Mata Hari's Last Dance by Michelle Moran Read Free Book Online

“Excellent. Yours?”
    I take one of the cigarettes the aviator gave me and light it the wayEdouard’s blonde did, tilting my head back and letting the smoke out, slowly, sensuously, as I practiced in the mirror. “Wonderful.”
    He grabs the cigarette from my mouth. “Jesus Christ, what are you doing?” He flings it out the window and I’m shocked. “That’s a nasty habit.”
    â€œYour blonde smokes!”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThe girl you left with last night.”
    â€œShe smokes? Well, notice who’s in the car with me. I don’t live with her.”
    â€œYou don’t live with me either!”
    We both brood for several long minutes. Edouard is the one to break the silence. “I have another engagement lined up for you,” he says. “But this isn’t like our previous arrangements. There will only be women in this audience.”
    â€œWives want to see me perform?”
    This makes him laugh. “I highly doubt it. You will be dancing for Comtesse de Loynes.” He waits several moments before realizing I haven’t heard of her. “Her literary salon is the most famous in Paris. She is in her sixties now; in her youth she had love affairs with half a dozen famous men, but she’s not truly interested in the male of the species. If your desire is to gain social prominence and recognition, Jeanne de Loynes can offer both to you on a platter. Her connections in this city are unsurpassed.”
    I think of the reporters who followed us to the Rothschilds’: What would they write if they knew I was engaged to perform nude for a group of women? They’d be trampling bushes to cover the story. “Is it already confirmed?”
    â€œAwaiting your approval.”
    â€œYes,” I say swiftly. “Of course. Tell her yes.”

Chapter 5
    Glistens Like Water
    S o this is the famous Mata Hari,” Comtesse de Loynes says a few days later.
    I have become an “overnight” sensation. Le Petit Parisien declares that I’m “the best-kept secret in France.” Le Figaro calls my performance for the Rothschilds “astounding.”
    â€œComtesse, it is a pleasure to meet you.” I hold out my hand so she can see the rings Guimet has gifted me and she squeezes my fingers, inspecting each one. Nothing about the Comtesse de Loynes is what I imagined. I had thought she would be tall and sophisticated—an older version of Edouard’s smoking blonde. But she’s petite and a bit plump, with a head of unruly still-brown curls. She reminds me of the American actress, Maude Fealy.
    â€œPlease, have a seat.”
    She indicates a silk chair patterned with flowers. If the parlor reflects the house, her entire home is decorated in purples and mauves. The impact is slightly disconcerting. She may be famous for her salon, but I doubt she has ever been praised for her taste in décor.
    â€œAnd please.” She leans forward. “Call me Jeanne.”
    Immediately, the image of another Jeanne forms in my mind. But I refuse to allow it to come into focus; I simply won’t allow myself to dwell on her. Not here. I focus on the heart-shaped face of the woman in front of me instead. “Jeanne,” I repeat, giving her name a Malaysian lilt, and her hands go to the pearls around her neck, drawing attention to her face. It thrills men to hear their names spoken with an accent. Now I know it thrills her, too.
    â€œYou don’t look like Isadora Duncan,” she says. “If you don’t mind my saying.”
    Yes, Isadora. The Dancing Nun. “My lawyer,” I say, brushing Isadora aside, “has told me you desire a sensual performance, a piece that is provocative.”
    â€œYes.” She moves closer to me. “I read in Le Figaro that the most sacred festivals”—her voice is a whisper—“involve a snake.”
    I actually feel the color draining from my face.