Mon, February 06 2012
| TITLE: | A Truffling Matter |
|---|---|
| AUTHOR: | Marielle d'Ablis |
| CATEGORY/TYPE: | Romance |
| RATING/WARNINGS: | NC-17, Adult-Het |
| MAIN CHARACTERS: | Passepartout\OFC |
| DESCRIPTION: | hetero smut with ROMANCE. |
| STATUS: | Complete |
| AUTHOR'S NOTE: | This story first appeared in Susan M. Garrett's Spicy Airship Stories. It appears here with her kind permission. Tidbit: I was approached by Susan to write some spice featuring the character of Passepartout, who lacked representation in the spicy zine. That was an omission that I could not live with, and so I picked up my pen in defense of the "Valet Extraordinaire." It was supposed to be short and sweet like a truffle. Instead, it turned out long and sweet - like a whole box of truffles…at least, I hope so. |
Phileas Fogg jaunted down the spiral staircase of the Aurora, his face lit with eager expectation. Finally, a foray into Paris that was unconnected to unpleasantness of any sort, he thought. There were no fiendish enemies to combat, naïve Vernes to rescue, or tenacious Rebeccas with which to argue. There would be intrigue, and hopefully even danger. However, the peril that Daphne von Triers represented was of the enticingly spicy sort. If danger was imminent and he must suffer from a quickening pulse and respiration, Daphne was the preferred genesis to Count Gregory.
He smiled devilishly. Pleasure, indeed. At their previous meeting, Fogg had presented the lady with an enormous bouquet of sterling-colored roses, which so delighted her that she invited Phileas to perform a comparative study between the tactile responses of skin upon rose petals versus skin upon skin. Such a keen scientific mind was rare in a beautiful woman. He hoped to inspire her to do further research this evening.
Fogg turned into the small, efficient galley to find his valet, Jean Passepartout, pulling grapes from their stems and arranging them in geometric shapes around a larger display of fruit. He was smiling happily, absorbed in this delicate duty when Fogg interrupted his musings.
"Is everything prepared for this evening, Passepartout?" Fogg asked, masking his impatience with a soporific tone. "Mademoiselle Von Triers has only looked forward to this reunion for the previous two weeks. I, on the other hand, have contemplated it for the previous two months. I should hate for the lady to believe that after such a brief separation, I have failed to recollect her most ardent passions."
The valet turned and assured his master enthusiastically, "Oh yes, Passepartout has purchased all the lady's passions exactly as spiffified."
Pointing to the array of varied edibles on the silver platter, he continued, "The wine is chilling, as you requested. The grapes are arranged. Passepartout even checked to make sure none of those tiny, little stemmies are still there. I think that Master going 'gaacck' while eating grapes may not have conductivity to Mademoiselle Von Triers, yes?"
Fogg nodded his head in agreement. If his valet's blathering was making sense to him then the evening's promise was unlimited. He watched as Passepartout walked to a cabinet, opened the door and removed three boxes.
Placing them on the counter, Passepartout turned and asked, "Does Mademoiselle Von Triers bring her own slates for chalkings?"
Confusion wrinkled Fogg's brow as he attempted to follow his manservant's convoluted logic, "What are you talking about?"
"The chalk, Master."
"What?"
Passepartout pointed to the boxes. "The chalk. You asked for chalk for the Mademoiselle. I quote…" he shrugged back his shoulders, assuming a demeanor of cultured superiority and spoke in the perfect upper-crust imitation of Fogg, "'Mademoiselle Von Triers has four passions: wine, roses, grapes and above all, lots of chalk.'" He returned to his normal posture and voice and reiterated his question, "Does the Mademoiselle bring her own slates for the chalk?" His face was expectantly hopeful, awaiting enlightenment.
Fogg pondered, "Lots of chalk? What on earth…? Passepartout! You idiot! I did not say lots of chalk! I requested chocolates! Daphne adores chocolates! Do you mean to tell me we have no chocolate?"
Passepartout's face fell in disbelief as the realization of his mistake seeped into his consciousness. He mouthed words, but no sound emanated from his throat. Instead, he merely did an excellent impression of a codfish for his now very agitated Master.
"No chocolate?" Fogg repeated testily.
"Master, Miss Rebecca gave the last to…Master Jules when he left yesterday. I…I…have not had time…to restick…our…supply?" Passepartout's voice grew softer as the sentence grew longer.
Fogg closed his eyes for a moment as he attempted to regain control of his rapidly rising temper. This simply would not do. All this effort and no chocolate, he thought. For heavens sake, what woman in her right mind would expect chalk rather than chocolate? He breathed deeply, slowly, counted to ten, to twenty, to fifty and finally relaxed. He opened his eyes and, focusing them evenly upon his valet, remarked, "I see. No chocolate. Well then, I suppose you should be going."
"Going, Master? But where? The grapes, I have not peeled them and…"
"We are in Paris sans confections. Mademoiselle Von Triers is not arriving for another four hours. You know my requirements regarding the quality of foodstuffs. She prefers truffles. That being said, consider yourself on a quest, as of…now."
"But…but…the shops are already closed for the night, Master. Where am I to find it?"
"I haven't the slightest idea. However, I should think that the sooner you begin your search, the better your chances of success."
Passepartout bobbed his head in submission, and with a small sigh answered, "Yes, Master."
Passepartout walked the streets of Paris as only a dejected soul could. None of the boulevards or rues brought him the usual welcoming gladness of being among his countrymen and certainly none brought him truffles. He stopped at the Cathedral of Notre Dame and fleetingly entertained the thought of lighting a candle, but decided against it. God had many serious petitions to consider: a box of truffles for an insignificant valet was not among of them.
He continued pacing the streets, unaware of his surroundings. Wandering down this alley and that, Passepartout rounded corners out of desperation rather than destination. His misery was abysmal. He failed his Master and now his Master would disappoint the lady. The lady would leave the Aurora unfulfilled and relay to her mortification at the dearth of desserts from one Mister Phileas Fogg of London, England, to anyone who would listen to such discontent murmurings. His Master's reputation for gentlemanly charm would be reduced to the same state as the elusive truffles: nonexistent.
Passepartout was convinced that his faux pas would result in a reduction in wages, dismissal from his position, or worse, though Jean was unable to think of worse at this particular moment. He was so preoccupied with his dark ruminations that he almost failed to notice the slight whiff of delicious scent that tickled enticingly at his nose.
Could it be? He froze, feet suddenly welded to the sidewalk, petrified by the fear that his senses were now slave to his unattainable desire to locate, contract and procure truffles. Shutting his eyes, Passepartout blocked out any extraneous stimuli, concentrating simply on the scent: warm, dark, and inviting.
Clamping his mouth shut, he breathed in slowly through his nose, expanding his lungs with a generous inhalation of the scent in order to determine the direction and intensity of the aroma. Tonight the wind blew gently from the southwest, which would mean that the chocolate was…there.
Passepartout's eyes popped open as he broke into a dazzling grin. There was definitely chocolate in this neighborhood. Good chocolate. Chocolate fit for his Master. And if his nose was any indicator, he only needed to round this next corner.
He scurried across the street, turned right and found a row of five unimposing shops. They were neat and tidy with nothing extraordinary to recommend them, except the overwhelming aroma of chocolate that wafted through the air. All the shops were closed. One, however, still spilled it's light onto the cobblestones from around the edges of the drawn shades.
Passepartout was drawn to the light like a suicidal moth to a flame. He reached the entrance and attempted to determine if there was anyone moving within, but was unable to see anything between the sliver of the window and the drawn shade. He crouched down and spied through the keyhole, giving a faint chuckle at the irony of a man named Passepartout doing such a thing. Seeing nothing, he straightened himself, and instead read the small, carved, wooden sign that hung beside the entrance, which stated, "Emile Darche and Son". There was no symbol or emblem indicating the type of business that Emile Darche engaged in. Passepartout cocked his head at the lack of advertisement. Then again, for this place you needed only to follow your nose, he thought.
Gathering his nerve, Passepartout blessed himself and rapped on the door. He waited expectantly for someone to answer, bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet to pass the time. Nothing happened. He rapped again, this time louder and more insistent. Still nothing. Passepartout was about to pummel the door down when he heard a woman's voice call from the other side, "Go away. We are closed for the night!"
He spoke into the slit between the door and the frame, "Mademoiselle? I know it is late and you are closed, but I need to speak with Monsieur Darche. Please, Mademoiselle."
The voice answered. This time it was closer, "Go away! Go home to your wife. Tell her you love her and will never do whatever it is you have done, again. Tomorrow bring her roses and she will forgive you."
Passepartout's eyebrows rose in speculation. What is this, he thought. Marriage advice from a chocolatier? He considered the connection for a moment and decided that perhaps, it was not so unusual. After all, why was he here? For a woman. And not even for his woman. Not even for his Master's woman. He was here for a woman that might be his Master's woman for one night if he obtained the required chocolate. Desserts were very complicated, he concluded.
"Mademoiselle, I have no wife. I am here for my Master and I would be in your debt interminiently if you would get Monsieur Darche. Please. I need to speak with Monsieur Darche!"
The handle turned, opening the door six inches to reveal a dark-haired woman on the other side. From what he could see of her, Passepartout guessed that she was perhaps a few years younger than himself. Definitely a woman. Definitely tired. He recognized that look.
"You are not the only one who would like to speak with Emile Darche. That is not possible, however, since he passed away six months ago." She took a small breath to steady herself. "If your Master had some business with my husband that I am unaware of, you will have to speak with my lawyer. Good night."
Before the door closed, Passepartout jammed his foot into the opening, stopping Madame Darche from closing him out. Already he regretted misspeaking to the widow. He would have gladly walked away from this embarrassment except that he wished to avoid adding failure to an already awkward situation.
"Forgive me. I am an idiot and it is ridiculous expectating you to open your store for me, a stranger. I am sorry about your husband, Madame. I did not know. I am sure he was a good man."
He bowed to her, but not before he looked into her dolorous eyes and saw the wellspring of unshed tears. Passepartout removed his foot as an obstacle as he changed his mind. He could not do this--impose on this woman whose heart was rubbed raw by grief. Six months was a day to some people, he knew. This woman… He shook his head in compassion. There would be no truffles for Mademoiselle Von Triers tonight. Tomorrow, he might be allowed to explain the circumstances to his Master.
He turned to walk away, expecting to hear a loud slam as the woman shut out his clumsy intrusion on her sorrow, but instead, there was silence. Madame Darche stood watching. Glancing over his shoulder, Passepartout saw that she had opened the door about an arm's length as she stood there considering him. He took a slow step in retreat when she spoke.
"Why are you an idiot, Monsieur? You did not know about my husband. It was a reasonable assumption - wrong, but reasonable. It has been my experience that idiots do not recognize themselves as such, and therefore, never actually call themselves idiots. That is something only a wise man would do."
Her words halted his retreat, though he did not turn to face her. He admired her logic, but he had pockets full of chalk to prove her otherwise. Placing a hand in his jacket, he extracted a box, holding it up for her inspection.
"Only an idiot, Madame, brings his Master chalk when he asks for chocolate. He specified truffles, God only knows what I will return with."
From across the threshold, her laughter bubbled out of the doorway and floated down the deserted street, bouncing joyfully off of the cobblestones as it did. He turned to see the woman leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, but smiling happily.
"Do you have a name?" she inquired.
He bowed to her gallantly, clicking his heels together as he did so, "I am Passepartout, Madame. Jean Passepartout."
"Well, Jean Passepartout, your name serves you well. I demand a box of chalk if you wish to enter the establishment of Therese Darche."
Her smile did not dim as she held out her hand expectantly. Passepartout, grinning with relief, handed over a box and followed her inside.
He blinked in the lamplight. They were standing in a small, Spartan room that was centered around two large glass cases. There were no decorative ornaments--nothing to give a gleam of insight about this woman or her life.
Now that he could see her completely, Passepartout noticed that she was, in fact, somewhat plump-- not fat, but rounded. Her womanly curves were obvious, but softened by time and perhaps, chocolate. Therese had dark brown hair, and excellent skin, but not the sort of dramatic porcelain that Miss Rebecca Fogg commanded. Her coloring instead brought to mind thoughts of light, delicate caramel. Her eyes, too, were a warm brown, and though they were a bit too small to be called beautiful, possessed spark, intelligence, and now curiosity about this unforeseen visitor. Her hair was pulled back tightly in combs, accentuating a well defined jaw that squared off her face. It was not an unpleasant face, merely - ordinary. She did have lovely lips-soft, round and full, just like her body and they were quick to communicate approval or not, as she saw fit.
"You can see for yourself, Jean Passepartout, that I have no truffles. My cases are empty and, as a rule, I do not sell to the general public…even for chalk." She noticed the disappointment in the valet's eyes and moderated her tone, "I work alone and have fallen behind on my orders. Yesterday, I ran out of brandy and forgot to buy more. I was up most of last night and…" Her voice trailed off to silence and she sighed, momentarily overwhelmed by her misfortunes. She waved her hand as if to dispel a fog of self-pity.
"None of which is your concern," she continued. "I would gladly give you the chocolates for the price of the laughter, which is something I am rather poor in at the moment. I am sorry."
Passepartout found himself moving closer to her. She was tired and overwhelmed, and it was both unchristian and ungentlemanly to leave a woman in distress, even a woman like Therese Darche--especially a woman like Therese Darche. Not every female was Miss Rebecca, competent and confident. Most were average, and very human-- even if they did not think so.
"Please, do not concern yourself. It does not matter. My Master is an intelligent man; he will find some other way to please his guest. In fact, he has spent the past two months, imagining precisely that. My interruption of your night was due only to your smelliness."
"My what?" she asked with confusion.
"The smelliness…of the chocolate," Passepartout repeated. "It fumigates the whole block. How could I resist?"
"You enjoy the scent of chocolate, yes?" Therese verified.
"Of course! I have just said as much, Madame."
Therese's laughter percolated out again. She nodded her understanding; her grin displaying a set of evenly set ivory teeth. She commented with a slight tease in her voice, "Oh my, Jean Passepartout! Two laughs in one night! I believe you could make me positively giddy. What you smelled was the chocolate melting. I sugared the flowers earlier."
Passepartout's face brightened with an idea. He opened his jacket and extracted his silver pocket watch from his vest pocket. Checking the time, the corners of his mouth tugged up into a smile that quickly spread to the rest of his face. He looked up, stood at attention and announced, "I believe that you are in need of an assistant. I so happen to have much familiarness with that particle room." He began to remove his coat.
"I…I don't know what to say. You cannot come into my kitchen. We don't even know each other." Her eyes widened in suspicion.
He hastened to reassure her, "No. No-- is all right. I am Passepartout, though you may call me Jean, if you prefer." Passepartout said this as if his name alone would explain the situation perfectly. Therese blinked, without comprehension. He continued, "I know the kitchen. I love the kitchen. I cook all the time up in the Aurora. I cook in London as well. I don't really know truffles, but I will learn. Together we can complete your order and perhaps have some left for my Master."
"You are a valet, no? Yet, your duties include cooking?"
"My duties are very ecceleptic." He puffed out his chest with pride, tugging at his waistcoat as he did. Passepartout snapped his fingers and displayed a mischievous grin as he went to the jacket and drew out another box of chalk, waving it in front of her temptingly. "I have more chalk, Madame Darche."
She hesitated, searching his face for any sign of dishonesty or evil. Finding none, Therese eyed the second box of chalk and agreed to Passepartout's terms.
"You may call me Therese," she acknowledged, holding out her hand to receive the second box. She took the boxes and led him behind the counter and through a door, which opened directly into a large, efficient kitchen dominated by an enormous table with a marble top. The left hand side of the table was covered with various sugared flora: violets, rose and chrysanthemum petals. Each flower sat crystallized in its beauty by sweet confection.
The center was covered with a large piece of gauze, under which sat an army of truffles awaiting their final completion. Two large pots simmered on the stovetop. Each with a copper bowl nestled on the top: one filled cream that was warming and the other with several small blocks of chocolate slowly melting. Another smaller pot contained chocolate that had already liquefied.
Therese entered with Passepartout close on her heels. She strode directly over to the warming cream and stirred it with a large wooden spoon. Ladling up a small amount, she transferred this into a teacup, dipped in her fingertips and "flicked" a small amount onto her inner wrist. She nodded, went to the table, and picking up a bowl that contained butter, lopped two large helping into the cream. Again, she stirred. Therese checked the chocolate, giving it one good stir to accelerate the melting process, and turned to her guest.
"This is my kitchen."
"It is a wonderful kitchen, Therese. Marble. Beautiful."
"The marble stays cold…for the chocolate. It sets perfectly when placed on marble." Her words began with excitement, then abruptly quelled, as if such a detail would bore her guest.
Passepartout, however, was not bored. He walked over to the table and examined it carefully; laying his hands on the cool surface, he traced a finger along the edge, feeling the grain and smoothness of the stone. A delighted expression transformed his face as he turned to her and asked, "Is Italian, yes?"
"Yes. Italian."
He wandered over to the candied flowers and tentatively touched a fragile violet.
"With your permission?"
"Of course."
Picking up the violet, Passepartout placed the flower on the tip of his tongue, letting it nestle and mold to his titillated organ. He drew it inside gently, so as not to disturb its placement as the sugars warmed and heated before finally dissolving to mix with his own juices. He felt the first rush of flavor caress his taste buds…vanilla. Therese had sugared these with vanilla sugar! He inhaled; letting the aroma of chocolate flood his nostrils as the taste of vanilla filled his mouth. His nerve endings absorbed the light and the dark, which entwined and blossomed in his brain like magic. As the first sensations subsided, he became aware of another, subtler flavor-violets. The soft taste of springtime entered his body, like a fresh, cooling breeze after a light rain. He sighed; unaware that he had closed his eyes at the first pulse of culinary delight.
Therese's voice, tinged with amusement, drew him back to the present.
"Initial reactions are always…interesting to see. You should sample the chrysanthemum petals; they are dusted with saffron."
"Mother of God, Therese!" he exclaimed, unable to suppress his awe at her creation. "I am humbled. Truly!" Passepartout grabbed her hand, planting a chivalric kiss on the top of it. He straightened, and met her eyes, which glowed at his compliment. Without releasing her hand from his grasp, Passepartout intuitively slipped his other hand on top of the one held captive, and slowly drew her towards him. He had not prepared for this, but did not feel she would protest one kiss on the cheek, perhaps.
She approached him with only a slight hesitation. When Therese was close enough so that he could embrace her, Passepartout leaned in and down within a hair's breath of her left ear. He felt his chest constrict with the pummeling of his heart. If there were no work to be done, he might have been bolder, but he knew that caution must be used in ways of the heart or hearth.
He bent lower, taking in perfumed air from her sweet breath. Therese whispered, "Jean, you have not even tasted the chocolate."
"Perhaps, that is the next course?" His face broke in to a crooked smile, as his raised his hand, fingers gently cupping her face, turning it towards him. A shiver rippled through her and quieted as Passepartout brushed the sweetness of her lips.
An infant's vociferous wail pierced the room, cleaving the two apart and dissolving the mood like a snowflake in August. Therese's eyes lost their softness, hooded once again with fatigue. Turning from him, she walked towards a small adjacent room that was divided from the kitchen by a sheer drape--a bedroom. Beside the bed, stood a small rocking cradle that now trembled with each demanding yowl.
"She is hungry. I had almost…forgotten. Would you mind stirring the bowls for me? Rose is teething and not very patient, I fear."
"Of course," Passepartout replied as he nodded still surprised at this inopportune announcement. A baby too, he thought, walking over to the stove to begin his assignment.
The bedroom was situated to the left of the stove and from that location, you could easily see into the room. Passepartout understood the need for this, just as he understood the lack of a door between the rooms. Therese needed easy access to the baby. Doors required handles and handles became messy if your hands are covered with chocolate. She could peek in whenever needed, without necessarily stopping her work. It was logical solution to Therese, but a distracting one to Passepartout, who now had an uninterrupted view of the room and the woman inside it.
She crossed immediately to the cradle and lifted the infant into her arms. The baby howled again, only louder as Therese attempted to soothe her with soft whispers and a gentle mother's touch. She walked to the bed, sat down and began to unbutton her blouse. The infant settled down to whimper, knowing her need would be satisfied momentarily.
Therese wore no chemise; just a blouse that when unbuttoned revealed most of her large swelling breasts. They were full, straining and ready to satisfy a voracious hunger. Her nipples were already hard and erect anticipating the release of dulcet nectar into a ravenous mouth. The baby whined, nuzzling her mother for nourishment. Therese positioned her child and brought her in closer, allowing the baby to latch on. Immediately the infant's famished cries were replaced by greedy suckling. Therese closed her eyes and rocked, humming quietly to her daughter.
Passepartout tried to remain oblivious, but it was nearly impossible. He could look right in without turning and the image presented, while tender and beautiful, was arousing as well. Were Passepartout alone, he might have moaned in envy of one so small, so hungry and so lucky. He felt a tingling in his loins and prayed that God to smite him with peripheral blindness. Suddenly, he was stirring the bowls a bit more vigorously than Therese intended.
A few minutes later, the baby fell asleep and Therese placed her pinky into the side of the infant's mouth to break the suction. Rose squirmed but did not reawaken and was returned to her cradle. Therese fastened her blouse enough to cover above her nipples and lifting her eyes, found Passepartout's stare upon her as he absently stirred a bowl.
She barely looked at him as she stepped out of the bedroom and stated, "We should get to work."
Passepartout nodded in agreement.
Therese instructed him to slowly pour the heated cream into the larger bowl of melted chocolate, which he did. Then, she took the spoon and stirred the two together until the mixture was well incorporated. Satisfied with the results, she removed the bowl from on top of the heated water and placed it in the corner of the marble tabletop for cooling. She removed the gauze sheet that covered the truffles that awaited completion. Therese switched simmering pots, bringing the smaller bowl that contained melted chocolate to the front and began her demonstration.
"This is how is it done."
She picked up a fork, slid it beneath the first truffle, and transferred the confection to the melted chocolate. Therese swirled the delicacy inside the bowl, completely engulfing the truffle with dark, delicious glaze.
"You must make sure the entire truffle is covered. If it is not, the flowers will not adhere properly."
She again slid the fork underneath the confection, and lifting it up, allowed the excess glaze to drip off. She tapped the side of the bowl three times to ensure a thin delicate coating.
"The tapping is important. If it is not done, the truffle will have a 'skirt' on its bottom. Some of my rivals do not mind 'skirts'. They forget that it destroys the look of the truffle, makes them difficult to pack and more importantly, wastes precious chocolate."
"No skirts," Passepartout repeated resisting the desire to suddenly mop his brow. "Skirts are not good. I prefer…no…skirts."
Therese then dropped the first truffle off of the fork, upside down, directly onto the marble. A strand of chocolate still adhered to the fork, which with a flip of her wrist, she turned into a perfect decorative swirl. Picking up a violet, Therese completed the confection.
"This one is finished. Would you like to try?" she offered.
Passepartout answered affirmatively and they switched their positions. He picked up the next truffle.
"No, Jean. Not the hands. The fork, please," she corrected.
"Hands would be faster, Therese," he replied.
She moved closer to him, her blouse now pressing against his arm. The contact inadvertently shifted the fabric enough to give Passepartout an picturesque view of her milk-filled bosoms, whose rise and fall with her breathing only served to intensify his desire to caress them-nuzzling them, demanding his due of their honey nectar to indulge his escalating thirst. She had enough ---enough to temporarily appease his appetite. The baby would not suffer. The infant would never know, but he would know and remember the taste of Therese's milk filling his mouth, flowing down his throat and filling his mouth again, because the tit wants to be sucked and teased and tasted. It is the only way that woman can fill a man and he would never be sated in that desire. His thirst would return and she would suckle him again- both them sharing in the sensual pleasure.
Therese took the chocolate from his hand, her fingers lingering for a moment, before replacing it on the table as if sensing his thoughts.
"Jean," she explained speaking in a low voice, "a truffle is easily excited. The heat of the body softens it until even the lightest touch of the fingers tips will elicit a response. Once it is pliant, it no longer has any desire to resist the heat. It gives itself over to the manipulation and all is lost. "
Passepartout knew Therese was speaking of chocolate. She said she was speaking of chocolate, but it is no longer sounding like chocolate. The tingle in his loins was rapidly becoming a fire, as Passepartout desperately tried to concentrate on truffles. He would remember truffles.
This is a good plan, he thought. I shall think of truffles. What are the ingredients? Cream. Cream is good; it is the best part of the milk and Therese's breast are bursting with milk. He shook his head attempting to dispel the image of her nursing. What else? Butter. Butter is soft and sweet and pliant like Therese' skin once it is heated by a man's fingertips… Again, he shook his head. Chocolate! That is what she is speaking of! Chocolate like the color of her hair, if only she would release it from the combs…touching her neck, falling over her breast that are swollen with milk. God help me!
Therese touched his arm, concern shadowing her face, "Jean, are you all right?"
His respiration was accelerated and his forearm burned where she touched him. Taking every ounce of self-control he possessed, Passepartout willed his fork to cease shaking. He stammered out a response, "Y..y..yes. I think so. I just feel…"
"It is the chocolate. It overwhelms the senses if you are unused to it. Would you like to sit down?"
"No, thank you, Therese. I just need a moment." He dropped the truffle onto the marble with a 'plop'; he tried to swirl the drizzle of glaze, but the coating evolved as more of a disjointed squiggle.
"You are satisfied?" he asked, no longer sure which subject matter he was discussing with her.
"It is only your first attempt, thus the rose petals. See?" Therese selected a petal, placing it over the truffle and tapped. The squiggle was now hidden from view beneath the bloom.
Passepartout smiled with relief, "Wonderful! You are a very smart woman!"
"Not really. I have merely made many mistakes. After about three more truffles, you will make no more mistakes. You are not concentrating."
"Yes. No. No, I am not. My Master tells me that constantly, you know."
Passepartout managed to collect himself as he spoke to Therese of his friends, the Aurora, and all the wonderful things he had seen. He omitted the not so wonderful things for her protection. There was no point in frightening her and he was not sure that she would believe him anyway.
They were well paired and worked easily with each other. In the beginning, Therese laughed at his jokes and asked questions about the ship and his Master. But, as they approached the completion of their task, she became more subdued. Finally, when only the last row was left unglazed, Therese stopped. She silently went to a cabinet, and removed a box that contained twelve small colored wrappers. Selecting the best of her wares, she wrapped them individually and arranged them in the box. Pulling out a piece of blue ribbon from a drawer, Therese tied the package closed, before going to flower-filled vase, where she choose a sprig of baby's breath for insertion behind the bow. She turned, handing it to Passepartout.
"You have served your Master well, Jean Passepartout. The truffles are complimentary."
Melancholy filled her voice as her face reverted to the strained, exhausted woman of two hours ago. Therese' vitality and levity had vanished--fading into lassitude. His face darkened with confusion at the metamorphosis, "But Therese, we are not finished…"
"Yes. We are." The words were bittersweet, as if Passepartout had already left her kitchen, her shop and her life, vanishing like a wisp into the cool Parisian night. "I have already monopolized too much of your time. I am sure that your Master has need of you."
"I don't have to leave for a while yet," he explained, believing that she had somehow misunderstood him.
"I know. I am trying to save us both some pain. You should go."
"I don't understand. Have I done something wrong?" What had he done to make her change so quickly and completely? Passepartout had witnessed fierce storms form and dissipate; waterspouts appearing and disappearing on the oceans but it was nothing like this.
"Did I say something to offend you?"
"No. No, you did not. You are the most extraordinary man that I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. I am…if you stay any longer…"
Therese turned away from him. He watched as her shoulders slumped and her head bowed with weariness. Following her, he gingerly placed his hand on her elbow to halt her retreat.
"Please, Therese…I would like to stay."
Passepartout felt her stiffen, as if she were preparing for some physical blow--pain that he had, somehow, inflicted. Her reaction only solidified his resolve to help as he tightened his hold upon her. He would not be surprised if she whirled around in anger to face him. Rage, after all, is heat and heat can melt chocolate. He would find a way to appease her--to make her understand. Passepartout did have one more box of chalk left. That might work.
There was no hint of anger within Therese Darche as she pivoted to meet his gaze. The desperation of a moment ago was replaced by defeated resignation. Her eyes gave no indication of emotion as though she could no longer spare the energy.
"You would be staying for the wrong reasons. You would be staying out of pity and I cannot bear that. Your kindness kills me Jean Passepartout and I have had too much death."
"Therese, I do not want…"
"Who are you to come here and give me hope, just when I have resigned myself to my life? I am here in this world that does not care about my troubles or my loneliness. And then you knock on my door: you with your stories of airships and your chalk and your wonderful eyes. Why do you look at me as if I am beautiful, when clearly I am not?"
"What are you talking about--not beautiful? Of course you are beautiful! Didn't your husband ever tell you that?"
"Yes, he did. But he wore spectacles and you…do not."
He would have laughed at her words except that he knew that she believed them. Therese believed in her beauty only if it was seen through another's flaw. Such a view saddened Passepartout immensely and he felt his eyes brimming with tears for her damaged soul.
"Therese," he said. "I look at you because you are a woman and a woman cannot help but be beautiful. That is what being a woman is. The only ugly women are those who are unnatural. I have seen these women, Therese; they have no heart. That is not something that you lack."
"You do not understand, Jean."
"Oh yes," he replied. "I do. If you think that I cannot comprehend this self-disworthinessism; you are wrong. Therese, listen to my words, please. I work impossible hours for a man who looks like Adonis and has the money of Midas! He is who he is and I am Jean Passepartout. I will never have his height, green eyes or station, but that does not mean that I am worth any less. Will he reach heaven before me? Perhaps, if he dies sooner but it will not be because God values him over me."
Her eyes were wide and shiny with unshed tears as he continued earnestly. "Why do you think that I do not become exhausted or discouraged? My Master is a good man but he is a blind like all the men of his class. He sees what he wants to see and for a long time he did not see Passepartout, even though I stand beside him. Even though I am the one wakes him from his nightmares and fixes his ship and prepares the food for his table. I know what is like to be invisible Therese, but I see you. I do! And you are beautiful!"
He had made her cry, but he had also made her listen. Therese no longer resisted his arms when he gathered her to him so that they might comfort each other. They were not invisible. Each saw the other with perfect clarity and such vision was a gift from God.
Passepartout gently kissed the crown of her head as she buried her face into his shoulder. His words were now sugar, cream and chocolate that he stirred in her heart to create a new sweetness in the life of Therese Darche.
"You are like your truffles. Don't you see?" He loosened his hold on her enough so that he could look into the cocoa of her eyes as he spoke. "You are small and dark and sweet. People are amazed at the beauty of your creations! They think they have eaten manna from the heavens when they taste your confections. Even I cannot do what you do."
She whispered, "How do you know?"
Passepartout continued to elaborate believing that Therese needed to hear more of his words. In his haste to enlighten her to the myriad of blessings that she possessed, he almost missed her question. "You have a beautiful child and…what?"
Looking up at him, Therese repeated, "I asked 'how do you know?' You have not tasted my truffles."
It was a fair question he thought, as he searched her eyes for what she was truly asking of him. To consume a confection is simple enough, but to love a woman… Passepartout no longer wanted to play this game of love and truffles. He knew his desire; she must acknowledge hers. He took a breath and asked, "Therese, what do you want from me? I will do whatever you ask."
She stepped away, walking over to the table where the rest of the chocolates waited. Therese selected a chocolate. It was the first one that Jean had attempted to glaze - the inchoate truffle whose mistake was now blanketed under a delicate pink, sugared rose petal.
She returned to him, standing so close that they were almost touching. Therese did not offer him the creation, but instead she lifted the truffle to her own mouth and closed her eyes. He watched as she moved the chocolate from side to side, coating her tongue and palate with its sweetness. Therese placed her hands on his chest, sliding them up towards his neck, bringing his lips down to taste hers, which he did.
Lips apart, she kissed him, delivering the remnants of the truffle as the warmth of her mouth dissolved it into juice and her tongue painted his with the dark flavor.
He could not breathe. The sensations were overpowering and rushed through his veins like a rampant fever, laying siege to every part of his mind and body, each of which delighted in sweet surrender. Finally, when he believed that his lungs would explode, she released him, having shared the seed of desire with him. Already Passepartout felt the craving begin, as his all of his senses became honed, focusing on Therese and her passion.
Passepartout pulled her to him. He no longer worried if she would rebuff his caresses; he knew that she would not. Eyes darkening, he told her in a voice made husky with concupiscence, "They are delicious truffles, Therese. I would have more."
"Then come," she answered. Taking his hand, she led him to the bedroom and anticipating his next question, explained that her daughter would sleep until her next feeding four hours hence.
He removed the combs that held her hair back, letting it fall smoothly around her back and breast, softening her appearance, and making her look younger and fresher. She in turn, released him from his bow tie, placing it carefully upon the chair and began to unbutton the distinctive yellow waistcoat. Passepartout stood passively, allowing her valet duties as he ran his hands up her arms to her neck, where he stroked it three times before lowering them to the first fastened button on her blouse. Feeling the rise and fall of her breasts, he gently cupped them, feeling their fullness beneath the fabric. He closed his eyes as Therese removed the waistcoat, folding it neatly as she turned to lay it next to the tie.
She did not hide her admiration of his body as she unclothed him. He was powerfully built with muscles well developed from his previous occupations. His arms were artfully sculpted, much more so than one would expect of a valet. The smooth skin of his chest gleamed in the lamplight, as if God had deemed that such beauty was too perfect to be hidden beneath man's fur.
Passepartout could remain passive no longer. His arousal was obvious and when Therese completed her duty, he began his own, freeing her body from the bonds of fashion. She was both Eve and Madonna --woman and mother, partner and life giver. Her beauty was blinding: breasts swollen with sustenance, belly striped from accommodating new life. The marks of a woman were sacred to him and Passepartout thanked God for Adam's rib. He needed no coaxing as Therese led him to the bed.
He kissed her deeply, knowing that her response would equal his since they both had full knowledge of this pleasure. Tasting her lips again, he sipped her this time, allowing her catch her breath and prepare for the next course of lovemaking. Passepartout nuzzled just below the ear, his soft murmurings adding to her enjoyment. He kissed the hollow at the base of her neck with a teasing tongue flick that elicited the first quiet moan from Therese.
Passepartout moved further down her body, letting his tongue explore the valley between her breasts. Her nipples were hard and erect from the stimulation; one already wept a milk tear in anticipation of sensual gratification. He lapped it up, tracing its path back to the source. Passepartout ran his tongue back and forth over the nipple as it cried another tear and another. Therese groaned that her baby did not tease her release as he was doing now. Her fingers raked his hair pulling him to closer to her breast.
Between her moans she begged, "Please, Jean, I am engorged. If you do not suck soon, there will pain."
He smiled and opened his mouth, covering the mocha of her breast. Her tit nestled between his tongue and his palate and with a smooth motion he thrust his tongue up as he sucked and felt the first spray of her sweet essence warming the roof of his mouth. He held it sucking again before taking it in and swallowing. His appetite whetted, Passepartout suckled, this time with a greedy hunger that demanded her milk. He did not even hear Therese's cries of ecstasy; he was so famished for her.
"You will drink me dry," Therese gasped.
Passepartout did not answer, he instead moved to the other tit, and did the same-- draining it of its dulcet treasure. The rhythm of his sucking corresponded to his hand that had traveled further down her body stroking the chocolate between her thighs, bringing forth her cream and preparing her to receive him fully. She parted her legs in response to his ministrations, his fingers exploring her pleasure lips and probing her moist, honeyed sheath. T herese tilted her pelvis, drawing his fingers in deeper and he knew they could wait no longer.
"Therese," Passepartout whispered, "have you been opened since the baby?"
"No," she managed to say.
Then she is like a virgin again, Passepartout thought. He knew a woman's body closed itself tightly to heal after childbirth and that the first lovemaking after that was an experience similar to a woman's first time.
"I will try to be gentle," he told her.
He rubbed the head of shaft over her womanhood, making it slick with her cream before placing it before her goddess sheath. Pressing it against her, he felt the initial resistance. Therese moaned, but not with pain. Passepartout felt the exquisite constriction of her entrance just before her body remembered its succulent yearning and opened itself. He slid his shaft into her slowly, allowing her time to accommodate his size and giving him the chance to appreciate her second virginity.
He felt his breath leave him as the sensations and desires collected within him and he buried himself completely within her. She grasped him, holding him closer, as if wanting him to batter down the walls of her grief. Passepartout kissed her as they found the rhythm of their love.
His thrusts became harder and deeper as Passepartout lost himself in the waves of pleasure that washed over him. His voice mixed with hers as they strained their bodies to final point where the sensuality suspended them in time as one person. Passepartout could not say where he ended and Therese began just as one could not separate the cream from the chocolate in a truffle. He added his essence to hers, trembling from the force of his release.
They lay in each other's arms, each still exploring the joys of the other. The lines of worry had disappeared from Therese's face and Jean basked in the warmth of her companionship. She petted him, unable to fill her need to stroke him and he nibbled at her, still delighting in her taste and touch. It was with great reluctance that he informed her that he must return to the Aurora.
"I will be alright, Jean," Therese said, pulling on a robe. "But you had better dress yourself, if I were to help, you would not return to your Master at all."
He laughed and pulled her back into the bed for one more kiss, to which she gladly submitted. "Very well, Therese," Passepartout answered, "but if you ever decide to give up chocolate, you would be a most excellent valet." He wiggled his eyebrows teasingly.
"Hmm. I was about to say the same thing to you." Therese rose from the bed and walked towards the kitchen. "Though who knows how many truffles would actually be made if you were always my assistant, Jean Passepartout." She laughed as she entered the other room.
Passepartout began to dress himself, still speaking to Therese, "I do not think we would care very much, do you?"
"No, I do not think we would care at all."
When Passepartout entered the kitchen, Therese was just finishing wrapping the second of two small box of truffles. She placed the smaller boxes on top of the larger one for his Master. He looked at them as his brow furrowed with confusion.
"Three boxes, Therese? You will not have enough."
"I will explain it to you tomorrow night when you return, Jean. Give the large one to your Master. You keep the other two."
Passepartout spoke in a gentle voice, "Tomorrow night? My Master wishes to return to London tomorrow night. I will not be here."
"Does your Master never change his plans?" she said smiling.
He thought for a minute before answering, "Well, yes. It usually depends upon what his particular desires are, though."
"Exactly. Listen to me, Jean," she said walking over to him as she handed him the boxes, "just in case I am wrong. The two smaller boxes are your wishes. One is to remember and one is to return.
When you feel the urge to assist me again, take a truffle out of the return box and nonchalantly offer it to you Master. Tell him that it was overlooked somehow and that he might enjoy it with his coffee. Your Master will consume it and will find it quite necessary to procure more truffles for whatever his needs may be. You will, of course, explain to him that I am only opened for such things at night and that to ensure freshness, it is necessary for you to wait while they are being made. Your Master may find it an odd way of doing business, but the results are more than worthwhile."
Passepartout's face cracked open into a wide, devilish grin, "Therese, you are beautiful!" He hugged her, delighting in her plan. He was about to kiss her when she stopped him with a raised hand.
"Wait. The other box is to remember. That one is for you, Jean. Only you. The next time that your Master calls you an idiot and you are tempted to believe him, or late at night, when you think you are invisible to the world, take a truffle. It will help you to remember what is true: that you are as far from an idiot as a man can be and that I see you. You will never be invisible to me. Call it a premonition, but I think you will be returning tomorrow night. Either way, you know how to return if you wish."
"Oh, I wish, Therese. There is nothing like making chocolate with you. Your truffles are magic," he replied and kissed her gently goodbye.
"Actually, they are not. However, they are far superior to anything else in Paris. I am half Belgian and half Brazilian, Jean. I understand chocolate. My uncle still resides in South America and he refuses to sell his wares to anyone else in the area." She laughed at Passepartout's reaction, which of one of incredulity.
"It pays to know your supplier," she added with a knowing smile.
Therese watched him as he left, jaunting down the street, his footsteps lighter than when he had appeared at her door. Passepartout was halfway down the block when he heard her call to him. Turning, he saw her standing in the doorway.
"Therese, did you need something?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied, "when you return, do not forget the chalk. I need lots of chalk, Jean."
"I will not forget. I promise!" he yelled back at her before continuing back to the Aurora.
When Passepartout entered the ship, Phileas Fogg stood in the center of the main cabin - waiting. Fogg was about to harrumph something about the time when the valet produced the box of truffles with a flourish.
"Truffles, as requested," he announced to Fogg.
Fogg cast a suspicious glance at Passepartout. Something was definitely different - not quite amiss but different. He was about to begin a thorough interrogation of Passepartout regarding his precise whereabouts for almost four hours when there was a gentle rap on the cabin door.
The next morning, Passepartout poured his Master's coffee and inquired as to the previous night. He did not mind that from the moment Mademoiselle Von Triers had entered the Aurora, that he had suddenly become invisible. His Master had slept well, even though Fogg had not bothered returning to his cabin in the morning.
"Was everything satisfactorly last night, Master?" Passepartout asked.
"Everything went exceedingly well, Passepartout. Daphne was…very pleased."
Fogg's smile imparted much more information than his words did. He took a sip of his coffee. "Ah, before we leave for London, you need to acquire another box of those truffles. They were extraordinary. Daphne was simply wild for them. I wanted to bring a box back for Rebecca. You may leave right after you are finished here."
Passepartout fought to keep himself from dissolving into laughter. Therese, you were right, he thought. He cleared his throat with a quiet 'ahem' and began to explain the unusual business practices of Madame Darche. When he had finished, Fogg sat silently lost in thought.
"Passepartout, her hours are highly irregular. On the other hand, I don't suppose that waiting one day will make that much difference. If Rebecca becomes angry, I shall protect myself with truffles.
It is damn inconvenient, though. Do you suppose there is any way that Madame Darche could be persuaded to move her enterprise to London? She could corner the entire truffle market. That is --if she is interested. What do you think?"
"I am not sure, Master. However, I will mention it to her this evening when I return, if you wish. Madame Darche is a very bright lady. She may see certain advantages to such an arrangement."
"Well, if she chooses to relocate, that would be splendid."
"It would indeed, Master. It would indeed."
FINI
Continued in Experimints