"Everyone will laugh, I'll make you a joke," Odette said, less bitter than he would have expected. That surprised him, so he did not interrupt; he wanted to hear what else she would say but he would not let go of her hands, her palms against his.
"What a joke, the worst, most banal jest—the Maître de Ballet married to a cripple! I'll be the ruin of you, Louis, you must see that," she went on. Another woman would have looked away as she spoke but not Odette with her great blue eyes, her face unadorned except with her undeniable beauty. He had seen her in spangles and voile, once upon a time, another lifetime, and he did not miss them. Only pearls, he thought, only something else exquisite made from imperfection could ever suit her. He would see her in ropes of them, around her slender neck and dangling from her ears, in pearls and black silk velvet or nothing except the baubles and her skin.
"I see you are a fool, Mathilde, an adorable fool, who imagines anyone would think so little of you…and that I would allow such nonsense to hold my attention for even a moment," he said calmly, drawing her closer. He would remind her of who she truly was and how he felt, what was real and what was her fear and disappointment, how much came from the sharp ache in her leg he had not yet found a way to mitigate.
"Madame le Haut, her friends," she began. She was near enough she must arch her neck to look at him and he did not let her finish, bent to kiss her bare throat, swiftly and deliberately, feeling her pulse beneath his lips. Hearing her gasp.
"You and I, we are artists. We understand what is valuable. No one who is our friend could do less," he said. He let her hear the words as she felt him breathe them against her skin.
"You don't mean to give this up then?" she asked. Had she ever sounded so shy before?
"This? You—give you up? No," he said, pausing to kiss her again, the underside of her jaw, to nip her earlobe and graze his beard against her cheek. "Nothing could persuade me. Except you, Mathilde. If you asked me-"
"No," she blurted. "No, I won't ask you."
"Then we are agreed. Agreeable," he replied. He reached a hand around her waist, to bear some of her weight on his arm as if it were a pas de deux, and moved so her mouth was just where he wanted it. She put her arms around his neck, her hand at the back of his head, the lightest pressure, the gentlest command.
"C'est agréable," she murmured and kissed him.