Maren begins reading Parisian Pleasures, a romance she wrote during a production of Verdi’s La traviata. She also talks about the history of the libretto, the role of women as sex workers throughout history, and how she uses the Bodice Ripper Project to smash the patriarchy.
The music played during this episode:
- Excerpts from a public domain version of La Traviata by Giuseppe Verdi.
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Transcript
(orchestra tuning)
Hello and welcome to The Bodice Ripper Project, an exploration of sexuality, feminism, and the journey to self-empowerment through the lens of romance novels.
I’m Maren Montalbano, opera singer, coach, and writer.
In this episode, I begin reading Parisian Pleasures, a story I wrote during a production of Verdi’s La Traviata. I also get into the roles of sex workers that women have played throughout history and how I am using the Bodice Ripper Project to smash the patriarchy.
So make yourself comfortable, loosen your bodice, and let’s begin!
(intro music plays)
Welcome back. Thank you so much for downloading this episode and pressing play. I’m incredibly happy to have you here.
This week, we’re going to go back to the opera. I know we’ve taken a little bit of a detour over this season to the Renaissance Faire and even the Fringe Festival. But I want to get back to where we all started, which is writing these stories backstage at the opera.
The story I’m going to read today is called Parisian Pleasures, and it was written about five years ago during a production of La Traviata. So I want to talk a little bit about La Traviata, and how it relates to the world today, feminism, the patriarchy, all of that good stuff.
But before I get to that, I just want to say how much fun it is to be a chorister in La Traviata. It is really fun music to sing. One of the most famous opera choruses comes from this opera, which is called Brindisi, which is a, uh, it’s a drinking song. The other fun part about being a chorister in La Traviata is all the scenes that you are in are all sexy party scenes. A lot of times when you are an opera chorister, you get to either be like a villager or a party goer or a churchgoer. And generally, as the chorus, you create the mood of the scene, for the principals, for the action to go forth. Sometimes as a party goer, generally you’re singing things like, “Yay, everything is fun.” Or like, “Oh my gosh, look at what that guy just did!” Or something like that. As a villager, you can be like, “Oh, scandal!” You know?
So this is like how an opera chorus operates in the anatomy of an opera.
But with La Traviata, being a chorister means you get to be in all the sexy party scenes, and generally you get to go home early because although you are singing in Act Three, you’re only singing backstage, which means you can get out of your costumes as soon as Act Two is over.
This is the life of an opera chorister.
A little bit about La Traviata, the opera, some history for you. La Traviata was written by Giuseppe Verdi and it premiered in 1853 in Venice. It’s based on a novel written in 1848, just a few years earlier, by Alexander Dumas fils, so that’s junior. This is not to be confused with his father, Alexander Dumas, who also wrote novels.
Dumas Sr. is the guy who wrote The Three Musketeers, Count of Monte Cristo, those kinds of novels. The son also had his own writing career, but it’s very easy to get them confused.
The Italian title, La Traviata – the opera is written in Italian – it translates to “the fallen woman,” because it’s about a sex worker.
It’s based on this Dumas Jr. novel called La Dame aux Camélias, which means “the lady of the camellias,” and it’s semi-autobiographical. Dumas was in love with a courtesan and tried to have a relationship with her. It ended up not working and she died of consumption, which, at the time, “consumption” could mean any number of diseases. Generally with sex workers that could mean syphilis or it could mean tuberculosis. When Dumas wrote the novel, he made it very romantic said that she died of tuberculosis.
So when it was adapted into the opera, La Traviata, Violetta, the courtesan who the young writer falls in love with, she has tuberculosis.
I just want to have a little sidebar here and point out that there are many operas that were written in this time period where the heroine has tuberculosis, but she’s also singing these very beautiful high notes and these long, long arias right up until she dies. So take all that with a grain of salt. Opera is all about the emotions; it’s not really about the realism.
Anyway in the plot of La Traviata, Violetta is a courtesan; Alfredo falls in love with her, convinces her to leave her life of parties and men and come live with her on his country estate. Things work out pretty well until Alfredo’s father shows up and convinces her that the two of them being together is bad for the family. And that now Alfredo’s sister won’t be able to get a husband blahblahblah. So she leaves him.
Alfredo gets pissed. There’s all sorts of drama going on here, and most of it has to do with just not really understanding one another. That’s really where the tragedy comes in. Anyway, by the time Alfredo realizes that she was really trying to do the best for his family, it’s too late, she’s dying. And she sings a very long high note right before she dies of tuberculosis, because of course.
Anyway, I love this opera so much because of all of this very strange, unrealistic stuff, but it’s all about, like, passion.
Even though the novel is set in the 19th century, there have been a million different productions that have set it in various different time periods and certainly different adaptations of the story. One very famous adaptation is Pretty Woman, where they actually changed the ending so that it’s a happy ending, and therefore fits in the romance novels genre, because remember, romance novels have to have happy endings.
But I bring this up because the production that I was in was set in the 1950s. And I ended up writing the story, Parisian Pleasures, which is set kind of in the world of the demimonde, courtesans, everything like that, of La Traviata. But I set my story in the 1700s.
There were a whole bunch of reasons for that. We’d just come off a production of Don Carlo, which is set in the 1700s, and I had started a story there that I’d kind of wanted to continue. And besides that, I’m just a super fan of Alexander Dumas, the father, Sr. And I wanted to live in the world of the Three Musketeers and Cardinal Richelieu and all of that stuff.
Why am I explaining all of this? First of all, while generally I have a formula for these stories, sometimes they don’t fit the formula and that’s okay. And the muse strikes when the muse strikes. Creativity very rarely makes a straight line.
And maybe there’s some people who are listening to this and putting together their own creative projects. And I want to just put it out there that it’s okay if you don’t follow a specific formula or color inside the lines. You can do whatever you want.
But one of the things that I really want to explore here with my story, Parisian Pleasures, and with the story of La Traviata, or La Dame aux Camélias, is talking about courtesans, and courtesans through history. I say “courtesan,” but really, I mean sex worker, right? A courtesan was a high paid prostitute, generally lived in what was called the demimonde, which means half world. So often courtesans would be the mistresses of people in power, nobility, that kind of stuff.
So they themselves were actually quite well off.
And there are women who do this now, actually, there are men who do this now. And I’m not saying this with any kind of judgment, but I do want to talk a little bit about it, because there’s something about sex work that I think people are very afraid of.
If you go further back in history, often the courtesan was much more well-educated than your average woman. Sometimes they had more freedom depending on who they were attached to. And, you know, obviously there was risk involved. There’s always risk involved with sex work. There’s also risk involved, just being a woman in a patriarchal society. I mean, heck, there’s risk involved in just being alive.
I don’t want to romanticize the life of a courtesan. I don’t want to denigrate it either. And I think that there’s something really valuable about owning who you are sexually, and living it authentically, and letting it give you power.
And I find that, especially in America, which is a pretty puritanical nation, right? There’s a lot of shame around sex and sexual expression.
I want to use this podcast to push against that a little bit, just give it a little bit of resistance and ask the question: are we letting our shame repress us? I hope not.
So here’s where the bodice ripping comes in. We can rip our own bodices. We can let our sexual expression out. We can let our true selves out, and own that, and feel joy in it, and smash the patriarchy while we’re at it.
So without further ado, I bring you Parisian Pleasures.
I had a lot of fun reading this.
Parisian Pleasures
Chapter 1
“Mademoiselle? Have you made yourself ready?” The servant knocked timidly.
On the other side of the door, Babette Babineaux grimaced. As the bastard daughter of Henri, Duke of Rohan and first advisor to Louis XIII, she had grown up near the sparkling parties and powdered faces of the demimonde. However, this was her second night at Madame Plouffe’s establishment, and she had not slept a wink. She wasn’t really ready, but she knew one thing about the man in the room beyond: it was that he did not like to wait. Sighing, she stood up and surveyed herself in the mirror.
A petite, slender blonde stared back at her. Her slight frame was trembling under the diaphanous dressing gown that she had been given to wear. Baron von Schtullerform was a powerful man with very particular tastes, and if Babette was to accomplish her mission for the king, she needed to make the baron happy. She cupped her pert breasts and pushed them together; they were barely visible from beneath her dressing gown, but her worry was that there wouldn’t be enough cleavage. Perhaps a bit more rouge to accentuate them?
Another knock came at the door, this one more insistent.
“Oui, just a minute.” She pinched her cheeks, smoothed her hair, and opened the door with a flourish. “My apologies, Baron, I…” her voice trailed off as the gentleman in the room stood up and turned to face her.
From all that Babette had been told, Baron von Schtullerform was a small, wiry man with very little hair on his head and one eye that often gazed at the farthest corner of the room. This man who now stood before Babette was decidedly NOT the baron.
More beast than man, he stood well over six feet tall, with a fiery red mane and dark eyes that seemed to look directly into her soul.
He moved towards her with lithe, graceful movements, reminding her of a lion stalking its prey. “I dinna be a baron, love,” he said, “unless that’s what you want me to be.”
Babette’s breath caught in her throat. In three steps he was upon her, his large hands cupping her heart-shaped face. He lowered his head to steal a kiss, and Babette could feel her hands, of their own volition, slide slowly up his muscled shoulders to entwine themselves in his hair. Their lips met and parted, and he tasted like scotch and chocolate. It wasn’t until he picked her up and began carrying her to the chaise longue that she remembered where she was and who he wasn’t. She pushed at his mighty chest and leaned back to look at him. “Monsieur,” she protested. “We cannot do this. You are not the man I am meant for.”
Still holding her in his arms, he gave her a lazy smile. “Speak you of the Baron von Schtullerform?”
Frowning, she pushed a bit more at his powerful chest until he let her down. “Why, yes.”
He shrugged, not letting her out of his embrace. “Let us just say that he and I…came to an understanding about you.” He lowered his head again, this time plundering her lips until she sighed and gave in to the fire that was raging within her body.
Chapter 2
Suddenly, the doors to the sitting room burst open. Madame Plouffe entered in a whirl of feathers and finery, leaving a sickly-sweet rose-scented trail wherever she went.
“Babette, ma chérie,” she cooed, quickly pulling the two of them apart, “why don’t you introduce me to your new friend?” Her grip on Babette’s arm was tight enough to make her wince.
Without missing a beat, the handsome stranger bowed to his hostess. “Ach, lassie, I be Darach McCullogh, lately arrived to Paris from the Scottish Highlands.” He kissed Madame Plouffe’s hand with all the manners of a noble at court.
Madame Plouffe blushed slightly, but did not budge. “Monsieur…Drake? Er…Derrick, is it?”
“Darach. It be a wee bit hard for ye French to fit in your mouths,” he said, looking sideways at Babette heatedly, “so you may call me Dirk.”
“Dirk?”
“Aye. Like my sword.” He flashed a toothy grin and sat down. As he crossed his legs, the cloth on his breeches were stretched tight, showing off his athletic thighs. “So, how may I help you, madame?”
Madame Plouffe was not the type of woman to be swayed by looks and charm; she pushed Babette behind her and gazed at him coldly. “Baron von Schtullerform paid a handsome sum to me for the company of our dear Babette, monsieur. He is a good friend of this establishment, as well as an honored guest of the king, and I would not want to let word get to the king that he did not…”
“Ach, but he is having an immensely good time, I assure you,” he interrupted. “I left him in the company of my footman.”
“Your footman?!?”
“Aye, lassie, he is very talented.”
At this news, Babette began to shake with rage. Baron von Schtullerform was supposed to be her mark! He had valuable information about the war between Spain and Flanders, information that the king had tasked her — Babette Babineaux, the king’s most trusted operative! — to retrieve. And now her plans were to be thwarted because of this upstart Scotsman? Why? Because he had seen her in the gaming hell and just couldn’t stand the thought of another man having her?
She glanced at him. He may be the most virile specimen of manhood that she had ever seen, from his rough red mane all the way down every inch of his well-sculpted body…and his molten kisses might be the most exciting she had ever experienced…but his smug expression told her that he expected her to fall head over heels for him, and if he thought that, well, then, he had another think coming. Babette drew herself up as tall as she could, crossed her arms, and said, “I’m sorry, monsieur, but Madame Plouffe has a point. Baron von Schtullerform has already paid for my company, but you have not. And I think it is time for you to leave.”
With a nod, Madame Plouffe snapped her fingers, and two guards appeared at the door.
Darach — Dirk — gave both women a measuring glance and stood up. He courteously bowed once again to Madame Plouffe, but on his way out, he stopped and turned to look directly at Babette. “You and I are not finished, lassie,” he promised, his dark eyes burning with desire.
Chapter 3
Dirk walked swiftly down the street, cursing his pride for ruining his chance with Babette. He had laid eyes on her the very first day he had arrived in Paris; her radiant beauty shone through a shopkeeper’s window, and from that moment, he knew she would be his.
It had taken him two weeks to find out who she was, and another fortnight to gain entry into one of Madame Plouffe’s exclusive parties. By the time he had made up his mind to finally approach her, he had already formulated several plans to get rid of any rivals. Thank goodness Baron von Schtullerform had easily succumbed to the charms of his young footman, Seamus; it was far preferable to challenging the baron to a duel. He made a mental note to give Seamus a raise.
Thinking back on the evening’s proceedings, he wondered if there wasn’t something else at play to make Babette go suddenly so cold. Although his head told him to be cautious — she was a courtesan, after all — her initial response to him was so immediate, so sensual, and so wanton that in his heart, he knew it was not an act. She had dug her nails in so furiously in their embrace that the skin on his back was still stinging. His pulse began to race just thinking of it.
He arrived at his townhouse just as dawn was beginning to lighten the sky. His butler, Wilson, met him at the door with a pained expression on his face. “There is a…person…waiting for you in the drawing room, sir.”
“Cheer up, Wilson,” Dirk said as he handed over his coat and hat. “It canna be that bad. We’re in Paris, where fashion begins! Even the beggars are well-dressed.”
Wilson sniffed. “It’s not that, sir, it’s just–“
“Oh, never mind, Wilson. It’s impossible to rib you. I’m expecting a messenger from King James; it’s probably him.” He strode down the hall and entered the drawing room without waiting for Wilson to announce him. “I’ve been waiting…” his voice trailed off as he tried to wrap his mind around what he saw.
The occupant in the room was on all fours, clearly searching for something under the table. Though this person was dressed in male attire, Dirk was absolutely sure that this was no man. And the shape of that tight rump under those breeches was so familiar…he knew had held it in his hands just a few hours prior. He cleared his throat.
Babette, startled, bumped her head on the table as she stood up sheepishly. “Monsieur!”
And I will leave it there.
Join me next time, as I finish reading Parisian Pleasures, a story I wrote during a production of La Traviata.
His stockings were perfectly molded to his herculean calves, and Babette couldn’t stop thinking about what mighty muscles he had under that kilt.
As you can tell. I had tons of fun with accents in this one. I hope it didn’t offend anybody, um, they are meant to be fun accents, not accurate accents.
Next week’s episode is the last episode of this season. I am super excited because that will mean the successful completion of one full podcast season.
There will be a season two. I have more stories that I’ve written and more stories to tell. And I will also include interviews with authors, composers and other kinds of creators as more ways of encouraging you to rip open your own bodice.
If you have other suggestions for what to feature in season two, send me a DM.
If you still haven’t gotten a chance to watch my one woman show that I live streamed, earlier in October, you can purchase the replay at bodiceripperproject.com.
In the meantime, I am using all of my experience that I got while creating this project, to work with other creatives. So I am coaching. I’m working with musicians who have a performance project in mind, but don’t really know what steps they need to take to get it out into the world.
If that’s you send me a DM, let’s get on a call.
Remember, I always love hearing from you so you can find me on Instagram at supermaren, that’s S U P E R M A R E N. And subscribe to my newsletter. I always send out little love notes to my subscribers each week.
So that’s at bodiceripperproject.com.
Okay, thanks for listening.
The Bodice Ripper Project is a production of Compassionate Creative, and was conceived, written, and edited by me, Maren Montalbano. The background music during the story was excerpts from a public domain version of Verdi’s La Traviata. The theme music was also written by yours truly. If you liked what you heard, I invite you to give this podcast a 5-star rating! It’ll definitely give me a tingly sensation. I’ll see you next time.