Chapter 10
Mérante found himself unable to look away from her retreating form, the roar of blood in his ears the only sound. The ghost of her warmth was fading from his arms; he hadn't imagined the heat of that moment between them, had he? The decision to follow her wasn't a conscious one, but was foiled by Vaucirbeil's booming, singsong voice, "shall we begin, Monsieur Mérante?"
Hours later, Mérante emerged from auditions with a massive headache and half a mind to resign as director. He felt no closer to casting his ballet than he had this morning. Rosita Mauri was the strongest candidate, with perfect form and striking intensity, but at barely thirteen, she didn't have the experience or stamina for the part. L'Opéra had invested so much into Odette that they'd lost some of the other principals to Venice, Madrid, and even St Petersburg. Even two years after her accident, l'Opéra still had a void to fill.
Mérante had hoped to enjoy some silence in his office, but instead was confronted yet again with August. August spoke, rather than sang, his greeting to Mérante, and Mérante knew he was in trouble. "Will you join me for dinner this evening?"
"And who will be joining us this time?"
"What makes you think–"
Mérante cut him off. "I know you, August, and I know your game. I have told you I am too young to be married. I don't even have a home in town yet."
"A respectable director–"
"Every member of the board knew I was a bachelor when they voted me on. I am not going to be paraded about and pawned off on every daughter trying to make a step up in the world."
"Louis-"
Mérante held up his hand. "No. I will not go, August. I will not."
He gave Mérante a rare hard look. "I will beg off for you this time-"
"It wasn't even my idea-"
"But eventually you will have to marry. It sends the wrong message, otherwise."
Mérante rolled his eyes, but nodded in consent, if only to end the conversation.