Spring IV

. Ӝ .

The grandfather clock within my bedchambers made five sequential chimes. I had been waiting for Élisabeth’s call for far too long and there was still no knock upon the wood of my door. I peered out my window. The carriage my father had arranged for had arrived, and we were sure to miss the performance if Élisabeth did not ready soon. What could have possibly been keeping her? I prayed that she looked presentable enough to escort. I cringed at the thought of her in the black, soulless frock she had worn when she had first greeted me.
            When I heard Mardi’s familiar rap, I made it to the door in a single leap. Mardi grinned at me and curtsied. “She is ready for you, Monsieur,” she said with a giggle concealed by her words.
            I followed her down the hall to the room Élisabeth was occupying. Mardi skipped ahead of me, her blonde hair bouncing with her every step. I was perplexed by her behavior. “What has you so merry?” I asked.
            When we had reached the door, her hand lingered on the knob. She just grinned and pushed the wood open. We stepped inside.
            In the center of the room, a maiden stood upon a pedestal, swaying and humming in front of a full mirror. My father stood beside it, an unlit cigar twirling between his fingers. “Andre!” he called, a grin lifting his wrinkles.
            Upon hearing my name, the woman turned.
            “Tell me, Andre, do you recognize this beauty?”
              At first, I did not. This woman was charming. Her face was powdered, her cheeks pink and warm. Her hair had been curled and pinned in a cloud upon her head. Only when she smiled and her eyes brightened did I realize that it was Élisabeth who stood before me. I was sure of it now. I would have never thought she could look so… well-bred, and if my head wasn’t spinning so, I would have convinced myself that it was not real.
            “It is lovely, isn’t it?” Élisabeth chimed, and I wanted to reply, but I had lost all ability to speak at the moment. It was a fine dress, the color of cream, with a modest neckline and white lace as the trim. The sleeves were cropped short, a style the warmer weather brought. The tightness of the bodice complimented her slender waist, and the intricate floral design mirrored its worth.
              It was difficult to believe this was the same woman who had first greeted me in a funeral dress and holed stockings or had once been on her knees in the garden dirt. With just a few alterations, she had transformed completely. I was lucky, I soon realized, that my father had done this for her. Now she had the appearance of a proper lady, a lady respectable enough to be on my arm. But, I wondered, would it be enough?
            Élisabeth held the gown’s folds and twirled. The material moved like water around her.
            “Aye! Mademoiselle!” It was then that I noticed Elaine, the family’s seamstress, at Élisabeth’s feet. She was an elf of a woman with tiny black eyes and a sharp nose. “Please cease your moving! This hem shall be pinned to you if you do not!” She had a needle and thread in hand and a very displeased look on her face.
            “Dear Elaine,” my father said. “She is only delighted by your magnificent work. And I must say, I have never seen such a fine gown in all my days.”
            “I am sorry,” Élisabeth said bashfully, dropping her hands to her sides. “I will force myself to remain still.”
            The woman named Elaine sighed. She seemed unmoved by my father’s flattery and Élisabeth’s apology. This must not have been the first time she had to stop herself and scold her model. She went back to her art silently, her quick little hands working like machinery.
            “You like it, Mademoiselle?” my father asked Élisabeth only a few moments later.
            “Like it? Monsieur, I positively love it,” she replied. “No one has ever given me such a gracious gift. It is simply beautiful, and I only hope I do not shame it.”
              “Shame it?” he laughed. “I assure you that that would be impossible, my dear.”
              “I can’t thank you enough—”
                My father stopped her with a wave of his hand. “Simply a welcome gift from Andre and myself.”
                From you, I thought. I had no part in this.
              Elaine shrieked, throwing her hands into the air in aggravation.
              “Sorry,” Élisabeth muttered and became a statue once again.
                I covered my mouth to stifle a chuckle.
              When Elaine had finished the last stitch, she gathered her little basket of thread and pin needles and stood. “There,” she said. “It is done. La fin.” 
              “And it is beautiful, Elaine. Undoubtedly your best work.” My father crossed the room and opened the door for the seamstress. “Now, if you would come with me to the parlor, we will discuss payment.”
              Elaine’s eyes widened, her mood lifting instantly. She went out, but my father paused in the doorway. His attention switched from me and Élisabeth. “Le Centre du Ciel has gained a reputation for itself. I have heard only good reviews,” he said. When his gaze shifted onto me of the last time, it firmed, “So I expect you two to enjoy yourselves.”
            “Of course,” responded Élisabeth.
            I only nodded, and Mardi shut the door as they left.
            Now being free of Elaine’s control, Élisabeth spun happily in front of the mirror. She seemed to have forgotten that I was in the room all together for she danced as if she had not a care in the world. “Oh, Mardi,” she sang. “I feel like a princess.”
            Mardi hurried to her side, and they joined hands. “I believe you are one, Mademoiselle.”
            Élisabeth smiled, swung their hands back and forth, and then said, “Then it would only make sense that you were one as well.”
            “Me?” Mardi gasped. “Oh no, Mademoiselle. I am far from royalty.” She showed Élisabeth her soiled apron to support her claim.
            “Nonsense.” Élisabeth bowed low as if she was the servant to Mardi’s court. “Princess Mardi.”
            She giggled.
            What was this? Mardi, a girl born into poverty, was being balanced with a queen? What ridicule! Heat spread through my limbs, prickling the tips of my fingers and toes. “That is enough,” I snapped.
            At once, Mardi scurried away from Élisabeth, frightened. Élisabeth looked at me, baffled.
            “Mardi,” I said. “Have you completed all your evening chores?”
            She stammered, barley able to look me in the eyes. “No, Monsieur.”
            “Are you aware that princesses do not have chores? Nor do they scrub floors to earn their keep?”
            Mardi’s eyes began to glisten. “Yes, Monsieur.”
            “Very good. You are dismissed.”
            “Thank you, Monsieur.” She curtsied and rushed out of the room, choking back her sobs.
            When I looked back to Élisabeth, her somber expression mirrored my own.
            “Come,” I beckoned, keeping the illusion of complete indifference. “We are late as it is.”
              For a moment, she only glared. Then, without making a sound, she took her handbag and gloves from the vanity and walked past me, not waiting for my arm.
              She went so swiftly that I had to dash after her down the stairs and out the front doors. She helped herself into the carriage, disregarding the driver’s hand. I apologized to him on her behalf, but he did not seem bothered.
              When I glanced into the carriage, Élisabeth was not looking at me. Her attention was directed to something outside her window.
         I stepped in and settled myself across from her. When the door closed and locked, I felt suddenly uncomfortable. She still hadn’t acknowledged me, and the uneasiness was reminding me of our first dinner spent together. Even when the carriage lurched forward and our journey began, her eyes did not wander away from the window. I watched her, expecting her to lash out and make a fit, but she did not move. I knew at this moment that I would have to speak in order for her to stir. I could not travel the whole way in this quandary.
            “You mustn’t wear a puss after we arrive, so I suppose it is best that you get it out of the way now,” I said. “I do not understand what has you this way. After what you did with Mardi, I should be the one making a scene.”
            Her eyes snapped to me. “Oh,” Élisabeth said with venom. “I didn’t know it was your turn. How rude of me. Carry on.”
          The common curse of mankind—folly and ignorance.
          “You are mocking me?”
          All her loveliness seemed to fade as her attitude progressed.  “Quite so.” She was being so aggressive and hostile. I had never witnessed this side of her.
            “Well then,” I said, my brow lifting, “have you finished?”
            “For now.”
            “You know, you are acting rather childish.”
          “What do you know about children?” she shot with a glare so searing that I forced myself further back into my seat. “Obviously nothing but the quickest way to make them cry.”
            “That was unintentional,” I returned. “Besides, Mardi needed to be reminded of her place.”
            “Her place? You mean the place of a poor girl?” Suddenly, her voice lowered, and I could see the tension in her shoulders ease. She closed her eyes as if it pained her to speak. “A poor girl like me?”
            “No—” I began. “That is not what I—”
            But Élisabeth continued in the same defeated tone. “She was only playing.”
            I tried to regain my confidence, and remember my argument. “Exactly what she shouldn’t be doing when there are things to be done,” I said. “It was my father that helped her and her mother. We took them in when no one else would. She owes us that. At least I would think.”
          “You talk as if you were never once a child,” she said.
            I opened my mouth to respond but couldn’t. Her words had struck me hard. It was not difficult for me to remember my childhood. I had been dwelling on it a little more than necessary, I believed. Reading in the garden in the summer sun, dipping my feet in the cool creek water at the end of the road. I was a child. Once.
            I closed my eyes, taking a deep, calming breath. I needed to stay on the issue, but my voice was failing me. “She is a servant.”
            “She is a child!” Élisabeth cried. “And what would a child be without wishes and dreams?”
            “Dreamers often lie,” I said, remembering my mother, her foolish dreams, and her abrupt leave. I fought the tears that threatened.
            I took a glimpse out my window, hoping Élisabeth would not see my dismay. The sun had disappeared behind the hilltops, staining the sky a brilliant shade of amaranth. The carriage was following the path, the slow burning lamps stood sentient—our silent guides.
            She frowned. “You don’t really believe that, do you?” Élisabeth said softly. Her temper had gone and the tenderness had returned.
            “Sadly, it is true,” I said. There was nothing I wanted more than to believe that life wasn’t that way, that dreams were not pointless and could possibly come true. But it all seemed so foolish now to believe in such things.
            “I do not believe it is.”
              She was a fool. She was wasting her time. I stayed quiet and listened earnestly to the sound of the horse trotting on the road. How many more steps before we reached the city gates, I wondered. The sight of the sky darkening and the hazy moon rising told me that the opera would be beginning shortly, and tardiness was not appreciated. 
              Élisabeth’s voice broke the silence. “I am sorry if I upset you,” she said.
              I stared at her, my expression plain. She was apologizing? What had caused the shift? But her natural brightness was wavering. Something upsetting had taken over her thoughts, something she was not sharing. 
            “I must learn to hold my tongue. I just forget that I am not in Dordogne anymore,” she continued. “I have learned to care for Mardi. She is just so young, still a child…” She hesitated. “I see so much of Brigitte in her…”
            “Brigitte?”
            “Yes. My sister. I miss her so—”
              I had forgotten Élisabeth had had a sibling. Now things were beginning to come together. Perhaps the reason for Élisabeth’s outbursts was because her friendship with my maid provided the sister-like bond that I could not. It made sense that she would feel protective over little Mardi, since her own sister was no longer around. But why was that so? Élisabeth had never told me what had become of her family and how she had come into this situation. I thought about how I had not allowed her to speak during our dinner together.
         “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to your sister?” I tried my best not to sound impolite but only the true concern that I felt.
         Her sad eyes searched me for a moment.
              “No,” she said calmly. “I don’t mind.” Her tense shoulders finally relaxed, and she released all the breath she had been keeping. “She is living with my grandmother currently in her home in Saint-Étienne. I was there as well before I came to your estate.”
              “Saint-Étienne?” I said, surprised. “I was not aware of that.”
              “Yes. My grandmother was caring for us after my parents passed, but having the two of us was too much for her to manage. She claimed that I should be married, since I was of age, and began to look for suitors.” 
              “And that is how you came to be here.”
              “Yes,” she replied simply.
              “And Brigitte?”
              “I might never see her again.” Even in the dimness of the carriage, I could see the wetness of her eyes. She looked out the window briefly, blinking.
                I shouldn’t have asked her about her sister. I regretted it instantly. But I could not help but be interested now. I wanted to know why she had been brought to her grandmother’s, how I was chosen to become her betrothed, and what caused her parent’s untimely death. I wanted her to tell me her story, but I dare not ask again.
                I looked out my own window. “We are entering the city now,” I said. “We should be arriving at the Opéra Garnier soon enough.”
                It was the first time during the ride that I had seen her smile, and I found myself returning the gesture reflexively.
              The carriage rode smoother along Paris’ even, paved streets. The gas lamps were brighter here, making the city sparkle under the gloaming sky. It felt like I had not visited in decades, and, like a stranger reuniting with a childhood friend, I was thrilled and almost giddy. Why had I ever ceased my visits to the city? How could I have ever refused a rich city such as this?
              We weaved our way through the crowded streets. Charming men with wide-shouldered suits walked leisurely with their women companions on their arm. They seemed so content with each other. So perfect with their movements and pleasant smiles. Beyond the strangers, buildings with brick faces huddled close together. Every window was open, every interior lit and full of life.
              The carriage rounded a corner and our destination came into view. The theater was so grand that it stretched as far as the street itself. I heard Élisabeth gasp, and I felt my own heartbeat quicken. The Opéra Garnier was Paris’s most well-known and desired theater. Not one performance it held was ever criticized or discredited. It only supplied the best in both actors and audience. I had come here many times in my past, most of the time accompanied by my mother. She had shared with me her world of monologues, costumes, music, and dancing, and I had been fascinated. When she left, I no longer came. There was no reason for it, I thought, and so I had abandoned my love for Paris and the opera.
              Being so close now and seeing the grand opera building radiating gold in Paris’s lights, I could have cried with joy. It was as beautiful as I remembered it to be. The stone-carved angels still sat peacefully on the rooftop, guarding all that entered their domain. The mighty marble columns stood regal and proud, perfectly unmarked by age. It was as if the entire building was frozen in time.
              The carriage stopped at the building’s entrance. I was relieved to see that a few guests were still arriving, some on foot, some in coaches like our own. The driver dismounted, rattling the cart a little, and opened the small door. I let Élisabeth descend before me, and I noticed that this time, when the driver offered his hand, she took it and thanked him for his generosity.
              He only tipped his hat and said pleasantly, “You’re most very welcome, Mademoiselle.”
              I stepped down and straightened the creases in my jacket. The driver went back upon his stoop, bade me a good evening, and shook the reins. The horse went onward and around the turn again.
              I watched them disappear and then looked at Élisabeth. “We should hurry,” I told her. “We don’t want to miss the curtain rise.”
              She agreed and took hold of her skirts. I did not offer her my arm. The simple link of arms in this instance seemed to me like an ultimate sign of commitment, and I was not ready to have that bond with Élisabeth just yet. 
              We walked inside the entrance hall. The entrance hall was just as exquisite as the façade. A giant staircase welcomed us, which led to the main theater’s doors. Statues of beautiful women stood beneath every pillar, their faces timeless, their features flawless. The lamps had been dimmed and the candles had been extinguished. Music could be heard from behind the theater door, a thunderous melody that shook the very floor we stood upon. Élisabeth glanced at me, and I could see the sudden excitement in her eyes. I could feel it in myself as well, that light-hearted anticipation that was almost juvenile.
              Élisabeth waited for me to direct her.
              “We don’t enter this way,” I said, moving away from the theater door. “Here. Follow me.”
              I led Élisabeth down a secluded hallway to another staircase. We climbed until we reached the third floor—the floor designated for private boxes. My family had its own box, especially reserved and untouched since the last time I had visited with my mother. We took our seats.
                My gaze swept across the room— the lush red curtain, the rows of occupied seats below, the two tiers of balconies before us. The chandelier that hung from the center of the room illuminated the glittering jewels and white faces partially hidden by fans.
         The music was lively. It was so loud and outstanding that one could become lost in the flood of it. We had not been too late upon arriving, for which I was thankful. We had arrived during the overture, and all were awaiting the curtain to rise and the performance to begin.
         I looked at Élisabeth, who was seated on my right. She was leaning a little too forward, her neck craned to get a better view at the stage. She reminded me, unexpectedly, of my younger self during the time when I had come to my first opera. But I had gone as far as to lean over the railing and holler things at the actors until my mother pulled me away. I knew I would never forget that night, and I realized suddenly, as I watched her amusedly, that she would also keep this night forever with her. But this time, the memory would be made with me.   
              I reached under my seat and retrieved a pair of opera glasses. I handed them to her. “These will help,” I told her over the rise and fall of the orchestra.
         She thanked me and brought the binoculars to her eyes.
         Just then, the music ended and a plump little man in an outrageous white wig scurried to the front of the stage waving his hands in the air in panic. “Have you seen the Mademoiselle?” he asked the audience with an unusual speak to his voice. There was a wave of blithe laughter and applause. “Oh my! Oh my! Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!” He ran off the stage, his shouts carrying off with him.
         “What a funny little man!” said Élisabeth excitedly, and below us similar whispers could be heard.
         The curtain began to rise, revealing a beautiful garden scene. In the center of the stage, a young woman sat on a stone bench, swinging her feet and enjoying her solitude. The little man’s voice could be heard offstage still calling for the mademoiselle, but she ignored his shouts. Suddenly, the music started and the theater was filled with the young woman’s powerful and soothing voice.
                I let my gaze drift from the stage to the many distracted faces in the audience below and then to the balconies opposite of my own. I recognized many of them—acquaintances of the family at one time. I thanked God that none of them had spotted Élisabeth and I together. Rumors had already been circulating about our engagement, but I had not left the estate for so long that no one could confirm it. If someone did see us together, the press would certainly have a new story.
         And that was the last thing I wanted. I was done with being the center of attention in everyone’s mindless chatter. It had taken two years for my family’s name to become excluded in conversation, and it was about to begin again. What would people say if they knew of Élisabeth’s manners? Of her odd behavior? They would take this heroic effort to take in a poor, unfortunate woman as a joke. The DeMonté’s would be right where they had begun, and all this extra effort would be pointless. 
                I forced my attention back on the stage. The garden had been changed into an elaborate ballroom scene. Couples swirled about the gold stage, and the same woman character stood in the middle of it all, the only one dressed in white. She watched them dance, smiling and swaying a little herself. The music began to speed up and almost slur together as if it were mocking her loneliness, and the mood changed instantly. The woman covered her ears with her hands and tried to leave the center, but the couples had closed the space between them, trapping her.
                I looked to my right. An empty box. And then to my left. Madame Eugenia Dautry was sitting in the balcony close by with her good friend Lenore tight at her arm. Lenore was attempting to talk to Madame Dautry, who was impatiently waving her off. A normal sight for the two women, I thought. Neither of them had noticed me and Élisabeth.
                Suddenly, I felt my skin ignite. I peered across the room again and saw a pair of eyes looking my way. My heart leapt. It was where the Beaufont’s seats were reserved. 
                Donovan Beaufont had always hated my father. Jealousy, I supposed. He had always tried to exceed my father in everything he did. When the news of my mother’s departure circled, he was the first to express his thoughts of adultery. In my father’s eyes, he was the reason DeMonté’s high had dropped so quickly.
                Monsieur Beaufont was there with his wife, both of them staring in my direction. Our presence was known. The secret was out.
                I finally looked back at the stage, the scene had changed again since my last glance. The lights had been dimmed. Smoke swirled on the floor and the orchestra matched the mood with an eerie piece. A graveyard, it appeared to be. In the seats below, some women were crying, dabbing their eyes with embroidered handkerchiefs.
                Élisabeth was on the edge of her seat, leaning forward, wrapped in the story, her knee bouncing slightly with excitement. She was holding the opera glasses so tightly as she peered through them that the small wrinkles on her knuckles had turned white.
              On stage, a ghostly man appeared, draped in tattered, dirty sheets with red paint smeared all over his face and hands. Many of the women in the audience, Élisabeth among them, gasped at the sight of him.
              I reached under my seat again, this time pulling out the pamphlet for the play. I quickly skimmed through the acts in hopes to see any mention of a ghost or graveyard scene. We were at the dénouement. Intermission would soon follow.
              The lies and the assumptions. An affair? A scandal? Secret engagement? My heart was beating so loud and so quick that I could hear it in my ears. Get out, it was telling me. I had to leave now if I was going to avoid the Beaufonts and their prying questions. By us being here, it would only make it worse. I couldn’t handle the pressure of it all right now. Get out.
              The music in the theater die away and the applause erupted. I glanced at the audience who were already rising to their feet and then at Élisabeth. Her glasses were in her lap, and she was looking at me now, concern wrinkling her brow. “Is everything alright?” she asked. I could see her reading the panic in my expression and becoming even more nervous.
                I looked back at the Beaufont’s balcony. Madame Beaufont, with her ridiculous peacock feathered hat, was batting her fan rather quickly in front of her large, crooked mouth. It was a technique that women used in social gatherings to prevent others from reading their lips. It was useless really. I knew what she was saying to her husband for his eyes were still locked on me.
              “Y-Yes,” I replied, not taking my attention away from the Beaufonts. What was I going to do? I had to get Élisabeth away from here before the entr’acte—before the news broke free and I became trapped in the rush.
              I stood up, and she followed. “Are you sure everything’s alright?”
              I stared at her. I couldn’t tell her the true reason for this. “Come on,” was all I could say.          
              She followed me without question, down the staircase to the entrance hall. Then, the theater doors swung open, and my heart responded instantly. Get out. People flowed out of the theater, filling the entrance hall like rushing stream water. I would surely drown in their elaborate dresses and powdered wigs. Élisabeth kept close by, still not sure what she should do. We had been swept up by the current, trapped in the center of the ocean.
              Friends greeted each other with untouchable kisses and false smiles. They stayed in close groups, commenting on unimportant things like the weather and horse racing bets. Even if they weren’t directly, I could feel their eyes upon me. They were talking about me. I was sure of it.
            “Andre, I am surprised to see you out and about.”
            I whipped around to see Donovan Beaufont standing before me. His thinning hair was combed to the side and he was dressed in his typical evening wear—his navy blue infantry uniform that had been resized to fit his new round shape. He threw back his shoulders, allowing every metal on his sash to catch light and shimmer.
            “Monsieur Beaufont.” I swallowed roughly. “I am glad to see you are doing well.”
              His small dark eyes narrowed, his thick brows meeting the wrinkles in the center. “Age treats me well,” he replied.
              I felt Élisabeth hovering close behind me, waiting. I wanted to tell her to get to the door, and to not speak to anyone if they approached her, but I knew I would be unable to tell her anything while he was there.
              Monsieur Beaufont looked around me, noticing her. His pudgy face lifted into his familiar impish grin. “And who is this?”
              I stepped aside. He had seen Élisabeth. I could not hide her any longer. “This is Élisabeth Lormé…” I cleared my throat, preparing myself for my next words. “My fiancée.”
              “Fiancée?” he purred. “I do not see an engagement ring on her finger.”
              Nervously, Élisabeth cupped her hands together.
              “She, unfortunately, forgot it,” I quickly recovered. “But it is safely sitting home upon her dresser.”
              His broad mustache twitched. “Not a very good sign for a successful marriage.”
              Some guests moved closer to hear the conversation. Others stopped their own conversations and perked up their ears.
              “And when is this wedding taking place?” Monsieur Beaufont questioned.
              “Soon,” I snapped, tired of his inquisition. “In a few weeks.”
              “A spring wedding? How much like your father to do the tedious, traditional way.”
              I pressed my lips together to prevent myself from swearing.
            His attention moved back to Élisabeth, and he introduced himself formally. “Donovan Nicholas Beaufont II,” he said. He took her hand and placed a lingering kiss on it. “You are very beautiful,” he whispered, and I felt my muscles tighten. “Andre is very lucky to have you, Mademoiselle.”
            When he regained his posture, I watched his eyes searching the length of her body for a flaw. I was pleased to see him frown when he could not find any obvious ones.
            A blush came to Élisabeth cheeks. “Thank you,” she said. “You are very kind.”
            He placed his hand over his heart. “Honesty is a law I live by,” he said. “Something I learned in the war. I am sure you have heard about my great escapades while in the forces?” When she did not answer, he smiled. “You haven’t? Well, it is a very interesting story—”
            “Maybe another time,” I interrupted as politely as I could manage. It was a story I had heard too many times to count.
            “Well, since we are pressed for time, I will give you as much as I can.” His mustache twitched again, and he continued with his story to Élisabeth. “I fought in the French infantry during the Second Italian War of Independence. I have taken sort of heroic figure in society’s eyes.” He ran his thumb over one of the largest metals as if he was taking off a smug. “I had been swept into the infantry as a naïve boy, not truly knowing what I had gotten myself into. It wasn’t long before I was drafted to Austria, where I witnessed some of my hottest and coldest days in my life. I ate molded bread on good days, and some days I didn’t eat at all.”
              “That’s awful,” Élisabeth commented, nodding her head and seeming interested in his tale. I didn’t know how she could.
              I rolled my eyes to the other strangers around us. Donovan’s wife who dressed in a deep purple blouse and matching shirt was beside the staircase talking with Madame Dautry. She was laughing rather obnoxiously, almost snorting, and beating her fan quickly, while the older Madame did not seem as please to be there. Instead of responding, she adjusted the many gold bracelets on her thin wrists and then concealed a yawn behind a gloved hand. 
              “…I had been shot twice in the leg. I dragged myself across ten yards to where I noticed a fallen man begging for water. His right arm was gone—caught in the blast. I couldn’t leave a fellow comrade to die,” Monsieur Beaufont said as he stood on his toes to appear taller. “I mustered up the rest of my strength and lifted him onto my shoulders. Somehow I was able to walk with him through the pouring rain—”
              “I recall you once saying it was in snow up to your knees,” I said with a short laugh. “You trudged with him through the freezing snow and ice.”
              Slowly, Monsieur Beaufont’s heated gaze drifted to me. I noticed the tick in his jaw.
              “You must have heard wrong,” he said. “It was rain.”          
              “I am sure it was mid-winter and it was snowing,” I replied, grinning at the mistake he had made.
              “I think I would know the conditions since I lived them out myself.” He cleared his throat, small eyes darting from Élisabeth and the back to me. “And how is your mother?” he asked, pulling on the last word as much as possible.
                I bit my tongue.
                “The last thing I heard, she had been found in a river somewhere up north,” he continued, his voice rising in volume, “face down.” People around us turned and began whispering to one another.
                Was this true? I felt my stiff shoulders fall and my eyes drift to the floor. My mother? Dead? My chest tightened, and it suddenly became difficult to breathe. I pleaded with myself to keep my composure. Not in front of him, I told myself.
                I knew Élisabeth was watching me, and I was ashamed for losing myself. A part of me wanted to lash out, to curse the man. But the other side wanted to disappear, melt into the mosaic floor and be forgotten. But neither was an option. I could no longer feel my legs. I was stuck in my place.
                “Oh, excuse me, Monsieur,” Élisabeth said suddenly, her voice still gentle despite the tension in the surrounding space. “There is a gentleman over there that has been trying to claim your attention for some time.” She pointed behind him where a large group of gentlemen had gathered. “The one there with the tall hat and white hair.”
                Forgetting his previous conversation, Monsieur Beaufont turned around, searching the crowd. There were at least three men fitting the description she had made. “Oh, Denis!” he called across the room. One of the men spun upon hearing his name.
                “Donovan! How are you doing, old boy?”
                Monsieur Beaufont waltzed over to the flock.
                Once Élisabeth was sure he was gone, she then looked back at me. There was a weak, compassionate smile on her lips. “Would you like to leave?” she asked, tenderly touching my hand. To my own surprise, I did not pull away. Her hands were sweetly warm, even through her white silk gloves. I felt the warmth climb up my skin, spreading across every part of me, before settling at the center of my chest.
                I nodded subtly and, together, we squeezed through the crowd. 
                Outside, it had begun raining again—no wind, just the steady fall of large drops. We hid underneath the overhang until an usher called for our carriage to be brought around front to retrieve us. The driver opened a large umbrella and hurried up the slippery stairs. He took Élisabeth’s arm, sheltering her completely. We hurried to the carriage and took our original places.
                I ran my hands over my damp hair, and patted the rain off my jacket. I realized then how cold I really was. Monsieur Beaufont’s words still lingered with me. My mother found dead in a river? Was it another rumor? Or the truth? I closed my eyes and rubbed my hands over my face. There was no doubt in my mind that the news of Élisabeth and my engagement would be the talk of everyone’s morning brunch.
                And Élisabeth. I had ripped her from her first opera—not a memory she had hoped for, I was sure. She was probably furious with me for making her leave with such haste. I needed to apologize and explain my actions to her. When I looked up, she was already staring at me with the same tender smile. She did not appear angry at all. I cleared my throat and sat up straight. “Élisabeth,” I began, finding that my voice was still a little shaky. It felt strange to call her by her first name when addressing her. “I am sorry that we had to leave so hastily, but I—”
                She shook her head. “You don’t need to apologize.”
                Didn’t she want to know what Monsieur Beaufont meant when he had mentioned my mother? She wasn’t curious?
                “You don’t need to tell me if you are uncomfortable with the subject,” she went on as if she had read my thoughts. “I understand.”
                She was respecting my limits. How very noble of her.
                “Thank you for taking me,” Élisabeth continued.
                My mouth felt dry. “But you only got to see half of the performance.”
                She smiled. “I enjoyed it just the same.”
                “You’re welcome,” I said softly. I tried to return her smile, but I found that I didn’t have the strength.
                I took a deep, consoling breath, letting the air fill my lungs to their greatest capacity before letting it go. Out my window, all was black with night. The tiny rain droplets that clung to my window tried to hold on, collecting together and growing in size, but with the speed and motion of the carriage, they were being swept away and cast off into the darkness. Somewhere, not too far from here, these raindrops could be falling their hardest, filling a steady river to its fullest. These very rain droplets could be feeding the river the power it needed to clear any forest, flatten any land, kill any innocent person.
                  A person like my mother.