This news from the tenor, for Aristafeo, it was as if he’d been thrown from the balcony.
When the writer reappeared and offhandedly said our meeting had gone well and that he would speak to me again after he had sent his novel, Aristafeo thanked him and then asked if he had obtained my address. When the writer apologized for not having obtained such a thing, he fumed.
The tenor, overhearing this, slid a card into Aristafeo’s hand. My good friend, the tenor said. On seeing it, Aristafeo raced away before the ball was done.
He knew the address too well. He went and waited in the street for me to return, smoking himself sick.
Now he believed the worst. He wanted to be free of the errand that had brought him out that night, but instead, he stayed, helpless, determined to see it through.
How could I be there still? Why would I stay there of all places? He had put me in that balloon, and yet he found me again in my cage.
Somewhere near dawn, my carriage returned.
He had meant to cry out to me as I stepped out, to confront me, but he could not think of what to say; he then thought to go to my door or return in the morning. But in each instance he could not bring himself either to speak or leave, and so instead he stayed there through the night. He followed my progress in the distance, me moving through my rooms by the light of my taper until I blew it out and the shades were drawn.
He had asked the Verdis to say nothing of him to me, and so when I arrived at their house that night for dinner with no apparent knowledge of his return, they then affected ignorance, improvising, believing he’d had a failure of nerve and wishing to protect his wishes.
Do not blame them, he said to me.
By now we had danced together for nearly the entire hour previous to my concert. We had allowed each other no other dance companions, and so there was talk at the edges of the floor. The most recent music finished and this last dance concluded, I brought my head up to meet his face.
He led me back upstairs, back to our party.
The opera was his, then, the mystery solved, and he was here in answer to my rejection of the role—the counteroffer I could not turn down. Or so he believed.
§
Upstairs, his general aspect seemed restored—he believed himself close to success and exerted the magnetism I remembered. He bowed and kissed Euphrosyne’s hand, and then mine, then embraced the novelist, smiling.
You must tell us more of this opera, Euphrosyne said to Aristafeo, before turning to me and chiding me, You never spoke of this to me. Perhaps we can convince her of the wisdom of it, she said, turning back to the men, conspiratorial. They had enlisted her, or she had volunteered, or both.
I would like her to create the role of the equestrienne dance-hall queen in our opera, Aristafeo said.
So you must, Euphrosyne said to me. It’s perfect.
But she is leaving the stage, Simonet said. Or so I’ve heard. Is this true, the curse?
What is this talk of leaving the stage and of a curse?
A rumor, nothing more. But she is leaving the stage, I said. This one, at least, for now. If you’ll excuse me, I must prepare.
With that, I turned, picked up the train of my dress, and walked away from them, making my way toward my dressing room and Lucy and Doro, as it was time for the mounting of my headdress.
Aristafeo ran after me and reached out for my arm. I paused. From behind him, over his shoulder, Euphrosyne did her best imitation of indifference, and the novelist tried as well.
I must sing, I said. This must wait.
I continued away, but Aristafeo walked behind me still. A banquette of young women in dresses the colors of macarons, looking for all the world like a set—as if they should be consumed together—followed us with their eyes.
We had the air of something about to happen.
I stopped again. Nothing of this is as it seems, I said. But you must wait for my story. I paused by the entrance to my dressing room.
In the dark, his face briefly silver again as it had been that night in the woods at Compiègne, my anger at him softened.
You are angry at being deceived. Forgive me. I couldn’t bear to return to you and have you only pity me, he said. I wanted to return with the opera I’d promised you. I wanted to return in glory.
The rest, then, after, I said, and he nodded.
He came closer then for a kiss in the shadow of one of Euphrosyne’s palms there in the hallway.
His hand felt for the ring on my hand and it was not there.
Did I imagine it? he asked.
No, I answered. I brought his hand to where it sat hidden in a pocket at my waist. It is here, hidden to be safe. After I sing, I will explain everything. Promise me you’ll stay, I said. Stay and hear me out, as I have heard you.
I promise, he said.