Talk to her. Say something. Say anything. Ask her how she feels – maybe about the limp? No, no – bad idea. Don't mention the limp. Talk to her about the new students. About ballet. About your new choreography – no! Another bad idea. What if she hated ballet or the Nutcracker or him?
This, Louis agreed with himself, was a new low.
He watched Odette from the shadows, struggling with a heavy water bucket she had to lift to the upper floor. He could not take his eyes off of her, waiting for a look, a hint, a trace of a smile, that would allow him to cross the distance to her. Her figure, ever graceful, changed little over the years. A few rebellious strands escaped her bun and framed her face, floating like she used to, all those years ago. She was so beautiful, her sight struck him speechless every single time he saw her; ever since he was a boy.
It was only her eyes that had died.
Offer her help. Take the bucket – no, no. She does not want your help, remember? You can't help. It's too late to help.
Forgive me, Odette. Please forgive me.
Ten years had passed. Ten years of love from the shadows and across the seas. Perhaps Auguste was right; perhaps she would never take him back. Perhaps… but still, he should tell her. He should tell her the truth. He should –
The bell rang, and Odette disappeared down a hallway. Was it his imagination, or did she stand taller? Louis frowned, tapped his cane, and walked to class. At the very least, he would sack Le Haut, which, all things considered, signaled today was not entirely a waste of time.
He entered the class, pleased to see all the girls waiting in the fifth position; less pleased to note that the redhaired nightmare was also positioned in fifth, and her stance was not that different from that of her peers.
He scowled. Did she bother with a tutor yesterday? It mattered not. Ballet is an art, and not one that could be mastered in a week.
"Today," he declared, "we jump."
A pause for dramatics and scrutiny. No girl budged, not even the redhead. Huh. A tutor for ballet and for manners, apparently. "Start with sauté, then land in fifth, and finish with soubresaut. Positions!"
The ginger chose, of course, the middle. He hit the floor with his cane and the girls, in unison, jumped. All the girls. Jumped and landed in perfect harmony.
Luck, he dismissed it. He hit the floor again, and the girls jumped again. And again. And again. And Mademoiselle Le Haut among them, not missing a beat. Her legs were perfectly poised and her hands – not an inch too low or too high. In fact, the only thing that moved unlike the rest of her classmates was her hair, which was unfortunate, but passable.
This was impossible. Not a day ago, she clobbered and floundered around his classroom, jumping up and down with the grace of a troll and the discipline of a monkey. But today…
He hit the floor again and again and again. Any mediocre student would have shown her fatigue just about now. Maintaining form and grace in a jump was a tiring task that took years to master, and yet… and yet, the infuriating ginger demon smiled, looking ridiculously happy and inexplicably unaware of the impossibility of her actions and the inconvenience she posed.
When she landed, her hands were positioned with the slightest of curves – an added touch to a routine technique that changed it from a jump to a dance. He saw that flare before – a swanlike elegance that separated the student from the master, but – no. Impossible. A master refines his technique; this girl simply learned an already improved upon gesture, and nothing more. But how? How could –
Finally, his mind flashed. A tremor. One of the girls, a mousy creature with dark brown hair, began to tremble. Not the fiery brat, but close enough. Let's see how much you can progress during the weekend, Le Haut, he thought as he sacked the girl and dismissed the class. His eyes followed her exit, narrowed in suspicion. Who is your tutor, little girl?
Well, whoever the tutor was, he had an eye for detail, for the girl passed another day with nearly flawless technique. Her poise improved, her gestures had purpose, and thank god the giggling and random shouting had stopped. She gained confidence, which was odd for a rich child to lack to begin with, and absorbed information like a sponge.
Though she still, when she thought he wasn't looking, twisting her lips in a peculiar attempt to parrot terms she should have been raised with. Her French vocabulary was also in a rather lamentable shape. Did the child not receive proper schooling? He caught Nora and Dora, her friends and rather talented dancers, if uninspiring, teaching her more than once about fashion and etiquette, literary heroes and historical figures.
Was the girl raised in the country? With each passing day, her resemblance to the street urchins he played with in his youth seemed more and more uncanny. Yet, inexplicably, her landings and her poses had the touch and grace of a danseuse etoile. While the rest of the girls completed a sequence of movements, Camille Le Haut danced.
Who, on God's green earth, is your teacher?!
He marched to Auguste's office and opened the book of student records, skimming through and trying to find a name – any name – that could be the answer to –
"Louis! How wonderful!"
Louis' fingers twisted in disgruntled irritation. Fantastic.
Auguste's booming voice matched his positively barbaric attire which was an assault of purple and gold and emeralds. He licked his pinky and fixed his eyebrow in a move he no doubt thought dashing. "Are you to be my plus one?" he winked.
"Plus? Oh – no. Is it today?" The dread sank in his stomach much like that new naked iron tower sank its claws into the bowels of Paris. "I… forgot my fancy clothes," he offered an excuse.
Auguste smiled, undeterred. "Nonsense! We'll stop at your house to change your coat, your cufflinks, and neck-tie and you'll be ready!" His enthusiasm, thankfully, was not of the contagious types. "A lot of lovely ladies cannot wait to meet you, I'm certain." He winked again. "You and Rosita are to be the stars of the ball! Hmm. You must seize your chance before Rudolph is old enough to attend. He is already a ladies' man, though he seemed to have set his eyes on one of your students!" Auguste clapped. "Wonderful, isn't it?"
"Charming," Louis bit. "Which one?"
"Why, Mademoiselle Camille, of course!" Auguste laughed and clapped Louis' shoulder, then used the momentum to grab the limb and drag him from the office. "How is she doing? I thought you'd have sacked her by now."
"So did I," he muttered, irritated.
The tone was, apparently, too subtle for Auguste, who thought the whole fiasco to be terribly funny.
They entered Auguste's carriage, colored in similarly bombastic shades of gold and purple, and thus were isolated enough for him to ask, "Do you know who tutors her?"
The notion, of course, that a student from their academy needed extra help and turned to an independent source was insulting.
"No!" declared the director, unappreciative of the delicacy of the question. "Why, is he causing trouble? You are her teacher now," he added, looking pleased with himself. "Ah, I love balls. Don't you? Drinking and dancing… that is life!"
"Hmm, too round for my taste," Louis replied, glaring at the mansions towering over the cobbled street. Perhaps he could pay Le Haut a visit. Parents do love hearing praise about their offspring and could be enticed to share information regarding their schooling. Though it might include an encounter with said child, which was an unfortunate, yet likely, possibility.
They stopped in front of his house and had to wait merely a moment before the coachman opened the carriage door while another servant opened the front door and waited for them, bearing drinks. Louis waved the cognac aside and climbed the stairs while Auguste stopped to exchange a few flirtatious remarks with one of the maids. The man had neither shame nor manners, but was quick to down his drink and climb upstairs when he noticed Louis abandoned him. He entered the room with a dramatic gait and immediately began to scavenger his wardrobe.
"Will Madame Le Haut be attending?" Louis asked as he donned his diamond cufflinks and glowered at Auguste for trying to make him wear his funeral neck-tie.
"Not wealthy enough," Auguste dismissed, fixing his mustache. "And thank the lord for that. The woman is dreadful. Looks like a… ah. A green bat. Or a snake with large, black ears."
"Lovely," Louis replied, then rolled his eyes at his friend's attempt at pleading, puppy eyes and wore his funeral neck-tie. He wondered if he should buy another for such occasions, but resolved that funerals and balls rarely occur within the same month, and that a black neck-tie was unlikely to draw enough attention for anyone to notice his collection of neck-ties was lacking.
He grabbed a hat for his planned escape from the ball. Just in case.
"You should buy more clothes," Auguste pointed out. "A gentleman is only as desirable as his wallet. We must be like a peacock! Advertise our… biological prowess through shiny clothes and a dash of good taste." He flexed in front of the mirror.
"Just a dash. We don't want to overdo it." Louis allowed himself a smile. "Don't expect me to stay after the reception."
"Don't be such an old man," Auguste chastised, once again dragging him into his disaster of a carriage. "It will be great! There will be food, drinks, women! –"
"Not my cup of tea."
"Well, the last time I invited your cup of tea, she tore the invitation and threw it in my face, so you should find yourself a different cup," Auguste grumbled, still offended. "Or a different tea. How does that expression work?"
Auguste was saved from Louis' growing irritation by their prominent arrival at their destination, upon which he found himself dragged aside by a fabulously dressed woman. It took him two seconds to recognize her as Rosita.
"You could have at least allowed me a glass of champagne," he complained, then intertwined his hand through hers. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Oh, how can you already be in a foul mood?" The young woman frowned at him, then plucked a glass of the bubbling, golden liquid from a passing servant. "You are late."
"Auguste forced me to change my clothes."
"To your funeral neck-tie?"
Louis grimaced. "Thought it would go unnoticed." To the woman's giggle, he replied, "I don't remember we have attended a funeral together."
"I wasn't yet a danseuse etoile. You, however, were the guest of honor." She led him around the ball, avoiding the clucking circles of rich women and the smaller circles of the richer still.
"One would assume the dead is the guest of honor."
Rosita hummed. "Do you think they have to RSVP?"
Louis managed a smile. "Indeed. Most unfortunate if they are late."
Rosita was not to be distracted. "Like you were," she pointed out. "I had to greet the guests."
"You would've had to do so regardless of my presence," he countered.
Rosita sent a graceful reproach his way. "Not by myself."
Louis finished his glass. "Were you the victim of unwanted attention?"
"Must you ask?" she replied, then gracefully replaced his empty glass with a new one. "You are not the only one to prefer the stage to the crowd."
"We don't belong in a crowd," he murmured, then stopped. "Especially that of predators."
Rosita distanced herself from him. "The director described them as an opportunity." Her eyes swept over the mess of fabulous dresses and black coats. "Doesn't that make us alike?"
"They are vultures," Louis scoffed. "They believe value stems from wealth and wealth results in power, and power must be worshipped. They bow before the most common of commodities if they find enough of it, which they hoard or trade for empty gestures or temples of vanity. Talent is far rarer. Talent should be worshipped. A person of talent should not be scrubbing the floors for the pleasure of vultures and their peacocked shoes," he spat. His hands tightened their hold on his cane, muscles tensing as if in preparation of an attack.
Rosita took a step back. "Louis?" she hesitated. "Are you…?"
Louis closed his eyes. He lost control of his temper. Only fools ramble in time of rage. Only fools… and aren't we all fools in love? He felt cold. "Forgive me," he muttered, then turned his back and crossed through the crowd. He could feel their eyes on him, measuring the cut of the diamonds and the wealth of the fabric and the shine upon his shoes.
Measuring to see if he was wealthy enough to be worthy of their time.
Auguste waved him over, "Louis! Come over, meet – "
"I need a drink," he snapped,
"You are holding a glass of champagne," Auguste pointed out.
Louis, with the flamboyance of a dancer, abandoned the glass on a nearby table and marched over to Auguste's carriage. He closed the door behind him. "Drive to the nearest bar."
"Any preference?" asked the coachman.
Louis rubbed his temples. "Anywhere with music."
Odette looked at the child dance and felt her heart brimming with warmth. That was Felicie's magic. Not technique or skill, but love. She loved to dance, and one could not help but fall in love with the art and the fiery child as she dominated the stage. Or, in this case, the backyard.
"That was... better!" she encouraged her. When did I last feel so alive? When did I feel so happy, so at peace? She felt no jealousy. Not this time. Watching Felicie dance felt like the only thing worth living for.
"Thanks!" The girl smiled. "I'm ready to do that crazy, jumpy thing."
Odette laughed. "And I'm the Empress Josephine." You sweet thing. Sweet, bird of joy. How aptly named. Don't fly too close to the sun, child.
"I am!" the girl declared. Her eyes lit with stars again, as if she remembered the first time she saw the move performed. The only time.
"Of course, you are. But there's a difference between being ready and being ready to do it well." Move slowly, child. Don't rush. Those who rush ahead are burnt by the flame. "That's why we train every day," she reminded her.
"That's all we've been doing!" Felicie complained.
"And then you'll be ready when you can answer the question, "Why do you dance?"
She said it with such ease, now, as if the question hadn't tormented her for months. Days and nights she tried to come up with an answer and each time, the director wasn't satisfied. Time and time again he sent her away, telling her to return only when she had an answer worthy of his time.
It's my life, she finally told him. It's not why I live or what makes me happy. It's… the only times I am alive, is when I dance.
And after she found the answer and she danced and she burned, she died. Then she had to answer the question, "what should I live for, if I cannot dance?"
That question was harder to answer. It had been ten years, and she had yet to find one. Though Perhaps…
Felicie's eyes looked ahead, toward the sun and the future. "I've answered it! It's my dream!"
She rose and she jumped. For a moment she soared – weightless like a cloud – and then she fell, crushing her small frame into the cobbled yard, crying in pain.
Odette rushed, as fast as her limp would allow her, but when she got to the child, Felicie no longer looked in pain. No injury, then. Good. She smiled, hiding her relief and her fear in a twitch of her lips. "By the way, that crazy jumpy thing is called le grand jeté, and you're not ready."
She offered her a hand, but the voice of a stranger startled her. Her hand curled, no longer poised to help, and Felicie had to rise on her own.
"Are you doing dance or kung-fu?" Laughed a boy, no older than Felicie. He was short for his age and as scrawny looking as a street urchin. If the Madame knew a dirty looking boy entered the premises…
Felicie scowled at him. "You are SO funny. This is Victor. We escaped from the orphanage together." She pouted at her friend, but the boy did not look a bit ashamed for his rudeness.
He focused on Odette and decided to be rude to her instead. "Hello! I am loving your apron." He grabbed her hand and smooched it, spit and all. He must have thought himself to be quite the charmer.
Odette withdrew her hand and wiped it on the back of her vest. "It seems that you are going out tonight," she said, a note of reproach in her voice. Her mother never allowed her to go out with boys, especially not at this age.
But she was not Felicie's mother. The thought stung.
"Yep!" declared the boy, still sure of his charm.
"Bring her back late, and you will be six inches smaller." The threat rolled from her tongue with ease she did not believe was possible. Dear God, she sounded like her mother.
The boy gulped. "Of course, of course, of course! It's a quiet, sober, quiet, sober thing."
And then they bolted, running to a place that was probably neither quiet nor sober. I should tell her something. I should tell her about propriety and the dangers drunk men pose. I should stop her.
But Felicie looked so happy. If she told her no now, would she listen? Would she listen the next time? It didn't matter. The child was already gone, running away with a boy who clearly adored her.
She remembered the first time Lou knocked on her door, looking nervous and hesitant, dressed in his best clothes – if memory serves, he even wore a neck-tie – to have her mother dismiss him as 'one of your ballet friends.' The threat affected him much like it affected that Victor boy.
She chuckled, then stopped. Her leg decided to rise from the dead with a spasm of pain. She almost forgot about her limp. When Felicie was around, it was bearable; sometimes even gone. But Felicie ran with her friend and Lou… Lou was gone too, wasn't he? He grew up, her Lou. He didn't exist anymore.
He arrived and ordered a beer. Perhaps later he'd opt for something gentlemanly such as whiskey or cognac, but for now, a sip from the time he was younger and poorer would –
"Sorry, mister!"
A child – no, two children bumped into him, spilling his drink on his clothes. Fantastic. As if having to be around children during the day wasn't enough, now he had to endure them during the night. He looked up, ready to chastise or maybe remove them from the bar, when –
No.
Dear God. Why. What had he done that he had to endure that Le Haut offspring during andafter school hours? Why – but the girl began to dance, immediately drawing the eyes of all the men in the bar, and Louis paused. Something just didn't make sense. The daughter of a wealthy woman, dressed in rags, dancing in bars with a street urchin? Who even let her in?
But that was beyond the point. Her movements were graceful and joyful – her performance was joyful – she filled the bar with happiness, lifted the spirits of its members with a well-placed jump and a charming smile. Even his spirit was lifted, he noted as he watched her performance. Ballet and childish improvisation were a cocktail he did not approve of, but the young child balancing on the tip of her boots to the hoots of her audience made him reconsider.
Passion. That's what she had. Passion. She used the dance to communicate emotions. She was happy and wanted others to share her joy. She jumped – a failed imitation of le grand jete, and even managed to land. She spun and improvised, using gestures reserved for grace in a swift and merry choreography. She lit the room better than the chandeliers.
Almost cocky – or just full of childish confidence, she spun on the railing, keeping her gaze focused on a ceiling, when a rose thrown in the air caught her attention. She forgot to focus as she tried to grab it and the rose – a moving object – caused her to lose her balance and crash into a table next to him, breaking its two front legs.
She fell.
Louis jumped from his seat and removed his hat, eyes skimming quickly in search of injury. If her legs were broken…
But the child simply looked up at him, terrified, shrinking into the shattered table. The sight was – oddly enough – reassuring; fear was proof enough that she was not in pain.
He cocked his brow at her and assumed the demeanor of the cold, haughty teacher she knew him as. "I hope that tomorrow you act with a little more dignity," he reprimanded and turned to leave, hiding his relief in the cockiness of his gait.
He stopped. It felt wrong, scolding the hurt child; or rather, just scolding her. He turned around and added, "Anyway, tonight was," he paused for the dramatics and donned his hat with flair, then added a nod of acknowledgment, "a good performance."
He walked home, the beer and whiskey forgotten, as were the vultures and the ball. He felt happy. He was happy. He… found it. He found a girl worth training. The next danseuse etoile. He was blinded by his anger, by his hate, but her tutor, whoever he was, saw the dancer in her.
She was the one, wasn't she? She was Clara. He found his Clara.
Author's notes:
So yeah, hope you liked it! Tell me what'd you think!