She said this quietly, pausing to sip from her glass.
You seduced a favorite of the Empress’s and escaped from her service, leaving her short a dresser during the series at Compiègne. I admire this as a feat, certainly—I have also taken a man she loves. You are, perhaps, nearly like my own daughter to have done so. And it is very useful to me to know the Empress has a closely guarded lover, but I’ve had to deny I know where you are. For even though she may not have lovers, when her lovers take lovers, her guards are certain to punish the girls involved.
She let out an exasperated, dismissive chuckle and surveyed the room.
And so to prevent your being hunted as a fugitive, tortured, or even executed as a spy, I have introduced you to Paris this way. Hidden you in plain sight, in gowns, your hair freshly curled.
She finally looked at me. I hope we understand each other.
I said nothing and then remembered to nod. She continued once I did, returning to looking around the room.
All of this is better than you deserve, I think. For there’s the matter of one Jou-jou Courrèges. A former star of the Cirque Napoléon and a favorite of the Bal Mabille, declared dead at Saint-Lazare and stricken from the registry. Mysteriously beaten to death despite arriving at the jail in good health. This after a bitter argument in the street with a famous tenor who was one of her amours. And who, it would seem, owned her contract, having bought her from a popular house in the Marais.
Here I was, thinking you were a poor mute orphan girl, and it would seem you have been crisscrossing Paris in disguise for years. You are, I should say, an incorrigible criminal. And yet he is so happy at the thought of your reunion, our mutual tenor friend. And he is so dear to one of my own dearest friends. You are, he says, a rare talent.
As she said this, she sat back in her chair and smiled, her gaze again on me directly. He is our mutual friend, yes? He will be here shortly to confirm you are who we believe you are.
Your education at my hands ends here. You will now renew your relationship with your tenor friend. He is going to train that voice of yours properly this time, in Baden-Baden, at the hand of Pauline Viardot-García. There he will tell everyone you are his protégée.
She returned her attention to me. You will, to show your thanks to me for this, stay with him. She raised her glass. The single condition of this is that you can never leave him and you may never speak to him of this bargain. Not without my permission. Your stay with him repays me for my assistance to you. Leave or betray him, and without question, the dossier I have on you will be sent to the authorities. And the Emperor will then have you to do with as he pleases.
She waited, her good humor unwavering throughout. I am returning you to your owner, she said. But I won’t, she said, likely make you stay with him forever.
You owe me another debt, however, for the humiliation of leaving your position, the Comtesse said. And here is the way you will repay me: The day may come when I will send someone to take you to the Emperor. You will go to him and do whatever he wishes. And whatever else you wear that day, you must wear those earrings.
Slowly, I reached for my glass and raised it. She thought it was to toast her, and she raised her own.
Congratulations, my dear, she said. Your first admirer is one of Europe’s most famous singers. You have done well.
Our glasses touched. At that moment the tenor entered, and the gathered crowd stood and applauded him as he walked over and stood by our table. He bowed deeply to the corners of the room and then begged them to sit. They kept applauding. The ma?tre d’ came and pulled the chair back himself, at which the others took their seats.
He took first the Comtesse’s hand and kissed it, and then mine.
So good to see you again, he said to me. Our little runaway, he said then to the Comtesse.
Yes, my girl. What is your name? the Comtesse asked.
The tenor reached for my hand across the table, the gesture of a lover. I looked at it briefly, cautiously.
I set my hand on the table also and slid it toward his. He then opened his palm, the ruby flower there.
His hand glowed white in the candlelight, the rubies dark in his palm, like blood.
How we hold on to what we believe is ours. How we mourn when it is lost. And how unprepared we are when it then returns to claim us.
Lilliet, I said. Lilliet Berne.
My future lifted up on the light emanating from that ruby rose in his hand, out past the tables of elegant diners and the gleaming walls of the restaurant into the rest of my life. I knew what I was to do. I saw myself take it back from his hand, pin it to my dress, look up at him, smile, thank him, smile at the Comtesse, thank her for being our intermediary, curtsy to her, and leave with him. His carriage taking me on to this education and whatever it would bring me. All of this would begin once I picked it up.