Mata Hari's Last Dance Read Online Free PDF

Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva, are intensely emotional . . .”
    I skim to the end:
    â€œThe Brahman dances present the most original novelty of the Parisian season.”
    I feel pure exhilaration.
    *    *    *
    Edouard has taken me to a building on Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, a fashionable street in the eighth arrondissement. We are standing on the threshold of my new apartment, yet he refuses to open the door. First he asks me if I know that Saint-Honoré is the patron saint of bakers. Now he delays further by asking me to imagine what’s inside.
    â€œA room,” I say, too excited and impatient for games.
    â€œVery clever. What manner of rooms?”
    â€œI don’t know—oh, Edouard, please, open the door!”
    Inside is absolutely everything I’ve ever hoped for: parquet flooring, heavy cedar-wood beams, chandeliers with crystals, a bathroom with running water, and a balcony overlooking Paris. I hug him; he has given me everything I asked for. I run my hands over the satin chairs and breathe in the scent of the fresh-cut yellow roses in crystal vases. I have read that yellow roses are symbolic for “new beginnings.” I hope this is true. I absorb my good fortune. It’s obvious the furniture choices are his: heavy masculine pieces in mahogany and glass. Large gilt-framed paintings. Persian carpets.
    â€œI love everything,” I tell him, as I spy a telephone. My own telephone!
    â€œIt is a luxury you will need, I am sure. The two of you will have all the time in the world to become better acquainted later this evening. You may want to join the Telephone Subscribers’ Association. But this afternoon we must go shopping.” When he sees my expression of surprise, he searches for the right words before admitting, “You require a wardrobe. A proper wardrobe.”
    I am not insulted by the implications. I am thrilled to be considered a courtesan—I have read of mistresses to barons and princes who live in splendor like this.
    â€œMoney for emergencies,” he says. He reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws a purse. “Before we leave, let’s find a safe place for it.”
    It holds one hundred francs. My God, it’s enough to live for two months.
    *    *    *
    As we drive together down the Rue du Faubourg Saint-­Honoré, he explains what I can expect from the Rothschild’s event. They have planned a party for more than six hundred guests, and Madam Rothschild has requested that I perform something from the classics.
    â€œ Tristan and Isolde ,” he suggests.
    â€œLady Godiva,” I counter. Her story was a favorite when I was a child. My father knew I loved the tale and only told it late at night when my brothers were in bed. “Tell her I absolutely must have a horse. That is a requirement. A white horse,” I add.
    â€œDo you ride?”
    â€œOf course. Would I ask for a horse if I couldn’t ride? My father taught me.” Before he disappeared, leaving bills and empty cupboards to remember him by.
    Edouard is nodding. “A white horse, nonnegotiable.”
    I glance out the window and watch the women walking along the Champs-Élysées. They are breathtaking, wearing dresses of such rich fabrics that Marie Antoinette would be envious. I imagine myself in a metallic brocade with lace. I add delicate sleeves and a high black belt to accentuate my waist, and improve the whole ensemble by including pearls around my neck.
    â€œEveryone who sees you must remember you,” says Edouard.“That is our goal. This requires strategy; none of your dresses are to be repeated. The same rule applies to your performances.”
    Edouard stops the car in front of an exclusive-looking women’s boutique. I’ve never been inside such an expensive shop. The moment we step out of the car a man in a black suit takes Edouard’s