The word erotic does not rest quietly on the page. It is a word that tempts and eludes us. It hides behind its dictionary definition – ‘of, devoted to, or tending to arouse sexual desire’ – which cannot begin to touch the numerous spheres that it encompasses. For this term is heavily laden with ideological baggage. It darts through our minds, drawing out questions; we want details. And always there is a tinge of excitement as we tread into a secret, forbidden land. Eroticism mingles with anticipation and imagination; it dangles possibilities before us. The evasive nature of eroticism makes writing about it a challenging task. For the scholar's goal is to attempt to explicate, to reveal, to clarify, and this contradicts eroticism's most basic end, which is ‘to take knowledge and render it uncertain, ambiguous’. John L. Connolly, Jr claims, for example, that the paintings of Ingres ‘generate erotic power precisely because they elude the imagination's hot embrace’. And eroticism, like beauty, lies in the eye of the beholder. As Robert Stoller concisely states, ‘Eroticism is a matter of taste.’ So how is it possible to speak objectively about a concept that is so intensely personal? Marcia Allentuck's description of eroticism as ‘an area in which the public and private perennially converge, with varying degrees of conflict, diversity, enigma, absurdity and even, occasionally, fulfillment’ suggests an exploration of the nature of the erotic as understood within the context of fin-de-siècle Paris.