Artistic License

The following day she descended the stairs at the bidding of Uncle Mortimor and Lord Maximilien to show her feminine arts. With calm worry she entered the beautiful gold and lavender salon, knowing for a certainty that she would never know what should be known as a lady of Parisien society. She knew also, however, that few of the Parisiens knew who – or what – she should be. That rendered her at an advantage. She lifted her chin. She was the unknown, and as such, she could be as she wanted. She strode quietly into the room, as Uncle Mortimor and Lord Maximilien sat by the fireplace, conversing acrimoniously between them. Uncle Mortimor was not pleased; his face was pinched, and there was a brown frown between his brows.
Lord Maximilien straightened the lace falls of his sleeves in patent ignorance of Uncle Mortimor’s feelings. If anything, he looked thoroughly content with himself. Uncle Mortimor watched Lupin from beneath a creased brow.
Lupin stilled next to a small table, and let her surveyed the tableau by the fireplace. She lifted one brow slightly, and Uncle Mortimor turned his head away, as if he could not palate the look of her confidence. Lupin’s eyes frowned for a moment, and she raised her chin, looking a question at Lord Maximilien, who now surveyed her over his crossed hands atop his graceful ebony cane.
Lord Maximilien twinkled at her. “Il faut seulement apprendre l’art de dalliance…” he began, and then reacting to Uncle Mortimor’s dingy silence, began again. “It must only learn the art of – flirtation – of dalliance!”
Uncle Mortimor was staring now entirely at the tips of his shoes. “This was to be simply a ruse for a short while, Auguste,” he said low and neatly.
“Mais oui – but a good one, no?” He turned to Lupin confidingly “It must be a good one, must it not, enfante?”
Lupin took his measure for a mere half moment. “A good one – yes.” She said simply. But there was something not quite trusting in her eyes if anyone had cared to look.
Uncle Mortimor stared at her acutely. “I see that perhaps you want to be a member of the demimonde for ever. There shall be no moving back again from this.”
“No.” Replied Lupin, and moving to the fireplace, she leaned over it but for a moment, as if wilting, then straightening, she turned. If one could call her posture straight upon her movement. She was upright, but coquettish, almost sinuous – her movements quick and neat, yet also soft – and alive, like they were energetic of their own accord. Every gesture seemed to be a dance of seduction. It was a sudden change, and almost subtle. But it made an effect. “Lord Maximilien,” she queried, advancing towards him, and circling his chair, “will you dance with me?” she whispered in his ear, bending but a moment, then whirling away in a graceful arc. “She looked at him with her chin up to the side, and looked down shyly for but a moment. “Bien sure, enfante,” replied the Lord Maximilien, and setting his cane aside, came towards her, his small, elegant stature setting hers off to pretty effect.