For several minutes after he woke, Fred de Montignac felt totally confused. Accustomed to waking in the dormitory to the sound of gentle murmuring and whispered laughter, it was a while before he remembered where he was. First of all, there was the strange sensation of being surrounded by absolute silence and then, when his eyes had grown used to the darkness of a bedchamber from which daylight was excluded by a double barricade of shutters and long drapes, he was surprised not to find himself in one of the vast rooms where the best-behaved pupils slept in groups of four or five. Except for those nights spent in solitary confinement, the horrors of which were still fresh in his mind, he was used to finding around him every morning a few of those pupils from the Pension Sainte-Brigitte whose feminine attire might have clothed either boy or girl--he could never tell. But today all this was missing. He woke alone in an infinitely more elegant and luxurious room that contained no other bed than his own.

Then suddenly he remembered. He was at the house of his aunt, the beautiful, awe-inspiring but intimidating Baroness de Saint-Genest who, three days earlier, had driven down into the depths of the Touraine countryside to bring him back to Paris to be near his mother, who was seriously ill. The distress he felt left him no time to savor, as he would have done under different circumstances, this unexpected deliverance after months of captivity, suffering, and even torture. Without the prospect of bereavement hanging over him, he would have been deliriously happy at the very idea of leaving that hell. The mere thought of the sinister school weighed on his heart. A succession of images floated through his head: the schoolrooms filled with pupils, some rather self-consciously dressed as girls; the curls, powder, and women's gloves imposed on boys and girls alike; the permanent torture of wearing tight corsets that compressed the waist; the firmly laced boots that constricted the calves, making them bulge out at the top; and a whole range of punishments, some humiliating, others painful, but all of them bizarre.

A sudden racket of doors being slammed, the noise of hurrying feet, cries, calls, and tears put an end to all these visions and jerked him back into the present. His mother was breathing her last, and they were hurrying to fetch him. The house was then plunged into the sort of confusion that usually follows a death. On the day of the solemn, supreme ceremony, Fred fell ill, laid low by a violent fever. His stay at Sainte-Brigitte's, with its redoubtable English headmistress, Mrs. Stockley, his hasty return, and the bereavement that had struck him like a thunderbolt had all been too much for his nerves, which were those of a highly strung, emotional child. He was taken to his guardian's house in the country, lay ill for a few days, took several weeks to recover, but was eventually restored to health.

He lived with his guardian for six months, recovered from the shocks he had received, forgot the nightmare of the Pension Sainte-Brigitte, and treasured the sweet, painful memory of his mother.

One day, his guardian announced that a family council had met and decided to entrust him to his Aunt Léontine, the Baroness de Saint-Genest, who lived in Paris and was to give him a home and take charge of his education. Fred was not displeased by this news. He felt a light shiver run through him and a delicate blush spread over his cheeks.

Sensitive from an early age to feminine beauty and charm, pretty finery and frills and flounces, and the delicate feel of expensive fabrics, he had, in the past, been unconsciously troubled by the haughty splendor and seductive power of the pale, blond dominatrix with her graceful, sovereign bearing and radiant sensuality. Her natural air of majesty was deliciously tempered by gestures as expansive as they were regal, a voice gentle yet compelling, her lively, expressive eyes, and two rows of sparkling white teeth that could be seen whenever her fresh, full lips drew apart in one of her frequent smiles.

When she appeared, she was every bit as distinguished, imposing, and gracious as he remembered, and he smiled into the proud, bold eyes gazing into his own blue ones. He smiled again when he saw the ample curves of her statuesque body, in perfect harmony with the serene beauty of her young, fresh, and perfectly smooth face. She was thirty-five years old, but seemed to have reached the full bloom of her thirties only the day before.

Though unable to analyze his feelings, he found her even more desirable and regal dressed in black since it made her seem slimmer and brought out the camellia tones of her skin. The woman he called "my beautiful aunt" had never before seemed so perfect, with her charm, sparkle, finery, and perfumes. She was a goddess in modern dress, and he could not approach her without feeling secretly moved. His eyes traveled over her, caressing the rounded, well-proportioned contours of her ample hips, the outline of her thighs beneath the close-fitting skirt, her sloping shoulders, her opulent breasts straining at her corsage, before examining her naked, pure white arms, and the generous expanse of dimpled flesh revealed by her plunging neckline, which opened proudly onto her swelling bosom.

She too was looking at him, but with rather less satisfaction. She did not recognize her nephew in the mourning suit that had been ordered for him. Still less did she recognize the singular appearance he had presented in his girls' uniform at Mrs. Stockley's school. Her mouth turned downward when she looked at his hair, which, while it was not short, had nothing feminine about it, and at the flat-heeled boots he was wearing.

Catching her look, Fred had a vague intuition of the thoughts crossing her mind. His intuition was proved right when Léontine said, "You seem smaller, Fred."

"My guardian thought I'd grown."

"It's the shoes that give that impression. The high-heeled boots made you much taller."

Her comments distressed Fred as they reminded him only too well of the Pension Sainte-Brigitte.

Preparations for his departure went ahead quickly. A new life was about to begin. Orphaned while still a young man, and destined to receive 15,000 pounds in annuities left him by his mother, he was to be entrusted to an aunt who had always taken an affectionate, yet strangely excitable interest in him. She enjoyed a large private income that allowed her to live a life of ease and would no doubt be able to create a happy atmosphere for the boy. Fred de Montignac trustingly prepared to follow the Baroness de Saint-Genest, but a mysterious apprehension, deep-seated yet unmistakable, nonetheless assailed him in the presence of this stranger.

Léontine looked magnificent when she came to fetch him. Her superb hair was crowned by a very becoming hat and her alabaster arms were encased in long, close-fitting black gloves that shimmered as she moved.

As they were getting into the car, Madame de Saint-Genest, who seemed to be pushing the young man in front of her rather hastily as though carrying off some kind of prey, said, with a strange smile and in a voice that trembled slightly, "You were prettier as a girl, all the same."

Fred felt a twitch of rebellion. It was as if someone wanted to rob him of his sex and personality all over again. But the feeling did not last long because an arm, clad in a long shining kid glove, was placed round his neck and over his shoulders, and a hand, slim and neat in its dark, perfumed sheath, caressed his cheek in a gesture of friendliness.

Fred felt his doubts melt like snow in the sun. He said nothing, but once in the car, seated up against the soft, warm hip, he said, "I won't have to go back to the Pension Sainte-Brigitte, will I? Ever?"

"If you obey me, I'll keep you with me. But you must obey me in everything."

The tone of her voice was so enigmatic that Fred did not answer, but raised his blue eyes to the calm, imperious face in a look of silent, anxious questioning. He was surprised and alarmed to see his aunt's features stiffen in sudden agitation and her eyes light up. For the rest of the journey he remained in his corner without looking at her, not daring to say another word.