves to
poke me once more. I speak up before he makes contact with my ribs, “Touch me again and I’ll break
your finger.”
His teeth flash, hazel eyes bouncing from me to our mother as we follow our parents toward the
party. He knows how much my mother hates public disturbances, and unfortunately for her, my brother
and I cause them often.

I narrow my eyes at him in warning, but he doesn’t care, quickly moving to tug at the end of my
hair instead. I catch his wrist before he pulls back, squeezing tight enough his lips thin around his
smile. “Stop freaking touching me.”
“Beverly Hunter Esposito! Let go of your brother, right now!”
Giving Julian’s wrist one more hard tweak, I drop his hand and start walking again, his low
chuckle at my back. How my mother always manages to catch me doing things and never my brother is
beyond me.
My eyes find hers but only briefly, nearly rolling out of my head at the sight of her clutching her
chest at my behavior. She’s always ever so dramatic about everything I do since the arrangement was
announced.

Bile coats the back of my throat at the thought, and I hurry past my parents, Julian hot on my heels

as we go through a set of French doors leading to the party. His shoulder bumps mine and I eye him.
“Why do we even have to be here? I hate these stuffy old parties.”

“We don’t have to, Bev. You do,” he says absently, smiling at every girl we pass, fingers waving
when they bother to return his gaze. “Any party being thrown for the future boss is considered
important enough for you to show up, I guess.”
My lip curls into a grimace at the mention of “the future boss”. In an attempt to deflect from the

curdling of my gut, I snap at my brother, “I can guarantee that those older girls don’t care about a
twelve-year-old like you.”
Snorting, he bumps my arm as we get to the backyard, pushing hard enough I stumble down the
slight step. “Don’t be a buzzkill, Bev.” He smiles at my responding frown, tucking his hands into the
pockets of his slacks as we find a spot to stand near the edge of the yard.
Looking over all the overly dressed heads, I let out a heavy sigh, already hating the party before
it’s truly even begun. My eyes fall back on my brother’s freckled face, one that matches perfectly with
mine. We are identical in every way: dark hair, hazel eyes, and cheeks dotted with freckles that
darken in the summer sun.

Where we differ is in our personalities. He enjoys parties and people and I’d rather be home, the
only people surrounding me very much fictional.
My eyes flit from one person to the next, a snake of anxiety swirling through my chest with every
one that doesn’t belong to him. “Is there at least some sort of entertainment or are we just expected to
walk around and pretend we want to be at this crappy party?”
“Se non vuoi essere qui, vattene.” If you don’t want to be here, leave.
It’s just above a whisper, but the voice bangs in my head like the crack of a cymbal. I spin on my
heel, intending to smack the owner of the voice away from me, but my arm is caught before it makes
contact, a dark honey gaze sneering down at me. He allows me to yank my arm back and I fight to
stand my ground despite the hard, angry thumping in my chest telling me to run and hide.

Remy Luciano.

Three and a half years older than me and the bane of my existence, Remy has a knack for finding
me in any crowd. My entire life has been spent trying—and mostly failing—to avoid everything that

has to do with or about him. All chances of escaping him disappeared at the beginning of this year
when I was privileged with the right to be arranged as Remy’s future wife.
I cried for an entire week when I found out. And if I allow myself to think about it even now, I can
feel that lump growing in the throat, scratching like rusty nails.

Remy is cruel and rude.

Like a bull in a china shop he wrecks everything around him with his bitter words and harsh touch.
Set to be the next boss of the Sicilian Mafia, Remy gets away with just about everything. His
callousness looked upon as a trait worthy of a future boss instead of the concerning personality flaw it
truly is.
Remy’s almost black hair shines in the glow of the hanging lights, a small tattoo flashing from the
collar of his dress shirt. Despite only being fifteen he already has quite the collection of tattoos, an
obsession I doubt he plans on stopping anytime soon. His honey eyes are still narrowed on my face,
the dimple marking his cheek telling me just how much he loves the look of disgust I’m giving him.

“As if I’d be here if I didn’t have to be,” I finally say, my fingernails biting into the palm of my
hand. I want the comment to hurt him, to make him feel bad that I don’t want to see him, but it appears
to have the opposite effect as he hums with amusement.
“Why are you so snippy all the time, baby Bev? Don’t you have anything nice to say to your future
husband?” he asks as he takes another slight step toward me, invading my space even more in an
attempt to intimidate me.
“Don’t. Call. Me. That,” I hiss through my teeth, choosing to ignore his last comment. My hands
shaking with the effort it takes to stay chest-to-chest with him. It’s not that I’m afraid of Remy, per say,
but my body’s natural instinct is to flee.
 He’s the predator and I’m the prey.

“Or what? You’ll throw a fit? Hit me?” He reaches out to lightly tug the end of my hair, curling the

dark strands through his fingers. I bite my lip to keep myself from pulling away from him—he’d only
make a bigger scene if I did.

“One of these days, I’m going to slap the stupid dimples off of your stupid face,” I snap once his
fingers retreat. Tears burn behind my false bravado, my heart thumping angrily at how easily Remy
can rile me up. Julian snorts at my retort, sucking his lips between his teeth to hide his smile when my
eyes narrow his way.

As always, my threat bounces off of Remy with zero implication that it bothered him. He’s never
as affected by what I have to say as I am by him.
“Wow. You really have a way with words. Is your mom homeschooling you, baby Bev? Is that why
you’re so weird?” His eyes meet Julian’s over my shoulder when I glare back up at him, one of those
stupid dimples of his mocking me.
He knows I’m not homeschooled.
We go to the same school, all the Mafioso kids do.
“You know what, Remy?” I wait until his eyes are back on my face before straightening my spine
to spit my words at him in the cruelest tone I can muster. “Freak you.”

The smile on Remy’s face has started to turn dark, a glint of angry annoyance making his grin look
like wolf’s teeth. “I’m sure I misheard you, baby Bev. Want to try again?”
My hard swallow just about gets stuck in my throat, my fingers pinching the fabric of my dress at
my sides. I know I’m letting this get too far, especially here at this party, but I can’t back down now.
Not without looking like a coward, and that’s just not something I’m willing to do. “I meant what I
said.” Another hard swallow. “Freak. You. Remy.”
His smile turns on Julian, tongue running over his teeth before his eyes fall back onto me, feeling
heavy like a weighted blanket. He steps even closer, our chests lightly brushing as his large palm
snaps out to grab onto my upper arm. His nose nearly brushes mine. “If you’re going to curse, at least
do it right.”

My heart drums in my ears as I wait for him to speak again, sensing he’s not done as his breath hits

my parted lips.
“Say, ‘fuck you, future husband.’”

I blink, the reminder that this is my future causing my stomach to turn. Instead of doing as he
instructs, I try to distract him. “Don’t you have better things to do than bother me? Why don’t you go
bother someone else, like Stephanie. I’m sure she’d love that.”
His eyes flick between mine, narrowing at the edges. “She probably would, baby Bev. Believe it

or not, most girls like it when I talk to them.” He ignores my quiet scoff, talking over me as he shoves
back from me, the movement almost making me stumble in the grass. “But I think I will. If anything,
she's not a child like you.”
The comment smacks me right in the chest but I do my best to ignore the feeling, watching as he
smirks at Julian.
“No offense, Julian.”
Julian chuckles at his joke, waving Remy off as he starts to back away. “None taken.”
Remy’s eyes find mine once more. “I’ll find you before the meal starts. My father wants us at his
table.”

He spins away without an answer from me, and I suck in a breath realizing I hadn’t taken a full one
since he showed up. My pulse races below my skin, watching him disappear into the crowd. “Why
don’t you ever stand up for me?” I ask Julian, continuing to stare into the crowd. His eyes are on my
face when I finally turn to look at him. “You’re my twin. Shouldn’t it bother you when he’s mean to
me like that? Shouldn’t you feel mad when I’m mad or something?”
Julian shrugs, a small smile parting his lips. “Do you feel mad when I’m mad? Because no. No, I
don’t.” I purse my lips at his attempt to turn the situation into a joke as he continues, “And it’s none of
my business what happens in your relationship.”
“Shut up.” I let out a big breath, tugging at the skirt of the dress I’m wearing. “We aren’t in a
relationship. We will never be a couple.”

“You’re literally arranged to be married, Bev.” I shake my head in defiance and he sighs, changing

the subject, “How about we go get some drinks.”

I nod, wordlessly following after him as he moves into the crowd toward the beverage station. I

watch his back, biting my lip when he waves at some of the other kids we pass. Unlike me, Julian
actually gets along quite well with the other Mafioso kids. He’s more outgoing than I am which I
guess makes him more likable. Where he effortlessly fits into the mold my parents have created for
him, I find myself struggling. I’m sure Remy’s constant picking has something to do with it, though.

Everyone around here worships him, Julian included, and Remy has turned me into a pariah among
them.
I’m the wallflower who prefers fiction over real life and the only girl the king himself handpicked
to torture. Why? I couldn’t tell you. He’s always gotten along fine with my brother.
“Beverly.” My heart jumps into my throat when my mother grabs onto my arm as I pass, startling
me from my thoughts, her voice stopping Julian who turns back toward us. “Francesca was just telling
me about how well you and her son get along.” My mother’s eyes leave me and drift back to Capo
Famiglia’s wife as she finishes with, “I didn’t know the two of you were so close, but I’m so happy to
hear it.”

“We’re not,” I say against my better judgment and my mother squeezes my arm in warning, her face
still beaming at the other woman. I frown at the side of her head before turning my attention to
Francesca. She’s already smiling at me when our eyes meet, perfectly white teeth almost glittering
from the lights hanging above the tables.
She spends more time getting ready for the day than she does caring about either of her children. I
highly doubt Remy has ever said anything about me to her. I think I’ve seen her spend a total of five
minutes with either of her children, and that’s saying something considering I’m always around them.
“Sei molto carina stasera, Beverly.” You are very pretty tonight, Beverly. Her perfectly
unwrinkled face doesn’t match the softness of her voice.
 Lightly tugging my arm from my mother’s grip I step to the side and out of reach, smiling politely

in response, my fingers picking at the smooth material of my skirt. “Thank you, Francesca.” My gaze

flicks quickly between her and my mother. “If you’d please excuse me, Julian and I were going to get
a drink.”

Francesca’s long fingers wave me off, “Go, go. We’ll chat during dinner, no?”
My stomach drops, remembering I’ll have to sit with Remy for the meal, but I smile through the
feeling. “Of course.”
Grabbing Julian’s shirt sleeve, I tug him away from the table, dropping his sleeve once we’ve

slipped far enough through the crowd that both my mother and Remy’s are out of sight. “I can’t stand
that woman.”
“Mom or Francesca?”
I glance back at Julian’s smirk with one of my own. “Sometimes both, but right now? Francesca.”
He laughs and I sit on the edge of a giant plant as we pretend to listen to whatever speech is being
yelled out over the crowd. Julian keeps talking, but I stare toward the speaker, not bothering to listen.
We never got drinks and my throat is dry, nearly raw from my emotions earlier.
He nudges my arm, drawing my attention. “Did you hear me?”
“No.” I push up off of my makeshift seat, looking at Julian. “I’m going to go use the bathroom.”

“Grab me a drink on your way back!” he yells at my retreating form, and I wave in
acknowledgment over my shoulder.
Entering the house I look around, unsure which way I should go. I don’t really have to use the
restroom, but I figure it’s the only place I can go to get a moment of peace without fear of Remy
finding me. Passing a room I hear a familiar giggle within and pause in the doorway. The Lucianos’
nanny is sitting on the floor with the youngest Luciano, a deck of cards being passed between them.
On a whim I enter the room, smiling when they both look up at me.
“Beverly!” Delaney yells happily, bouncing in place. “Want to play a game of Go Fish?”
Settling down beside her, I smile at the nanny as she starts dealing me cards before I even respond,
“Thank you, I could use an escape from the party for a minute.”

REMY

My shoulder stings from how I’m leaning against the fence, but I ignore the dull ache, staring
absentmindedly at where Beverly had disappeared into the house. Despite what I led her to believe, I
didn’t spend any time with Stephanie after our argument. Instead, I stole two shots of whiskey from
the bartender, played the entertainment for a few of my father’s Capos, and then posted up here where

I watched Beverly like a creep.

“You know, she’s not that bad actually.”
Shifting to stand, I eye my half-brother Gavino as he joins me, only now aware that he must also
have been watching Beverly to know that’s where I was looking. “She’s just a kid,” I spit back,
annoyed he’s even talking about her. “A bookworm with more freckles than face.”
He shrugs, his hands slipping into his pockets. “I don’t know. I kind of like her freckles.”
My pulse pounds looking at him, teeth biting into my cheek. Truthfully, I also like her freckles. I
like the way her dark hair curls around her cheeks when it’s wet. And I like the way she smells, like
books and lavender. I really like the way she talks back to me when almost no one else will.

But I hate that I’m being told that I have to like her.
I hate that she was handpicked for me by my father.
And I also hate that she hates me.
“I don’t. I can’t stand anything about her,” I finally say back to him, the lie tasting bitter on my
tongue.
Gavino eyes me. “She’s always nice to me. If you were nicer to her—”
My stomach twists with ugly hot jealousy that burns angrily under my skin. He stops talking at the
look I give him. “Beverly is my future wife, which means I’m the only one who gets to like anything
about her.” Snatching the front of his dress shirt in my fist, I yank him close. “She isn’t nice to you.
She isn’t anything to you. Beverly is mine and it would do you good to remember it.”

He stumbles back when I let him go, his lips pinched tight as if he’s fighting the urge to say

something back to me. Luckily for him, he doesn't, choosing to clear his throat instead. “Got it,
brother.”

BEVERLY

Unlike Remy, I get along well with Delaney.

Sure, she’s only eight, but she’s always been mature for her age. And kind. Surprising really since
Remy has done more to raise her than their actual parents have.
“This party really is one of the lamest I’ve ever been to,” Delaney says, off topic, eyeing the cards
in her hand before leveling me with a serious look over the top of them. “Do you have any twos?”
“Sorry, no twos.” I laugh at her huff, watching her snatch up a card to add to the many already in
her hand. “How’d you get lucky enough to skip it back here?”
Delaney shrugs, shaking her head at the nanny when she asks her for a five. “Ollie said I could
hang out in the house and no one argued.”
Delaney is the only one who calls him that, a play on his middle name. It always makes him sound

so much nicer than I know he is. I hum, picking through my cards for a moment. “Any sevens?”
Plucking the card from Delaney’s fingers I set my pair aside before commenting, “Remy does get
whatever Remy wants.”
“Non stai parlando di mio figlio, vero?” You’re not talking about my son, are you?
My head snaps up to Capo Famiglia’s entrance, returning his smile. Unlike his wife, he doesn’t
radiate fake kindness. He wears his emotions on his sleeve when around friends and family, and
thankfully, all he’s ever shown me are pleasant ones.
“I plead the fifth,” I state. Tucking my cards away into the stack. It seems my break was short-
lived.
 He chuckles at my remark, watching as I rise from the floor. “Dinner is about to be served. I came

to get Delaney.” His eyes find the nanny. “Make sure she’s at our table before appetizers start.”

With that he leaves and Laney huffs, “We just started the game with Bev too.” The sound of Capo
Famiglia’s footsteps disappearing down the hallway can be heard as she hands her cards to the nanny

who is tucking them away in their box.

“Maybe we can play again after dinner,” I say to her frown, watching her rise.
“You’ll be busy.” Remy’s voice creeps along my spine, prickling at my skin like poison ivy as he
steps into the room just as silently as his father had before.

“Doing?” I can’t help but let my annoyance seep into the word despite knowing how it’ll make
Remy respond.
“Spending time with me.” I sneer at his remark but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care,
smiling at me before looking over at his sister. “Come, it’s time to eat. You can sit with me and
Beverly.”
“Oh good! I hate getting stuck down by Mamma. She never has anything interesting to talk about,”
Laney chimes, skipping past us and out the door.
“Why don’t you eat with Stephanie instead?” I ask Remy as we make our way out of the room,
trailing a bit behind Delaney.

“Because she isn’t my future wife.” The venom dripping from each word sends chills up my spine,
but the little jolts of lightning don’t hurt nearly as much as the squeezing of my heart as he leans in
close to my ear, speaking just loud enough for me to hear, “You are.”
Chapter TwO
 BEVERLY | 16 YEARS OLD

“I look like an idiot.” My hands tug at the hem of the short, fitted bottom of my dress, attempting to

pull it lower on my legs, an annoyed sigh groaning from my chest when all that manages to do is pull
the already very low-cut top down even more. Julian laughs at me as I struggle, his face hovering
behind mine in the mirror.
“You don’t…”
I cut him off with a glare. “Don’t lie to me.”

His teeth flash in his reflection as he takes a step away from my back. “You look fine, Bev. I think
you’re just uncomfortable because it’s not something you’d usually wear.” The laughing continues as
my expression sours further, his eyes sweeping over my outfit before meeting mine in the mirror once
more. “Stop, will you? You look beautiful. Gorgeous. Spectacular. And…” I’m already rolling my
eyes knowing what he’s about to say, “I would know because we have the same face.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” I mock, brushing a stray hair off of my cheek before stepping away from the mirror.
Crossing my arms over my chest I scowl over his outfit. “Why do I have to wear this when you don’t
have to dress up? This is fucking ridiculous.”

“Beverly!” My eyes almost roll into the back of my head at my mother’s voice, dropping to find
her glaring at me from the doorway.
“It is!” I continue my argument, shrugging when she gasps. “I look like a fucking idiot and it’s not
fair.”
Her head swivels around the room, looking around like she can’t possibly imagine that it’s her I’m
speaking to like that. “I don’t know where you’ve learned that dirty mouth of yours, but it stops.
Now.”
She ignores my mumbled, “Whatever,” walking to pick at Julian’s hair.
“You don’t look like an idiot.” She says the word like it’s a curse, wrinkling her face around it.
“You look very chic and upscale. A perfect complement to how I’m sure Remy will be dressed

tonight.”

At the mention of Remy my lips pucker like I’ve sucked on a lemon, my mouth tasting just as bitter.
I couldn't care less what that douchebag is going to be wearing.

Mom steps back from Julian, eyes sweeping over the soft beige bandage bodycon dress I’m
wearing with approval. Of course she would approve of it, she’s the one who picked it out.
In a last-ditch effort to get an outfit change, I frantically ask as she starts to leave the room, hot on
her heels, “Where’s Dad? Has he seen this dress? All this skin showing? All the boob?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Beverly. Any boobage you think is showing is very much covered.” Her
eyes find mine briefly over her shoulder. “Half the time I’m yelling at you to wear a bra and now
you’re worried about not having one on?” She shakes her head, another tut pursing her lips.
An annoyed groan slips from between my teeth, my fist rising in Julian’s direction at his chuckling.
Spotting our dad by the front door, I hurry past my mother, the light clicking of my four-inch nude
wrap wedges beating as frantically against the hardwood floor as my heartbeat. “Dad! Look at this
dress! Isn’t it too revealing? A nipple could fall out at any second!”
He looks past me and to my mother, rubbing his eyes at whatever look she gives him. “Beverly,
please don’t talk about your nipples. It’s disturbing.” He drops his hands, the look on his face saying

he very much does not like my dress, but he won’t say that. “You look fine.”
“Ugh!” I stomp past him and yank the door open, letting it smack against the wall even while my
mother scolds my behavior. “I hate it here.”
Pinching my lips together, I slide into the back of the car, sitting out front, crossing my arms as
Julian slides in next to me. “You know, if a nipple does fall out, you’ll be the most popular girl there.”
I scowl at his smile. “Stupid.”
He lounges back in his seat, looking out the window. “You’ll probably also kill half the males
attending if Remy catches them looking.”
Remy.
 God, I don’t want him to see me in this dress.

Tonight will go one of two ways: he’ll either love the dress or he’ll hate it. And I honestly

couldn’t say which I’d prefer because either one means his attention is on me.
It takes far less time than I would have preferred to get to the Luciano estate, and I resist the urge

to bang my forehead against the window as we pull through the large black iron gates. My stomach is
already churning, heart thumping madly beneath my ribs at the thought of being here, let alone in this
dress. Julian lightly pinches my arm and I whack at his hand, absently looking out the window at the
other guests exiting their cars.

My fingers lightly tremble as I open my door, Julian and I slapping them shut in unison to look at
one another over the top of the car before we start toward the back half of the estate toward the
gardens.
“I thought you didn’t care what people thought of you?” Julian asks when he gets to my side.
“I don’t,” I bite out, rubbing my glossy lips together. It’s not a complete lie. I don’t really care
what people think.
I care what Remy thinks.
But only because I’d rather he thought nothing of me at all. If I had my way, the douche wouldn’t
exist in my life.

My eyes briefly find my brother’s annoying smirk. “I care about what I think.” I finish, “And I
think I look like an idiot.”
He laughs, holding the back gate open for me, “Well, why don’t you change what you think?” He
comes back to my side, arm lightly bumping mine as we walk. “If you tell yourself you like it, then
you won’t be as miserable.”
Scanning the crowd, I notice I’m not the only one dressed formally, though I am the only one who
looks like they belong on Desperate Housewives. Turning my attention back to him I snort, “Easy for
you to have a solution when you’re not the one looking like an idiot.”
He laughs, grabbing a drink from one of the waiter’s trays as we walk by, downing whatever it is
with a grimace before dropping the empty glass on another passing tray. I eye one of the giant banners

strung around the property, pictures of ugly little dogs with beady eyes plastered on each one, a giant

poster in the middle of the space featuring Mama Spinoza. Tonight’s event is Mama Spinoza’s silent
auction dog charity, and although I hate my attire this year, it’s usually one of my favorite events

simply because of how ridiculous it is.

Mama Spinoza, known for her vanity, lost her husband a while ago and now spends her time and
money lavishing herself and her dogs. She also has a blaringly obvious crush on the one and only
Remy Luciano.

Something I find incredibly hilarious.

Turning to question Julian, I watch him grab two glasses from another passing tray before handing
one off to me. “Why is the auction here?”
He shrugs, raising his glass up. “Don’t know. This one looks better than the last one.”
Throwing the drink back at the same time he does, I shudder as it burns down to my gut, and drop
off the glass at an empty table. The perks of being a Mafioso child is the leniency when it comes to
drinking. There’s always a party or some gathering, always drinking, and never a caring adult as long
as you don’t make a fool of yourself. “Was that better? Because it tasted like shit.”
Julian shakes his head and I laugh, grabbing a chair from the nearest table to us to drag behind me.

My brother does the same and we make our way to the outskirts of the gathering. Andrea, son of
another Capo who works closely with the Capo Famiglia, must have had the same idea as us because
he nods in acknowledgment as we set our seats by his.
His eyes flick over my dress before meeting my scowl as I sit down. “What the hell are you
wearing, Bev?”
“Clothes. Shouldn’t you be old enough to figure that out on your own?” I tug my skirt down a bit,
as he shakes his head at me, a dark loose strand of hair curling around his ears.
Besides his arms crossing over his chest and his baby blues rolling away from me, he doesn’t
respond. The same age as Remy, he gives off the ‘I’m too cool for you’ vibes, but it’s mostly just an
act. We’ve known him our entire lives and despite how he likes to act tough, he’s actually a big softy.

I consider him to be more of a brother than a close friend, and even though he’d never admit it, I know

the feeling is mutual.

Julian bends to rest his arms on his knees so he can see around me to Andrea. “Where’s Remy?”

My brother has become even more obsessed with the future boss since taking his oath of omertà a
few months back, and to say I find it an annoyance is a wild understatement.
Remy has slowly started to take over every aspect of my life, my brother now included.
“Who cares?” I mumble but they both ignore me. I know it’s just a matter of time before Remy

finds me, and I’d like to enjoy my freedom while I can. After ten minutes too long of hearing nothing
but pointless babbling from my companions, I get up, tugging my dress back into place. “Welp. Not
that listening to you two gaggle on about the almighty Remy isn’t extremely interesting, but I’m going
to find something else to do before I puke.”
Andrea rolls his eyes at my parting curtsy, and I spin toward the direction of the auction tables,
flipping the bird over my shoulder as Julian yells about “keeping my nipples contained.” I could only
ever speak so freely about my feelings toward Remy with them; if any of the adults heard me being so
disrespectful I’d be hung for it, I’m sure. Still, I do it anyway because part of me doesn’t give a damn.
Picking up a stray pen, I start randomly writing names with outrageous bids, when Gavino’s

smiling face pops into view. “Hey, Bev.”

Returning his smile I straighten, clicking my pen. “Oh hi, Gavino. How have you been?”
It would seem that both of Remy’s siblings missed out on the same bitter gene that he was born
with because they, unlike him, are both kind and friendly. Gavino is only Remy’s half-brother, a
bastard child from the Famiglia Capo that was born a year before Remy. For the most part, he only
spends the summer with the Lucianos, but every once in a while I see him at other holiday events. I
actually like Gavino quite a bit, he’s always been nice to me. He’s also always been cast in Remy’s
shadow, always looked down on by the other Mafioso boys because he preferred warehouse jobs
over working the streets. Really, he should be the future Capo Famiglia, but because he isn’t
legitimate it was never even an option.

“I’ve been good. I’m back for now,” he says, leaning over to see what I’m writing. He chuckles

seeing me go back to scrawling names that clearly don’t belong to me. “What are you doing?”
“Bidding.” I pause to look up at him, his light brown hair shifting in the breeze, dark blue eyes

waiting for me to say more. “Well, I’m not. I’m bidding for other people.”
His leg lightly bumps the table as he leans in close, a smile tipping the corner of his lips. “Do they
know?”
I look up, our faces close enough that I can drop my voice to a whisper, “No.”

He laughs, the sound making me smile as I slowly write out Remy’s name next to a four-hundred-
dollar bid under a self-portrait of Mama Spinoza and her dog. Gavino’s shadow suddenly retreats and
I look up to see him turning away, just as a long tan arm reaches around me, fist closing around the
pen in my hand.
There’s more ink spread out along the limb than I remember seeing last time, a somewhat fresh-
looking tattoo shining on his forearm. I tighten my grip on the pen, not letting it be ripped from my
fingers.
“You put the wrong name here.” Remy’s deep baritone washes over me, prickling my skin with
gooseflesh despite the warm breeze floating through the air. His clothed chest is hot against my bare

back as he tries to force the pen toward his name with no luck.
“No, I didn’t,” I snap through my teeth, fighting him as he pushes my hand, leaving a long, jagged
line across the paper that just misses his name.
“Change it.” It’s growled into my ear and I grit my teeth, hating the way my gut twists at the ugly
tone in his voice.
“No.” I jerk my arm hard enough to dislodge him, throwing the pen before he can take it. It
bounces off the back of someone's head but I quickly turn around before they see who threw it. Remy
is standing far too close for comfort, so I raise my arms to push him away, but he catches my palms,
holding my hands against his chest and locking me in a far more intimate pose than I’m willing to be
in.

Especially surrounded by all of these people.

I can already feel their eyes on us.

Eyes are always on Remy but even more so when I’m around.

“Let go of me, Remy.” It’s barely above a whisper, but I know he heard me, his breath puffing
down along my cheeks as I scowl up at him.
“Chiedimelo gentilmente, futura moglie.” Ask me kindly, wife-to-be.
His lips twitch at the corner when I stay silent, knowing damn well I’d rather bite my own tongue

off than ask him “kindly” to do anything. Honey browns dip lower, skimming over my glossy lips and
down to the deep V of my dress. They narrow as he uses our joined hands to lightly push me back,
dark gaze burning over the rest of my dress while my heart thumps painfully behind my ribs.
“You picked this out?” he asks once his eyes finally make their way back to mine.
I swallow, my hands becoming warm wrapped up in his. “Yes.” I don’t know why I lie, but
something about the way he asked made me think he didn’t like it, and I like anything he doesn’t.
A gasp parts my lips as one of my hands is dropped, the other being used to spin me around so that
Remy can get a three-sixty view before I’m back to where I started. Curls from my updo tickle along
my cheeks and shoulders, having fallen loose from the sudden movement, my pulse racing in my throat

at the look that greets me.

A hum vibrates up from Remy’s chest, a dimple marking his otherwise serious expression. “I don’t
believe you.” I scoff but he continues, ignoring me, “Ma sembra molto… carino.” But it looks very…
nice.
Nice? Nice? I hated this dress before but now that all Remy has to say about it is “nice” I feel my
skin getting hot with annoyance. I know I look better than nice.
Before I can stop myself, I’m yelling, “Carina?! Ho un aspetto più che carina. Ho un aspetto
fantastico!” I look more than nice. I look amazing! I’m shoving back from him before he can stop me,
heads that weren’t already watching us turning to see what all of the commotion is about. Snatching
the bid with Remy’s name off the table, I level him with a glare. “Mama Spinoza will love to see how

much you’re willing to spend on her portrait, don’t you think?”

His jaw is ticking, eyes never leaving mine. “Throw that bid away, Beverly.”
The ice in his tone should have been warning enough to stop, but I don’t find myself willing to

care as I turn around, the bid pinched between my fingers as I stomp toward the podium where Mama
Spinoza is posing for a photographer, one she probably hired for herself.
“Beverly!” Remy’s voice is steel above the crowd and I smirk over my shoulder, eyes drifting
through the faces.

My mother is the first person I find, eyes narrowed on me in warning. Capo Famiglia’s small
smile rivals her glare from across the table. But before I’m able to get within sight of Mama Spinoza,
I’m being wrenched to the side by an iron grip around my waist.
“Hey!” is all I can manage to get out as I’m forcefully walked toward the Lucianos’ garden,
quickly hidden by tall thick walls of summer florals.
A grunt slips from between my lips as I’m pressed hard against the side of a tall stone water
feature. Stepping up close, Remy cages me in place, snatching my wrist to yank the bid from my
fingers. I grab at it as he tosses the paper into the fountain, but miss because his inked fingers grip my
chin, jerking my face back to look up into his. Bergamot and vanilla melts off of his skin, carried by

the warm breeze as he scowls down at me. His fingers are just tight enough to keep me in place, but
not hard enough to be painful, refusing to let me get out of his grip.
“Hai ragione.” You’re right, he finally says, pausing my attempts to get loose.
“About?” My voice is breathier than I’d like it to be, the heat of his body feeling like it’s going to
consume me.
“You do look more than nice in this dress.” My breath catches at his admission, the softness of his
words contradicting the angry tic of his jaw. “Sei bellissima, futura moglie.” You look beautiful,
wife-to-be.
I’m too stunned to respond, my lips parting. I feel the swipe of his thumb against my cheek, his
dark honey gaze dropping to the gloss on my mouth. “Have you ever been kissed, Beverly?”

Blinking, I stare up at him, confusion at the abrupt change in topics making me frown. “Excuse

me?”
He swallows, eyes lifting from my lips to meet my gaze. “The answer better be no.”

The silent challenge in his words makes my blood boil. “Or what?” His brow rises, his body
reacting to the anger burning along my skin at his question. “What if I have been kissed?”
He drops lower, his nose just brushing mine, the soft vanilla on his skin so close I can almost taste
it with each breath I suck into my lungs. “I’ll find whoever touched what is mine and I’ll kill them.”

Mine.
My ears ring with the word, old wounds and irritation bubbling up to the surface, “You have no
right—”
My sentence is cut off as Remy’s warm lips press to mine, hard and sure. His fingers are pinching
around my jaw, my cheeks squeezed almost awkwardly in his hand as his lips encourage mine to
move. I'm not sure if it's the vanilla coming off his warm skin that is messing with my senses or if he
actually tastes like burnt sugar, but it tricks me into pressing into his mouth for the smallest of
moments, my fingers grabbing onto the cotton of his shirt as he swipes his tongue along the seam of
my lips.

The boom of Mama Spinoza talking over a microphone pushes me back into reality and my eyes
shoot open, my hands shoving against the chest they were just clutching onto. Remy just smirks down
at me, stupid dimples mocking me and my flushed cheeks.
How fucking dare he.
My arm winds back before he notices, my fist smashing right into the same mouth he just gave me
my first kiss with, splitting it with the single hit. I bite back a smile of satisfaction as he grunts,
shaking my hand at my side and pretending it doesn’t feel like I’ve just broken every single one of my
fingers.
Inked digits rise to his lips, pressing against the cut my knuckles caused. “You punched me.”
 He should be mad, but he doesn’t sound anything close to it. Instead, he’s smiling at me, tongue

snaking out to swipe away the blood.

It’s confusing and does nothing but irritate me more.

“My first kiss was not yours to take,” I finally say, my voice carrying a slight tremble I hate myself

for.
He nods, but it’s not out of understanding. It’s mocking. He reaches out and lightly grasps my hand,
his brow rising at the hiss that leaves my lips as he looks at the already bruising skin. “To be clear,”
he pauses, his eyes flicking up to mine, “everything of yours is mine.” I suck in between my teeth

when he shifts my hand in his, the movement effective in cutting off any retort I had. “I want you to
start going to the gym every week from now on. I know someone who will help you improve your
form.”
I blink, my eyes locked on our joined hands. “Who? Why?”
“One of the best freestyle boxers in the area.” He bends, eyes on mine as he presses a soft, warm
kiss to my palm before letting it drop to my side and stepping back from me. I’m so confused by the
gesture and his explanation that I don’t question it, eyes following him as he starts to walk away.
“But why do I need to see them?” I call out, just before he disappears.
He looks over his shoulder but doesn’t stop. “Because he’ll make sure no one ever touches you

unless you want them to again.” He looks away but keeps speaking, “Including me.”

REMY

My tongue swipes over the sting of my busted lip, the metallic tang of blood making me smile as I
leave the garden.
Who knew the bookworm had such an arm on her?
Spotting Donatello, I make my way to him, drawing his attention away from the gaggle of girls
around him. One of my best friends, anyone who didn’t know us would probably think we were
brothers; he’s basically the darker, smilier version of me. Personality-wise, we are complete

opposites. Donatello is nothing but crooked grins, terrible dad jokes, and flirting.

“Oof, hate to see what the other guy looks like,” Donatello jokes after detaching himself from a
blonde girl that was clutching onto him to meet me.

Andrea joins us, his arms crossing over his chest as he takes in my bloodied lip the same way
Donatello had, waiting for me to comment before saying anything.
“Girl, actually. And she is—” My eyes scan the crowd, finding Beverly walking from the entrance
of the garden, her dark curls a mess on her head. Impeccable. Flawless, I want to say, but don’t.

Instead I mumble out, “Trouble.”

Donatello follows my gaze, a snort of amusement drawing my attention back to him. “You know, I
always liked that girl.” My eyes narrow and he raises his hands placatingly, “Not like that,
obviously.”
Ignoring Andrea’s amused grunt, I ask Donatello, “You still working out with Cal at the gym on
Garland?”
Easily distracted, he winks at someone that walks by and Andrea smacks his arm with a shake of
his head. “Yeah, I’m there twice a week. Why?”
“I want Beverly to start going with you.” My eyes briefly wander back to Beverly. “If she’s going

to be my wife, she needs to know how to protect herself.”

“That’s not typically the type of woman men around here want,” Andrea comments, his amusement
bleeding into the sentence.
“Ha! As if anything about Remy is typical.” Donatello laughs. “But yeah, I can bring her.”
“Does she know she’s going?” Andrea asks. “And that it’ll be with this bastardo?”
I shake my head, spotting Gavino making his way toward Beverly. “It doesn’t matter. She’ll go
because I want her to.”
Andrea follows my gaze. “Gavino back for the summer already?”
“He came back last week, didn’t he? I heard he was at that bookstore on Elm Street with Bev last
Friday,” Donatello says, making both mine and Andrea’s eyes narrow on him. His hands rise. “Maybe

he wasn’t, though. I didn’t see it.”

My feet are moving toward Gavino in the next breath, Andrea scolding Donatello, “Why are you
always starting shit?”

I don’t hear Donatello’s reply because Delaney jumps in front of me, abruptly stopping my
forward progression. “Can I go to Aubrey’s house later?”
Gavino’s already gotten to Beverly, his hand resting close enough to hers that their pinkies touch
on the table. My jaw works, pure unbridled rage tearing its way through my chest.

“Remy? Can I go to Aubrey’s?!” Delaney repeats, momentarily drawing my attention back to her.
“Yeah, go. Ask Andrea to take you,” I say, trying not to let my annoyance seep into my words as I
lightly push past her.
“Thanks, Ollie!”
I barely register her thanks, eyes zeroed in on Gavino. He should know by now how much I
despise his relationship with Beverly. He should also know by now that touching is absolutely off-
limits. I almost forgot about how I caught him so close to her earlier, distracted by Beverly. But now
all that irritation is coming back full force, rising to the crest and ready to unleash on Gavino like a
tidal wave.

Someone above must be watching out for him, because my father stops me next, his voice quiet
and strong. “Leave it, Remy. Sit with me for a moment.”
Shit.
I hadn’t even noticed I was passing his table.
My heart thumps angrily below my ribs, hands fisting at my sides as I unwillingly follow my
father’s orders. Dropping into the chair opposite of him, I can still see Beverly and Gavino, and I bite
my cheek to fight the urge to storm over there.
“Your brother is just getting in for the summer,” he says casually, lifting his drink to take a sip. It
clunks loudly back onto the table when he’s finished. “I don’t need you hospitalizing him because
you’re jealous of his friendship with Beverly.”

I bite back my retort, knowing it would get me nothing but punishment from him.

Downing his drink, he stands and rounds the table toward me, lightly tapping me on the shoulder
as he passes. “Some fights aren’t worth fighting. Let this one rest.”

Sitting there, I do as my father says, but only because I don’t have any other choice, a single
thought running through my brain.
If Gavino makes even one wrong move, I’ll be putting him to rest.
Chapter Three
 BEVERLY | 18 YEARS OLD

I pick at the soft black velvet of my dress, watching Julian get ready. He’s currently trying to adjust

the ridiculous aquamarine bow tie he purchased to match his date’s dress around his neck. “Bev, I
love you and you’re gorgeous… being my twin and all… but you’re giving off some real Morticia
Addams vibes right now.”
I raise a brow in his direction, watching him continue to struggle to secure the tie. “And?” I run my
hands over the snug fabric, smoothing out the wrinkles over my thighs. It’s just a simple dress with a

V-neck and spaghetti straps that hits mid-thigh, but it’s classically pretty. Paired with my straightened
dark hair, I can see where he’s coming from. It’s not my usual vibe, but I like it.
“Oh, that’s what you were going for?” He shrugs, head turning sideways as he nods with approval
at his crooked tie. “Never mind then. You’re killing it.”
“Your tie is crooked.”
His eyes find mine in the mirror. “Not when I do this.” He proceeds to turn his head sideways and
I laugh. “You sure you want to go tonight?”
He stares at me, probably trying to see if he can pick up on any feelings I’m trying to keep in. He

won’t find anything. I really don’t care about not having a date tonight. I was really only going to
prom because it was something Julian wanted to do. I already knew that dating was out of the picture
for me since my engagement to Remy.
“I’ll stay home with you. Fuck them all and their dumb dance.” He starts to take his bow tie off but
I stop him by tapping his leg with my bare foot.
“Thank you, but it’s fine.” I smile at his raised brow, continuing, “I don’t need a date to have fun
tonight.”
He stops, looking down at his tie. “You should have stopped me before I took this shit off then.”
Our mother comes into the room at that moment, waving her hands to shoo Julian’s arms to his
sides as she fixes his tie into a perfect bow in a fraction of the time it took him to botch it. “There. We

need to work on your tie skills. Every man should know how to fix a tie.” He rolls his eyes over her

shoulder and I stifle a laugh, watching as she continues to fuss over his outfit.
“Where is your sister?” Her head tilts my way, a quiet “Oh!’ slipping from her lips as she claps

for me to stand. I startle at her loud gasp, her hand reaching back to grab Julian by his sleeve without
looking to tug him to my side. “Look at you two! Oh. Why can’t you always look this nice? You would
if you weren’t always fighting with me over your outfits.”
Julian and I share a look, but say nothing, letting her continue to fuss. She bends down and starts

picking at some invisible lint on my rib cage, pinching my side when I try to wiggle away. Instead of
arguing, I just frown down at the top of her dark curly head. Julian and I are the spitting image of her,
me being an almost clone-like copy. Even behind the scowl she’s always giving me, she really is
beautiful, a softer kind of beauty I’d love to achieve some day.
With a wave of her hand she instructs us to follow her, still tutting under her breath about how
great we look as she exits the room. I quickly grab my chunky black wedges, my bare feet padding
softly on the carpeted stairs as I join her and Julian in the living room below. Sitting on the edge of
the couch, I slip my heels on, noticing I haven’t seen my dad yet. “Where’s Dad?”
“He’s at the Lucianos’,” Mom says, her phone at face level as she swipes around on the screen.

“Which reminds me, I’ll need you to drive one of the cars there for him.” She looks at me over the
phone, waiting for my responding nod before handing her phone off to Julian in a huff. “I don’t know
how to work this piece of junk. Open it up so I can get a picture before you leave.”
She’s waving impatiently at him as he closes the hundreds of apps she had up in the background,
rolling her eyes instead of listening when he tries to show her the button on the front screen. “That
wasn’t there or I would have seen it. Now, go stand by your sister.”
After fifteen solid minutes of getting yelled at for not posing properly, my mother finally lets us get
out the door. “Go, have fun. Be Good.” She eyes my brother with the last bit.
Julian just chuckles, walking into the garage to get into his car while I grab the keys for Dad’s
black SUV. “Bye, Mom.” I wave at her before catching Julian’s attention. “I’ll meet you at the dance.

I’ll just have Dad drop me off.”

He gives me a peace sign, already backing out of the space. “Later, gators.”

Leaving the SUV in the driveway, I walk up the stone steps of the Luciano residence, taking a seat
on the cold tile once I’ve reached the top. Of course my mother made me come here. I swear she
knows I can’t stand Remy, yet she sends me over here every chance she gets.

“You look nice tonight, Bev.” My head rises to see Gavino coming from the house, and I smile,
looking down at my dress.
“Thank you.” He sits down beside me and I prop my elbow on my knee, cheek in hand. “Prom is
tonight.”
A piece of light brown hair drops over his brow as he smiles over at me. “I didn’t think you’d
want to go to that.”
Shrugging in response, I let out a sigh. “I don’t really. But I knew Julian would try and skip it
because I was, and that’s not fair to him.”

“I’m not busy tonight,” Gavino says, drawing my attention from where it had wandered to the tree
line. “We can do something instead? I saw that the new movie you said you wanted to see was playing
at the theater.”
I smile at the idea. It definitely sounds better than going to prom. My smile falters just a tad. “Do
you think Julian will care that I’m ditching him?”
Gavino chuckles, shaking his head. “Not based on his last Instagram post.” He leans to the side,
his shoulder bumping mine as he pulls his phone out from his pocket.
After a moment of swiping, he brings up Julian’s post, smiling as he moves his phone so that I can
see the screen. I snort, watching the boomerang of Julian raising a bottle of champagne in the back of
someone’s limo.

It certainly doesn’t look like I’ll be missed.

“He’s always been the life of the party.”

Hearing the crunch of gravel in the driveway, we both look up at the SUV coming from the back

garage.
Fuck me.
Remy stops, his eyes flicking between me and Gavino, rolling his window down. “Your dad is at
the cabin still.”

I bite my cheek. Great. Who knows how long he’ll be up there. I would bet anything my mother
somehow planned this. “Thanks for letting me know.” When it doesn’t look as if he’s leaving, I add,
“You can go now.”
Gavino grunts back a chuckle.
As usual, Remy doesn’t listen to a thing I say, getting out of his car instead. “Where are you going?
I can drop you off.” He leans back against the closed door, inked arms crossing at his chest.
Staring down at him for just a beat too long, I don’t know what to tell him. I look at Gavino before
answering, “It’s fine. Gavino and I were going to see a movie.”
“You and Gavino, huh?” I hear the long breath he lets out, watching him pull a Zippo from his back

pocket, lighting a cigarette a moment later. “Don’t you have other plans, brother?”
My gut churns at the tension in the air, the hair on my arms rising with every passing second. My
fingers run over the skirt of my dress, smoothing out invisible wrinkles as the silence between us
grows. I’ve never understood their relationship, but it always makes me uncomfortable.
Gavino stands, drawing my attention. “You’re right.” His eyes find my confused frown, lips ticking
up at the corner in an attempt to ease any worry. “Sorry, Bev, I totally forgot.”
“Oh,” I finally say, swallowing as I shake my head. “You’re fine. We’ll go see that film another
time.”
“You got it,” he says, his smile fading as he looks at Remy. He gives him a curt nod before turning
and walking back inside of the house. The sound of the door closing is loud, the brass knocker

banging lightly as my eyes find Remy still leaning against his car door.

“Now that you don’t have plans,” smoke blows through his nose as he speaks, disappearing into
the night air as I purse my lips at him, “just get in the fucking car, Beverly.”

He has the perfect bad-boy image wrapped in an actual bad-boy life. Almost black hair shaved
short on the sides and longer on top, a light scruff on his face, covered in an array of dark ink all
painted across a body that’s hard as rock and scarred from his job—a job he does exceptionally well
at.

It’s annoying to me how attractive I find him.

I bristle at his tone, my fingers finding the edge of my skirt. “I don’t like to be told what to do,
Remy.” My eyes narrow on him and his smirk. “So why don’t you kiss my ass?”
He stands from the car, more smoke blown into the sky as he glares up at me. The honey tone of his
eyes glimmers in the light from the porch, making them look softer than usual. A trick of the light that
vanishes when he takes a step closer. He drops the cigarette onto the gravel, crunching it beneath his
boot, and I scramble to stand up, looking down at him as he responds with, “Get in the car on your
own or you can kiss mine while I toss you into the back.”
I scoff, but my gut coils.

There is no doubt in my mind that this heathen of a man would do just as he threatens.
After a brief silent standoff I give in, hands clenched into fists as I stomp down the steps. He picks
up his cigarette butt and sticks it in his pocket, watching as I toss my dad’s SUV keys into the cab’s
open window as I pass. Heels crunching around the front of Remy’s car, my eyes briefly meet his as
we open the car doors in unison.
My velvet skirt rises as I settle into the leather seat and I nervously tug it lower on my thighs,
frowning over at Remy as his eyes trail along my outfit until he meets my narrowed gaze. I clear my
throat when he says nothing, his slow perusal making my skin feel hot. “Can I help you?”
He shifts the car into drive, pulling forward and driving for far too long with his eyes on me
before looking at the road ahead of us. “You were going to the movies dressed like that?”

“No.” I swallow, feeling my skin grow hot under his attention. “Prom. It’s being held at the

Addison.”
He hums, honey eyes finding mine for just a moment. “You’re not going to that either.”

Crossing my arms, my skin prickles under his gaze in a way that makes me uncomfortable, anger
burning along my ribs. “Excuse me?” I raise my brow at his profile before continuing, “That’s not for
you to decide, actually.”
“You don’t have a date,” he says, the tone of his voice telling me that he’s annoyed with just the

idea of me having one, evening knowing I don’t. “And you still want to go?”
Looking out the window instead of his face, I consider not answering him, but eventually do,
resting the back of my head against the headrest. “Not really, no.” I’m not sure why I tell him that, but
it’s not like it really matters if he knows—he already said I wasn’t going. “That’s why I was going to
go to the movies with Gavino instead.” I roll my head to face him when he doesn’t immediately
respond like I thought he would.
He’s already looking at me. “You want to spend tonight with me, though, yeah?”
A small snorting laugh escapes my chest. “Full offense, Remy, but I don’t particularly like
spending time with you.”

His dimple winks at me in response. “Is that a yes or no, Bev.”

I sigh, looking out the front windshield instead of him when I answer, “I suppose.”
He chuckles, the sound warm and gravelly as it fills the small space between us. It’s annoying how
much I like it. It’s not the first time just the two of us have hung out together, one of many actually, but
it’s almost always because it was forced on us by our parents. Even so, he still has a way of making
me nervous.
“Where are we going?” I finally ask, biting my lip at the silence that stretches after the question.
The smirk in his voice makes my heart pound. “To get a tattoo.”
I can’t get a tattoo, my mother will kill me.
 “Based on the way you said it, I’m assuming you think I won’t get one.” I look back over at him,

his face glowing intermittently with the passing lights. My heart thumps loudly in my chest, fingers

lightly shaking in my lap. The challenge hanging between us. I surprise myself when I say, “Once
again you’d be wrong.”

“No, you’re definitely getting one.” My gut coils. “And I’m picking it out,” he adds with smirk.
The “hell no” about to come out of my mouth is interrupted by him saying, “Last time we spent quality
time together, you made me buy you two hundred dollars’ worth of candy because you didn’t know it
was priced per ounce.” I almost snort at the way he said “quality” but keep it in. His eyes find mine at

a stoplight. “Then you puked it all back up after insisting I do donuts in the parking lot to get back at
them for ripping you off. So, I’m picking out your tattoo.”
Popping my lips with feigned nonchalance, I roll my eyes when he raises a brow. “Fine. But
you’re paying for it.”
He just laughs, the sound yanking at the corners of my lips with his. “I always pay.”

“I will be pissed if you let them tattoo something stupid,” I mumble as he flicks through a book of

tattoo designs, ignoring me as I walk around the small parlor. “What are you getting?”
He doesn’t even acknowledge me, slapping the book closed and raising two fingers. Someone
magically appearing to help him, like always.
“Aaahh, Luciano, back for more?” The voice comes from a man wearing what I imagine a
lumberjack would, with a thick goatee, gauges, and a sleeve of tattoos that extends to the left side of
his head. His eyes find me before Remy can answer. “Who’s this? A friend?” He winks at Remy with
the question and I scrunch my nose.
Remy says “Yes” at the same time I say “No,” and the man laughs.
“All right, what’re we doing then?” he asks Remy, motioning for us to follow him.
Another random document with
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Handschrift seine besonderen Ansichten über die Lustdirnen in Paris
heraus. Die von ihm vorgeschlagenen Verbesserungen gründeten
sich auf Errichtung von besonderen Häusern, deren jedes eine
Superiorin haben sollte. Ihre Anzahl wünschte er, um die Aufsicht
darüber zu erleichtern, auf fünfhundert (!) beschränkt.[261]
Rétif’s „Pornographe“ wurde eine der bekanntesten Schriften
dieses Genres und erlebte wiederholte Auflagen. Ein Arzt, Dr. Robert
nahm in einer Schrift „De l’influence de la révolution française sur la
population“ (Paris, an X, 2 Bände) den Plan Rétif’s wieder auf und
schlug für diese Art von Bordellen den Namen „Korinthenäen“ vor.
Der Marquis de Sade, der vielfach ein grosses Nachahmungstalent
zeigt, versuchte gleichfalls dieses Thema in seiner Weise zu
bearbeiten. Ein Pariser Bibliophile (M. H. B.) besitzt unter anderen
auf Sade sich beziehenden Autographen und Dokumenten auch den
von dem Marquis entworfenen Plan eines Lupanars, in dem die
Einrichtung des Hauses, das Vestibül, die Frauengemächer, die
„Folterkammern“ — jede derselben dient einer besonderen Art von
Folterung — genau beschrieben werden. Er vergisst sogar nicht den
Kirchhof, auf dem die Opfer begraben werden, welche bei diesen
Orgien getötet werden. Geheime Thüren erleichtern den
unbemerkten Eintritt oder Austritt. Zum Schlusse wird das „Menu
eines aufregenden Diners“ beschrieben.[262]
 15. Das Palais-Royal und andere öffentliche
Dirnenlokale.
Das Palais-Royal ist eine Stadt in der Stadt. Es ist die
Dirnenstadt von Paris und zugleich das Centrum des Pariser Lebens
im 18. Jahrhundert, ein gesondert zu betrachtendes
kulturgeschichtliches Objekt, das „mit seinen Spielhäusern, seinen
royalistischen und jacobinischen Verschwörern, seinen Dirnen und
Banditen, seiner vornehmen und doch verkommenen Kundschaft,
seinem Luxus und seinem Elend eine kleine, aber keineswegs
schöne Welt für sich darstellte.“[263]
Das Palais-Royal, nicht weit vom Louvre, wurde in den Jahren
1629 bis 1634 von Lemercier an der Stelle der ehemaligen Hôtels de
Mercœur und de Rambouillet für den Kardinal de Richelieu erbaut
und später eine Zeit lang von Ludwig XIV. bewohnt, der es umbauen
liess und es seinem Enkel, dem Herzog von Chartres schenkte,
wodurch es an die Familie Orléans kam. Der Regent Philipp von
Orléans inaugurierte das Palais-Royal als Hauptstätte des
Vergnügens und der Ausschweifungen für die vornehme Welt. Sein
Urenkel, Herzog Louis Philipp Joseph von Orléans, der berüchtigte
Philippe-Egalité liess in den Jahren 1781 bis 1786 den Palast
gänzlich umbauen, so dass er seine heutige Gestalt annahm und
sich zu einem grossen Complexe von Palast, Garten, Arkaden,
Kaufhallen, Theatern, Cafés, Spiel- und Speisehäusern und
zahlreichen Vergnügungsorten gestaltete. Die Hauptgalerien des
Palais-Royal waren im Osten die „Galerie de Valois“, im Westen die
„Galerie de Montpensier“, an deren nördlichem Ende das seit 1784
bestehende Théâtre du Palais-Royal lag, im Norden die „Galerie de
Beaujolais“. 186 Arkaden umgaben den prächtigen Garten des
Palais-Royal, der in Form eines Parallelogrammes sich ausdehnte.
In seiner unmittelbaren Nähe wurde das Theater der „Comédie
française“ erbaut.[264]
 In Palais-Royal entwickelte sich nun vor und während der
Revolution jenes überaus lebhafte und bunte Treiben, das so viele
vortreffliche Schilderer aus allen Ländern gefunden hat. Wie es hier
im Jahre 1750, also vor dem Umbau aussah, erzählt Casanova[265]:
„Neugierig auf diesen so vielgerühmten Ort, beobachtete ich Alles.
Ich sah einen ziemlich hübschen Garten, Alleen grosser Bäume,
Bassins, hohe Häuser, welche ihn umgaben, viele Männer und
Frauen, die spazieren gingen, hier und dort Bänke, auf denen man
Broschüren, Parfums, Zahnstocher und Kleinigkeiten verkaufte. Ich
sah ganze Haufen von Strohstühlen, die man für einen Sou
vermietete, Zeitungsleser die sich im Schatten hielten, Mädchen und
Männer, die allein oder in Gesellschaft frühstückten, Kellner, welche
schnell die unter Laubwerk verborgenen Treppen hinauf und
hinabeilten.“ Ein Abbé nannte Casanova die Namen aller Dirnen, die
dort herumspazierten.
Aus dem Beginne der Revolution besitzen wir eine höchst
interessante und wahrheitsgetreue Schilderung des Palais-Royal,
dieser „capitale de Paris“, wie er es nennt, von dem oldenburgischen
Justizrat Gerhard Anton von Halem, dem Freunde der Grafen
Stolberg und Verfasser der Geschichte des Herzogtums Oldenburg.
Er war im Jahre 1790 in Paris. Schon beim Einzug lernte er das
Hauptmerkmal dieser Stadt kennen.[266] Als die Reisenden
hineinfuhren, wanden sich Haufen von Buben in Ringelreihen und
sangen ein Chanson mit dem Refrain:
Viva l’amour
Viva l’amour!

Dann heisst es in dem dreissigsten Reisebriefe: „Die Inschrift von

Epikurs Gärten:
„Fremdling! hier wird dir wohl sein!
Das grösste Gut ist hier Wollust,“

würde ganz für das Palais-Royal passen. Das Detail von seinen
Herrlichkeiten, sowie von denen der Boulevards und des Pont-neuf,
las man schon vor meiner Abreise in mehreren deutschen
Journalen; und wenn ich Sie also geradezu in die allée des Soupirs
führe, so kommen Sie an keinen unbekannten Ort. Hier muss ich Sie
aber Ihrem Schicksal überlassen. Sehen Sie zu, wie Sie sich durch
Scylla und Charybdis, die Braune und die Blonde, ohne zu scheitern
durchschiffen. Verbinden Sie Ihre Augen, um nicht die
vorüberrauschenden Schönen, deren Reize der Abend hebt, nicht
ihre schmachtenden Blicke, nicht die Blumensträusse, die sie so
freundlich darbieten, zu sehen; verstopfen Sie, wie Ulyss, Ihre
Ohren, um weder jenes sanfte Gelispel, jene Tassoischen sorrisi,
parolette e dolci stille di pianto o sospiri, jene lockenden „Viquets“
(wie geht’s) und „good night, my dear Sir!“ noch den Sirenengesang
zu vernehmen:
„Aimons au moment du réveil,
Aimons au lever de l’Aurore,
Aimons au coucher du soleil,
Durant la nuit aimons encore.“

Trotz der etwas idealisierenden Erzählung Halem’s erkennt man,

dass das Palais-Royal nichts weiter war als der
Hauptversammlungsort der Freudenmädchen. Halem’s Schilderung
ist deswegen von Interesse, weil ihr die Ehre widerfahren ist, von
Arthur Chuquet, dem treuen Teutophilen, Freunde unserer Literatur
und alter deutscher Bücher, ins Französische übersetzt zu
werden[267]. Halem, der Mitglied des Jakobinerklubs wurde, berichtet
auch haarsträubende Dinge über die sittliche Korruption in dem
Hause, wo er Wohnung genommen hatte.
Wenn im Jahre 1772 der Marquis de Carraccioli noch bemerkt,
dass das Palais-Royal die Promenade der Elegants sei, der
Luxembourg die der Träumer, die Tuilerien, die „von aller Welt“, vor
und nach der Oper, besonders des Abends, so konzentrierte sich
nach dem Brande der Oper (1781) und nach der Umgestaltung des
Palais-Royal durch den Bau von Galerien und Arkaden das gesamte
Nachtleben von Paris an diesem Orte.[268] Hier spielten sich dann,
besonders mit beginnender Dunkelheit, während der Revolution und
des Direktoriums alle jene scheusslichen Szenen ab, deren wir zum
Teil schon oben gedacht haben. Das Palais-Royal wurde eine „Höhle
der Schurken und Dirnen“[269], die „Kloake von Paris“, wie es Mercier
in „Le nouveau Paris“ und Rétif de la Bretonne in seinem grossen
Werke über das Palais-Royal geschildert haben. Rétif hat das Leben
im Palais-Royal untersucht wie „der Anatom den Leichnam“. Im
„Monsieur Nicolas“ schreibt er 1796: „Man weiss, dass das neue
Palais-Royal das allgemeine Rendez-vous der Leidenschaften,
Unternehmungen, der Wollust, Prostitution, des Spiels, der Agiotage,
des Geldverkehrs, der Assignaten, und daher das Zentrum für alle
Beobachtungen geworden ist. Dieser berühmte Bazar zog mich nicht
blos durch seine Sehenswürdigkeiten an, sondern auch durch die
Vergnügungen, welche ich dort fand.“[270]
Mercier wünscht lebhaft, dass doch Lavater, der berühmte
Physiognomiker, an einem Freitag Abend im Palais-Royal anwesend
sein möge, um dort auf den Gesichtern alles zu lesen, was der
Mensch sonst im innersten Herzen zu verbergen pflegt. Dort seien
die Dirnen, die Courtisanen, die Herzoginnen und die ehrbaren
Bürgerfrauen und Niemand täusche sich dort. Aber vielleicht würde
dieser grosse Doktor mit all seiner Wissenschaft sich täuschen.
Denn hier handelt es sich um Unterscheidung sehr feiner Nüancen,
die man an Ort und Stelle studieren müsse. „Ich behaupte nun, dass
Herr Lavater sehr grosse Mühe haben würde, eine Frau von Stellung
von einer unterhaltenen Dirne zu unterscheiden, und dass der
gewöhnlichste Kaufmannsgehilfe ohne grosses Studieren mehr
davon weiss als er.“ Dort betrachtet man sich mit einer
Ungeniertheit, die nirgends in der Welt üblich als in Paris, und in
Paris nur im Palais-Royal. Man spricht laut, man ruft sich an, man
nennt die vorbeigehenden Frauen mit Namen, ebenso ihre Gatten,
ihre Liebhaber. Man charakterisiert sie mit einem Wort. Man lacht
sich ins Gesicht. Und alles ohne beleidigende Absicht. Man wird im
Wirbel mit fortgerissen und lässt sich alle Blicke und Worte gefallen.
Ja, in Paris und im Palais-Royal hätte Lavater seine
physiognomischen Studien machen müssen.[271]
Dort empfingen auch die geistvollen Leute ihre Anregungen,
suchten dort ihre Gesellschaft, gaben sich dort ihren Gedanken hin.
„Es mag schön oder hässlich Wetter sein, meine Gewohnheit bleibt
auf jeden Fall um 5 Uhr abends im Palais-Royal spazieren zu gehen.
Mich sieht man immer allein, nachdenklich auf der Bank d’Argenson.
Ich unterhalte mich mit mir selbst von Politik, von Liebe, von
Geschmack oder Philosophie, und überlasse meinen Geist seiner
ganzen Leichtfertigkeit. Mag er doch die erste Idee verfolgen, die
sich zeigt, sie sei weise oder thöricht! So sieht man in der Allée de
Foi unsere jungen Liederlichen einer Courtisane auf den Fersen
folgen, die mit unverschämtem Wesen, lachendem Gesicht,
lebhaften Augen, stumpfer Nase dahingeht; aber gleich verlassen
sie diese um eine andere, necken sie sämtlich und binden sich an
keine. Meine Gedanken sind meine Dirnen.“ So spricht Diderot im
Anfange von „Rameaus Neffe“ nach der Uebersetzung unseres
Goethe. Wieder ein köstliches Genrebild aus dem Palais-Royal und
eine merkwürdige Vergleichung.
Diese „nächtlichen Promenaden“ im Palais-Royal waren in der
ganzen Welt berühmt und repräsentierten die erste Pariser
Sehenswürdigkeit. Hier suchte man pikante Abenteuer und fand sie.
Es kam oft vor, dass Männer, die im Palais-Royal ihr Vergnügen
suchten, bei den nächtlichen Promenaden ihre eigenen Frauen in
gleicher Absicht lustwandelnd ertappten oder gar mit einem Galan
überraschten.[272] Die Frauen des Palais-Royal waren alle Dirnen, ob
sie nun zur engeren Prostitution gehörten oder nicht. Wer sich
nächtlicher Weile dorthin begab, hatte sich damit einen gewissen
Stempel aufgedrückt. Ein galantes Gedicht feiert diese nächtlichen,
sternenbeglänzten Schönheiten des Palais-Royal.[273]
Vivent les nuits étoilées
De ce jardin enchanteur
Où nos femmes sont voilées,
Aux dépens de la pudeur!
Dessous ces fraiches allées
La moins sage est à l’abri
De la honte et du mari.

Ce mélange d’impudence,
De tendresse et de gaîté,
Depuis quelque temps en France,
Fait notre amabilité.
La prude et froide décence
Combat, brouille tous les goûts;
La licence les joint tous.
 Die berühmte „Seufzerallee“ (Allée des Soupirs) war die
Promenade der schönsten und verführerischsten Mädchen und
Frauen, die sich aus allen Gesellschaftsklassen rekrutierten.
Vornehme Damen, die Theaterwelt, die höhere Demi-monde und die
feineren Dirnen waren hier das Ziel der beutelustigen Lebemänner.
Aber auch in den übrigen Alléen, in der „Allée de la Foi“, den „Allées
de Club“, unter den Colonnaden und Arcaden tummelten sich
unzählige Spenderinnen der Lust, begehrt, verfolgt und umworben
von jungen und alten Wüstlingen aus allen Teilen der Welt. Hier war
das Eldorado der Prostitution. Hier waren ihre Schlupfwinkel in
Gestalt zahlreicher Verkaufsläden, Kneipen, Spielhäuser, Variétés,
Theater. Hier lernte Rétif de la Bretonne von seinem Freunde, dem
berüchtigten Charlatan Guilbert de Préval, der in alle Geheimnisse
und Arten der Wollust im Palais-Royal eingeweiht war, „die
verschiedenen Arten, sich mit Frauen zu amüsieren“ kennen oder
„wie man die Frauen zum Vergnügen der Männer abrichtet“. Rétif
konnte aus der Erinnerung die Namen der Dirnen der Seufzerallee
aufschreiben, er kannte auch die „Huris“, die „Exsunamitinnen“, die
„Berceuses“, die „Chanteuses“, die „Converseuses“, lauter „dem 18.
Jahrhundert eigentümliche moralische Phänomene“ oder wie wir
heute sagen würden, lauter verschiedene sexualpathologische
Typen. Rétif’s Werk über das Palais-Royal ist uns durch einen
Neudruck (bei A. Christiaens in Brüssel, 3 Bände) zugänglich
geworden. Der Verfasser sagt über den Inhalt desselben in der
Vorrede: „Pfui! welch eine Geschichte!“ — Ha! ha! gnädiger Herr,
gnädige Frau, gnädige Fräulein, machen Sie nicht immer so ‚Pfui‘!
Sie lesen doch die Geschichte des Affen, des Ochsen, des
Elephanten, des Rhinoceros, und Buffon hat Sie für den Esel zu
interessieren gewusst. .. Wir werden Ihnen von menschlichen
Wesen erzählen und ein sehr moralisches Buch über sehr
unmoralische Geschöpfe schreiben, die trotz einiger Aehnlichkeiten
sich weit über Stuten, Eselinnen und alles mögliche Getier erheben.
Die Schönen des Palais-Royal sind sehr hübsch, besonders die
jungen. Was die Alten betrifft, so ist es damit wie überall: ein altes
Tier ist niemals schön. — Wie es sich auch verhalte, wir werden
Ihnen merkwürdige, unerhörte Sitten vorführen, viel pikantere als vor
sechs Monaten. Aber vorher wollen wir eine Vorstellung geben von
dem Gesichte, dem Alter, dem Wuchse, der Haltung, dem Gange,
den Sitten und Talenten dieser Schönen, unter den „noms de
guerre“, die sie angenommen haben.“ Hierauf beschreibt Rétif 32
Freudenmädchen aus der „Allée des Soupirs“, die man auch auf
einem dem ersten Bande beigegebenen Bilde erblickt. Er erzählt
dann die Geschichte jedes einzelnen Mädchens, wobei häufig die
interessantesten Streiflichter auf die Sitten der Revolutionszeit fallen.
Der zweite Band führt uns in den berühmten „Cirkus“ des Palais-
Royal. „Die Majestät dieses Saales, der Reiz des Orchesters, die
anmutigen Bewegungen der Tänzerinnen, die Schönheit, die
Eleganz der Zuschauerinnen, alles trug dazu bei, um diesem
schönen Souterrain ein magisches Aussehen zu geben. Ferner
wurde die Aufmerksamkeit durch Spiele erregt, durch Kaffeetische
und heimliche Cabinette, welche der Wollust und selbst der Liebe als
Zufluchtsort dienen konnten. Nachdem wir alles dies geprüft hatten,
bemerkten wir gegen neun Uhr, in dem Augenblick, wo alle
anständigen Frauen hinausgingen, um fein zu soupiren, dass nur die
öffentlichen Mädchen dort blieben. Wir beobachteten sie neugierig in
unserer Eigenschaft als Aushorcher.“ Eins der zurückbleibenden
Mädchen diente ihnen als Cicerona und berichtete ihnen über die
anderen, die sogenannten „Sunamitinnen“.
Die Sunamitinnen trugen ihren Namen nach der bekannten
Beischläferin des Königs David, welche durch ihre Lebenswärme die
Kräfte des alternden Königs neu beleben sollte. In Paris gab es im
vorigen Jahrhundert Unternehmerinnen im Palais-Royal, die sich zu
diesem Zwecke zahlreiche Mädchen hielten, die in der ersten Blüte
ihres Alters und vollkommen gesund sein mussten, was man durch
den Genuss ausgewählter Speisen und durch tägliche Bewegung zu
unterstützen suchte. Zu der Kur eines einzigen Mannes werden
sechs Mädchen erfordert. Das erste Mal war die Matrone selbst
gegenwärtig, liess den Patienten in ein aromatisches Bad steigen
und nahm eine gründliche Reinigung seines Körpers vor. Dann legte
sie ihm einen festen Maulkorb an, führte ihn zu Bette und legte zu
beiden Seiten von ihm eine Sunamitin, deren Haut die seinige
berührte. Ein paar Mädchen konnten diesen Dienst nur 8 Nächte
hintereinander versehen, dann lösten ein paar frische sich ab und
die beiden ersten ruhten aus, badeten sich die ersten beiden Tage,
und vergnügten sich 14 Tage lang, bis die Reihe wieder an sie kam.
Der Alte musste nicht nur das dienstthuende, sondern auch die
ausruhenden Mädchen bezahlen, im ganzen drei Louisdors. Jedes
Mädchen bekam sechs Francs und die Matrone behielt die zwölf
übrigen für sich. Man gab sorgfältig Acht, dass die jungfräuliche
Keuschheit dieser Sunamitinnen unangetastet blieb. Denn sonst
würden die Lebensverlängerinnen, besonders während der
Schwangerschaft, schädlich statt nützlich sein. Erlaubte sich der
Patient den Genuss eines solchen Mädchens, so würde er sich nicht
allein sehr schaden, sondern musste auch eine beträchtliche
Summe verlieren, die er gleich anfangs in die Hände der
„Wiederherstellerin“ niederzulegen verpflichtet war. Ein Mädchen
diente zu diesem Gebrauche drei Jahre, von dem Zeitpunkt an
gerechnet, wo sie mannbar wurde. Später würde sie den Greis
beherrschen und „seine Ausflüsse zurückstossen, statt durch ihre
Einflüsse auf ihn zu wirken“, und würde sie ihm die „verderbten
Auswurfsflüssigkeiten zurückgeben, die sie von ihm empfangen
hatte.“ Ein Mädchen, das täglich gebraucht wurde, konnte höchstens
nur ein Jahr tauglich bleiben. Die Periode des sunamitischen
Dienstes war gleichsam das Noviziat zum Orden der Buhlerin. War
jene vorüber, so wurden sie in diesen eingeweiht.[274]
Auch in der „Justine“ des Marquis de Sade muss die Titelheldin
einem greisen Mönche diese nächtlichen sunamitischen Dienste
leisten (Justine II, 228).
Der dritte Band von Rétif’s „Palais-Royal“ spielt in den
„Colonaden“ und führt uns dort die „Converseuses“ oder
„Exsunamitinnen“ vor, 43 an der Zahl, die vornehme Damen auf die
mannigfaltigste Weise unterhalten mussten.
Von einer anderen Spezialität des Palais-Royal erzählt
Mercier[275]. In einem Restaurant, das gleichzeitig ein Bordell war,
öffnete sich während der Mahlzeit in einem Salon particulier auf ein
gegebenes Zeichen beim Rauschen einer sanften Musik und unter
einer Wolke von Wohlgerüchen der Balkon, und herabstiegen, wie
aus einem Olymp, ebenso schön als — leicht gekleidete Nymphen,
die dann — die Verdauung befördern halfen. Eine „satanisch
geistreiche“ Erfindung.
 Die vierundvierzig Figurae Veneris, die ein lasciver französischer
Schriftsteller zusammengestellt hat, könnten wohl bis aufs halbe
Hundert vermehrt werden, wenn man alle die Anerbietungen
addierte, welche einem zwischen elf und zwölf Uhr in einer schönen
Sommernacht in den hölzernen Gallerien des Palais-Royal von den
ebenso viele Spezialitäten der Liebe durch ihre verschiedenen
Namen ausdrückendes Dienerinnen der Venus gemacht wurden[276].
In der Schreckenszeit wurde das Palais-Royal ein Schauplatz der
wüstesten Orgien und ein ständiger Aufenthaltsort für den Auswurf
der Prostitution, für die Soldatendirne. Der Garten, die Gallerie und
andere öffentliche Räumlichkeiten des Palais-Royal wurden „ebenso
ekelhafte als ruhestörende Tummelplätze des Militärs und der
Freudenmädchen. Auf die schamloseste Weise ergingen sie sich
beiderseits öffentlich und rudelweise in den schmutzigsten
Handlungen und Zoten, so dass die Passage gehemmt ward und
kein anständiger Mensch sich blicken lassen durfte. Im Verlaufe des
Jahres gestaltete sich auch die Wasserseite des Tuileriengartens
abends zu einem ähnlichen Stelldichein in Masse zwischen Soldaten
und liederlichen Weibsbildern, die, den Skandal nicht achtend, hier
offen Unzucht trieben und Frechheiten aller Art. Ausserhalb und
innerhalb der Stadt feierten die Soldaten schauerliche Orgien.“[277]
Fast alle Soldaten in der Garde waren Zuhälter. Ja, viele nahmen in
diesem Corps nur Dienste, um auf Kosten einiger Dirnen zu leben.
[278]

Schliessen wir unsere Schilderung des Palais-Royal mit den

Worten eines der besten Kenner der gesamten Pariser Korruption im
18. Jahrhundert. Mairobert ruft im „Espion anglais“ aus: „Tous ces
monuments du luxe et de la volupté française n’approchent pas
d’une sorte de spectacle qui s’est établi naturellement et sans frais,
bien supérieur, suivant moi, par l’aisance, la familiarité, l’abandon qui
y règnent. Ce sont les promenades nocturnes du Palais-Royal.“[279]
Gegenüber dem Palais-Royal verschwanden die übrigen
Vergnügungslokale, die trotzdem in grosser Zahl vorhanden, aber
nur von kurzer Dauer waren, zumal da sie im Gegensatze zum
Palais-Royal ein Entrée erhoben. Die Vaux-hall d’été und d’hiver,
das Colisée waren die besuchtesten Unterhaltungsorte, in denen
man nach Entrichtung von 1 bis 3 Livres Entrée sich ebenfalls der
verschiedenartigsten Genüsse erfreuen konnte.
Ein italienischer Artist Torré oder Torres eröffnete das Vaux-hall
d’été im Jahre 1764 am Boulevard Saint-Martin. Hier wurden
Feuerwerk, Illuminationen veranstaltet, Ausstattungsstücke
gegeben. Von 1768 an kamen Bälle, ländliche Feste, Pantomimen
und Clownkunststücke hinzu.
Das Vaux-hall d’hiver befand sich im westlichen Teile des
Stadtteils Saint-Germain, nahe der rue Guisard. 1769 erbaut, wurde
es am 3. April 1770 eröffnet. Hier wurden hauptsächlich Ballets von
schönen Tänzerinnen aufgeführt. Im Jahre 1785 musste das
Unternehmen aufgegeben werden.
Das Colisée war ein Gebäude mit Garten für Tänze, Gesang,
Schauspiele, Feste, Feuerwerk u. s. w. Es lag im äussersten Westen
der Champs-Elysées, rechts von der Avenue Neuilly und wurde bei
der Vermählung des Dauphins (späteren Ludwig XVI.) eröffnet.
Schon 1778 ging das Etablissement ein.
Nach Dulaure war der öffentliche Zweck dieser Etablissements,
wie der vieler ähnlicher, die Pariser zu amüsieren. Der geheime
Zweck aber war der, sie „zu verderben, zu betäuben und
auszuplündern.“ Es wimmelte dort von Tänzerinnen und öffentlichen
Dirnen.[280]
 16. Die Onanie im 18. Jahrhundert.
Wir gehen nach der Schilderung der Verhältnisse der Prostitution
und nach der Beschreibung ihrer Hauptsitze nunmehr dazu über, die
hauptsächlichsten Verirrungen des Geschlechtslebens zu
untersuchen und beginnen mit der gewöhnlichsten, der Onanie.
Das „branler“ wie der technische Ausdruck bei Sade lautet, kehrt
fast auf jeder Seite wieder. Gleich im Anfang der „Justine“, als
Justine über den Verlust ihrer Eltern trauert, zeigt ihr Juliette, die im
Kloster diese Praktiken erlernt hat, an sich selbst die Befriedigung
durch Manustupration. Diese wollüstige Erregung, die man sich
jeden Augenblick ohne einen anderen verschaffen könne, sei der
beste Trost über alles Leid, da die Onanie mit Sicherheit alle
Schmerzempfindungen zum Verschwinden bringe. (Justine I, 5).
Delbène, die Oberin des Klosters, in dem Juliette erzogen wurde,
eine sehr wollüstige Frau, hatte schon im Alter von neun Jahren „ihre
Finger daran gewöhnt, den Wünschen ihres Kopfes zu antworten“
(Juliette I, 3). In der „Société des amis du crime“ existiert sogar ein
eigner „Saal für Masturbation“ (Juliette III, 65). Der Herzog von
Chablais rühmt denn auch die „französische Methode“ der Onanie
als die beste (Juliette III, 292). Madame de St-Ange, welche der
Eugenie im Anfang der „Philosophie dans le Boudoir“ einen ganzen
Lehrkursus in den Künsten und technischen Ausdrücken der Liebe
erteilt, vergisst auch nicht, sie mit der Onanie bekannt zu machen,
dieser bequemen Art „de se donner du plaisir“ (Philosophie dans le
Boudoir I, 43). —[281]
Mairobert lässt die Madame Richard sich in charakteristischer
Weise über die ungeheuere Verbreitung der Onanie in Frankreich
äussern. Diese so raffinierte Kunst, welche, wie sie von einem
Geistlichen und Mitglied der Akademie der schönen Wissenschaften
erfahren habe, bei den Alten sehr in Flor gewesen, später aber
vernachlässigt worden sei, werde immer mehr Mode in diesem
Jahrhundert der Wollust und der — Philosophie. In den berühmten
Bordellen der Florence, der Paris, der Gourdan, der Brisson, könne
man diese Künste sehen. „Viele treiben auch einfache und mutuelle
Onanie, um keine Kinder zu bekommen oder die syphilitische
Ansteckung zu vermeiden.“[282]
Höchst realistisch, in glühend sinnlichen Farben schildert La
Mettrie die „voluptueuse approche des doigts libertins“[283], und die
mutuelle Onanie zwischen Frauen muss sehr verbreitet gewesen
sein, um das folgende boshafte Couplet hervorzurufen[284]:
Il est des Dames cruelles,
Et l’on s’en plaint chaque jour:
Savez-vous pourquoi ces belles
Sont si froides en amour?
Ces Dames se font entr’elles,
Par un généreux retour
Ce qu’on appelle un doigt de cour.

Für immer verewigt sind die zügellosen Ausschweifungen der

Onanie im 18. Jahrhundert durch die berühmte Monographie von
Simon André Tissot über die Onanie,[285] das erste Werk seiner Art,
das „in glühendsten Farben, in brillantem, geradezu klassischem
Stile die Folgen unseres Lasters, überhaupt sexueller
Ausschweifungen der damaligen verlotterten französischen
Bourgeoisie vor Augen führte, ein Werk, das trotz seiner
Ueberhebungen und Uebertreibungen der Folgen der Onanie oder
wohl auch infolge derselben ein ungeheures Aufsehen erregte und
zu europäischer Berühmtheit gelangte, das viele Auflagen erlebte
und von der damaligen Zeit fast verschlungen wurde.“[286]
 17. Die Tribadie im 18. Jahrhundert.
Dieses Kapitel ist vielleicht das kulturgeschichtlich merkwürdigste
in Beziehung auf das Geschlechtsleben Frankreichs im 18.
Jahrhundert. Wir glauben nicht, dass selbst das antike Lesbos
derartige Zustände gesehen hat, wie sie in Frankreich im vorigen
Jahrhundert herrschten. Auch hier spiegeln die Werke de Sade’s
getreu das Bild jener Zeit wieder und belehren über die Häufigkeit
des amor lesbicus oder der sapphischen Liebe.
Die „Juliette“ wird gleich eröffnet mit der Beschreibung der
wollüstigsten tribadischen Szenen zwischen den Nonnen des
Klosters Panthémont (Juliette I, 43 ff.); Mondor ergötzt sich an einer
ihm vorgeführten lesbischen Liebesszene (Juliette I, 283). Ein
ausgezeichneter Typus einer Tribade wird in der von einem
glühenden Männerhasse erfüllten Clairwil gezeichnet (Juliette II,
106), die dann gleich mit Juliette und vier anderen Frauen eine Orgie
veranstaltet (Juliette II, 138–150 auch III, 157.) Die höchste
tribadische Kunst findet sich in Bologna (Juliette III, 306 ff.). Die
Prinzessin Borghese (Juliette IV, 100 ff.), die Königin Karoline von
Neapel (Juliette V, 259, VI, 12 ff.) sind Tribaden. Sehr zahlreiche
Anhänger hat diese Spezialität der Liebe in Venedig (Juliette VI, 156
ff.).
In „Justine“ kommen ebenfalls, wenn auch nicht so häufig,
lesbische Szenen vor, z. B. zwischen Dorothée und Madame
Gernande (Justine III, 284); Séraphine ist eine Verehrerin der
sapphischen Kunst (Justine IV, 116).
Auch an Andeutungen zu einer Erklärung der Tribadie lässt es
Sade nicht fehlen. Eine tribadische Orgie zwischen Juliette und der
Durand betrifft eine junge und alte Frau, welche letztere im Herbst
ihres Lebens wohl keine Männer mehr anlockt und daher gern
geneigt ist, als Surrogat die Liebe beim gleichen Geschlecht zu
suchen (Juliette III, 60–64). Vielleicht prädestinierte sie aber auch
ihre „lange Clitoris“ zu diesem Geschicke. Wenigstens hebt Sade bei
einer anderen Tribade Madame de Volmar (Juliette I, 34) dies
ausdrücklich hervor. Diese, erst 20 Jahre alt, ist „die wollüstigste
Gefährtin der Delbène und hat eine ‚clitoris de trois pouces‘,
wodurch sie befähigt wird, die Rolle eines Mannes und Paederasten
zu spielen.[287] Solch ein Weib mit männlichen Allüren ist auch die
venezianische Tribade Zatta (Juliette VI, 194). Sade behauptet, dass
fast alle Tribaden die Praktik der Paedicatio übten. Denn mit den
Leidenschaften der Männer hätten sie auch deren Raffinements sich
angeeignet und „comme celui de la sodomie[288] est le plus délicat
de tous, il est tout simple qu’elles en composent un de leurs plus
divins plaisirs“. (Justine I, 253).
Eine grosse von 30 Hofdamen ausgeführte Tribadenszene
beschreibt auch Mirabeau in „Ma conversion“.[289]
Die Schilderungen dieser Autoren, denen sich noch Diderot mit
seiner „Nonne“ und zahlreiche Andere anreihen liessen, haben die
Wirklichkeit nicht überboten. Mairobert hat nämlich in seinem
„Espion anglais“ mehrere hochinteressante Dokumente beigebracht,
welche uns einen überraschenden Einblick in das Treiben und die
Organisation der Pariser Tribaden des 18. Jahrhunderts gewähren.
Es ist die schon öfter erwähnte „Confession d’une jeune fille“,
welcher wir hier folgen[290] und welche uns ein lebensvolles Bild der
Mysterien der berüchtigten „Secte Anandryne“ entrollt, welche im
„Tempel der Vesta“ ihre Orgien feierte.
Ein junges Mädchen aus dem Dorfe Villiers-le-Bel, Tochter eines
Bauern, war von der Madame Gourdan für ihr Bordell eingefangen
worden. Eines Tages traf der Vater sie als Dirne bei den Tuilerien. Es
kam zu einem grossen öffentlichen Skandale. Die Tochter war aber
bereits für die königliche Akademie der Musik verpflichtet worden, so
dass der Vater unverrichteter Sache heimkehren musste.
Ausserdem war sie schwanger. Mairobert, der dem Auftritte
beiwohnte, liess sich von dem Mädchen, die sich Mademoiselle
Sapho nannte, ihre Lebensgeschichte erzählen. Es ist aber mit
Sicherheit anzunehmen, dass Mairobert, als königlicher Censor in
alle Geheimnisse der Pariser Gesellschaft eingeweiht, in die
„Confession d’une jeune fille“ seine eigenen Erfahrungen verwebt
hat. Auf jeden Fall stellt diese seltsame Beichte einen der
allerwichtigsten Beiträge zur Kultur und Sittengeschichte des vorigen
Jahrhunderts dar, dem wir daher eine ausführliche Besprechung
widmen.
Von Jugend auf war Sapho zur Koketterie geneigt, putzsüchtig,
eitel, faul und vergnügungssüchtig, kurz sie besass alle Anlagen, um
eine Dirne zu werden. Mit 15 Jahren war sie bereits sehr lasciv, so
dass sie sich in ihrer Nacktheit selbst bewunderte und den Spiegel
häufig benutzte,[291] wobei sie sich selbst am ganzen Körper
liebkoste. „Je caressais ma gorge, mes fesses, mon ventre; je jouais
avec le poil noir qui ombrageait déjà le sanctuaire de l’amour;[292]
j’en chatouillais légèrement l’entrée. Cependant je sentais en cette
partie un feu dévorant; je me frottais avec délice contre les corps
durs; contre une petite sœur que j’avais.“ Dieses Geständnis ist sehr
lehrreich und beweist, wie so häufig eine sexuelle Perversität zu
Stande kommt. Nehmen wir an, Sapho wäre nicht von der Gourdan
entführt worden, wäre weiter so streng von ihren Eltern im Hause
gehalten worden, ohne Gelegenheit zum Verkehr mit einem Manne
zu finden, so ist es klar, dass eine solche zügellose und feurige
Natur ganz von selbst auf den Weg der Tribadie gedrängt worden
wäre, indem sie sich immer mehr an ihre Schwester gewöhnt hätte,
und schliesslich dieser Umgang ihr ein Bedürfnis geworden wäre.
Die Gewohnheit, das Erworbensein der conträrsexuellen Gefühle
spielt die Hauptrolle. Wir betrachten die Heredität sehr skeptisch.
Eines Tages wurde Sapho bei diesen Manipulationen von ihrer
Mutter überrascht und sehr hart bestraft, so dass sie beschloss, aus
dem Elternhause zu entfliehen. Wie wir früher erwähnten, hatte
Madame Gourdan eine Filiale ihres Pariser Bordells in Villiers-le-Bel,
deren Insassinnen Sapho oft schön geschmückt, lachend, singend
und tanzend im Dorfe umhergehen sah. Sie beschloss, dorthin zu
gehen, wurde natürlich mit Freuden aufgenommen und von der
Gourdan nach Paris gebracht, wo sie zunächst bei einem
Helfershelfer, einem Gardisten, untergebracht wurde, dessen Frau
die erste Prostituierung der Gourdan’schen Novizen besorgen
musste. Nachdem dieselbe aber eine genaue Inspektion des
Mädchens vorgenommen hatte, verzichtete sie auf ihr gewöhnliches
Vorhaben und richtete folgenden charakteristischen Brief an die
Gourdan[293]:

„Sie haben ein Peru in diesem Kinde gefunden; sie ist bei
meiner Ehre ‚pucelle‘, wenn sie nicht ‚vierge‘ ist. Aber sie hat
clitoridem diabolicam. Sie wird sich daher mehr für Frauen als
für Männer eignen. Unsere renommierten Tribaden müssen
Ihnen diese Acquisition mit Gold aufwiegen.“

Von dieser Entdeckung benachrichtigte die Gourdan sofort

Madame de Furiel, eine der berühmtesten Tribaden von Paris, durch
den folgenden Brief:

„Madame,
ich habe für Sie ein Königs- oder vielmehr ein Königinnenstück
entdeckt — für diejenigen wenigstens ist es das, die Ihren
depravierten Geschmack haben — denn ich kann eine meinen
Neigungen ganz entgegengesetzte Leidenschaft nicht anders
beurteilen. Aber ich kenne Ihre Freigebigkeit, die mich veranlasst,
meine Rigorosität etwas zurückzuhalten, und benachrichtige Sie,
dass ich zu Ihren Diensten pulcherrimam clitoridem von
Frankreich halte, eine Jungfrau von höchstens 15 Jahren.
Probieren Sie dieselbe (essayez-la) und ich bin überzeugt, dass
Sie mir nicht dankbar genug sein können. Andernfalls senden Sie
mir dieselbe zurück, vorausgesetzt, dass Sie ihr nicht zu viel
angethan haben. Es wird immer noch eine ausgezeichnete
Jungfrauenschaft für die besten Feinschmecker sein.
Verbleibe in Hochachtung u. s. w.
Ihre Gourdan.“

Das Geschäft kam zu Stande, und Sapho wurde für 100

Louisdors an die Furiel verkauft.
Es folgt nun eine Schilderung des üppigen Hauses der Madame
de Furiel. Zuerst musste Sapho ein Bad nehmen, erhielt ein
opulentes Souper und musste dann schlafen gehen. Am folgenden
Morgen untersuchte zunächst der Zahnarzt der Furiel Saphos Mund,
brachte die Zähne in Ordnung, reinigte sie und gab ihr ein
aromatisches Mundwasser. Dann erfolgte wieder ein Bad,
sorgfältiges Beschneiden der Nägel an Händen und Füssen und
Entfernen der Hühneraugen und — überflüssigen Haare; Kämmen
der Haare. Zwei junge Gartenmädchen reinigten ihr alle
Körperöffnungen, aures, anum, vulvam,[294] massierten
voluptueusement alle Gelenke nach Art der „Germanen“, um sie
biegsamer zu machen. Darauf begoss man sie mit wohlriechenden
Essenzen in grossen Mengen, frisierte sie mit einem sehr lockeren
Chignon, dessen Locken auf Schultern und Busen wallten und
steckte ihr Blumen ins Haar. Ein Hemd à la tribade, d. h. vorn und
hinten offen (vom Gürtel an bis unten) und mit Bändern geschmückt,
ein Mieder um die Brust und ein „Intime“ d. h. ein aus
Mousselinstoffen bestehender Unterrock, der sich eng an den
Körper anschmiegte, darüber eine rotseidene Polonaise bildeten ihre
neue Kleidung. So wurde sie zu Madame de Furiel geführt.
Madame de Furiel empfing sie, auf einem Sopha ruhend. Sie war
eine Frau von 30 bis 32 Jahren, brünett mit sehr schwarzen Brauen,
etwas beleibt und etwas Männliches (hommasse) in ihrem ganzen
Habitus darbietend. Doch geberdete sie sich als die zärtliche
„Mama“, die nur „ein wenig Liebe“ beanspruchte, zeigte ihr das
Symbol der Tribadie, zwei mit einander schnäbelnde Tauben. Elle
darde sa langue dans la bouche, bewunderte die mammas duras,
marmoreas und fragte, ob man ihr schon einmal das Gesäss
gegeisselt habe. Das könne Niemand so gut wie sie. Nates levissime
flagellavit quod maximam dedit voluptatem filiae. Defigit illa
postremum in cunnum oculus. „O clitoridem pulcherrimam magna
voce clamat, qua Sappho ipsa non habuit pulchriorem. Eris mihi
Sappho.“ Et per duas horas artifex filiae fuit Veneris novae.
Nach zweistündiger Einweihung Sapho’s in die Mysterien der
lesbischen Liebe, rief Madame de Furiel zwei Kammerfrauen, von
denen sie Beide gewaschen und parfümiert wurden, um sich dann
bei einem deliciösen Souper zu erholen, bei welchem die Furiel
Sapho Aufklärungen über die Tribadie in Paris gab, die als „Secte
Anandryne“ organisiert im „Tempel der Vesta“ ihre geheimen Feste
feierte. Nicht jede Frau erhielt Zutritt. Es gab Proben für die, welche
den Eintritt wünschten. Besonders jene für verheiratete Frauen
waren sehr streng und von zehn bestand dieselben nur eine. Man
schloss die Betreffende in ein Boudoir ein, in dem sich eine Statue
des Priapus „dans toute son énergie“ befand. Ausserdem erblickte
man verschiedene Gruppen sich paarender Männer und Frauen in
den obscönsten Stellungen. Die Wandfresken stellten dieselben
Bilder dar. Zahlreiche Nachbildungen männlicher Glieder reizten die
Sinne; Bücher und Bilder obscönen Inhalts lagen auf einem Tische.
Am Fusse der Statue befand sich ein Feuer, das durch sehr leicht
verbrennbare Stoffe unterhalten werden musste, so dass die
„postulante“ immerwährend Acht darauf haben musste und genötigt
war, von diesen Materialien ununterbrochen etwas hineinzuwerfen;
vergass sie dieses nur einige Minuten, indem sie beim Anschauen
so vieler Gegenstände der männlichen Wollust ihrer Phantasie das
kleinste Spiel einräumte, so erlosch das Feuer und gab den Beweis
ihrer Zerstreuung und Schwäche. Diese Prüfungen dauerten drei
Tage und an jedem Tage drei Stunden.
Nach dieser Erzählung versprach Madame de Furiel unserer
Sapho schöne Kleider, Hüte, Diamanten, Kleinodien, Theater,
Promenaden, Unterricht im Lesen, Schreiben, Tanzen und Singen,
wenn sie ihr treu die Liebe bewahren wolle und nie mit Männern
verkehren werde. Dazu erklärte sich Sapho bereit.
Darauf begann am anderen Tag die grosse Metamorphose.
Wäscherinnen, Modistinnen, Toilettenverkäuferinnen kamen und
versorgten Sapho mit allem Comfort, worauf sie in die Oper geführt
und von den übrigen Tribaden lebhaft bewundert wurde. Die Männer
aber sagten in den Corridoren: „Die Furiel hat frisches Fleisch;
wirklich ganz neues; welch ein Jammer, dass es in so schlechte
Hände fällt.“
Am folgenden Tage geschah die Einführung der Sapho in die
Mysterien der anandrynischen Sekte mit grosser Feierlichkeit und
merkwürdigen Ceremonien. In der Mitte des „Tempels der Vesta“
befand sich ein Saal von runder Form, der durch eine Glasdecke von
oben und von den Seiten Licht empfing. Eine kleine Statue der Vesta
befand sich im Saale. Die Göttin war dargestellt, als ob sie, die
Füsse auf einen Globus gestützt, majestätisch in die Versammlung
herabstiege, um ihr zu präsidieren. Sie schwebte ganz in der Luft,
ohne dass dies Wunder die Eingeweihten überraschte.[295]
Um dieses Heiligtum der Göttin zog sich ein schmaler Korridor, in
dem 2 Tribaden während der Versammlung auf und ab gingen und
alle Zugänge bewachten. Dem aus zwei Flügelthüren bestehenden
Eingang gegenüber befand sich eine schwarze Marmortafel mit
goldenen Versen, zu beiden Seiten Altäre mit dem vestalischen
Feuer. Neben dem vornehmsten Altar stand die Büste der Sappho,
der Schutzheiligen des Tempels, der ältesten und berühmtesten
Tribade; neben dem anderen Altar die von Houdon angefertigte
Büste der Mademoiselle (alias Chevalier) d’Eon, der „berühmtesten
neueren Tribade“.[296] Rund umher an der Wand standen die Büsten
der von Sappho besungenen griechischen Tribaden, der Thelesyle,
Amythone, Kydno, Megare, Pyrrhine, Andromeda, Cyrine u. s. w. In
der Mitte des Saales stand ein grosses Ruhelager von mehr
rundlicher Form, auf dem die Präsidentin und ihre Schülerin ruhten.
Ringsherum sassen nach türkischer Sitte auf kleinen viereckigen
Fusspolstern die einzelnen tribadischen Paare „les jambes
entrelacées, chaque couple composée d’une mère et d’une novice“,
oder nach mystischer Terminologie eine „Incuba“ und eine
„Succuba“. Die Wände des Saales waren mit hundert Reliefs
geschmückt, welche die verschiedenen geheimen Teile des Weibes
darstellten, wie sie in dem „Tableau de l’amour conjugal“[297], in
Buffon’s „Histoire naturelle“ und bei den „geschicktesten“ Anatomen
abgebildet waren.
Die Aufnahme unserer Sapho gestaltete sich folgendermassen:
Alle Tribaden sassen auf ihren Plätzen, in ihren Festkleidern. Die
„Mütter“ trugen eine rote Levite mit blauem Gürtel, die Novizen eine
weisse Levite und einen roten Gürtel, Jacke und Hemd, mit vorn
offenen oder ganz empor geschlagenen Unterröcken. Als Sapho
eintrat, erblickte sie zuerst das heilige Feuer das auf einer goldenen
Pfanne mit lebhafter und aromatisch duftender Flamme brannte und
durch Hineinwerfen gepulverter Substanzen fortwährend von zwei
Tribaden unterhalten wurde. Sapho musste sich zu den Füssen der
Präsidentin Mademoiselle Raucourt, einer berühmten Schauspielerin
der Comédie Française, niederlassen, und ihre „Mutter“, Madame