February 1883
Doctor Jules Toussaint appreciated a good ballet once in a while. He had always been a faithful, albeit scarce patron to the Théâtre National de l'Opéra, especially since Olivier and him had been good friends from the start. Alas, with age came experience, and with it followed renown and responsibilities. He had so little time now to enjoy fine arts, to his wife noticeable disapproval...
But tonight he was free. He had promised Auguste, Olivier's successor to that vast task that was managing an Opéra. The poor child had fallen a bit ill during winter, and like all members of the Opéra, he was swift to seek out the doctor's help a few weeks ago. Maybe it was a sign from destiny, a chance to reconnect with the gracefulness of dance and the delightfulness of music. Doctor Toussaint didn't take long to accept the young man's invitation to watch Casse-Noisette, a show that had been airing since Christmas and was joyful to adults and children alike, or so he had heard from some of his patients.
It was a bit cold today though, he noted, while standing with Madame Toussaint under the Opéra de Paris' delicate arches. People were entering slowly, and out of the corner of his eye he could see tutus and soft creamy colours of dancers about to reach the backstage. He was feeling it again, this familiar warm and bubbly feeling of expectation, about dance and music combined like magic on a stage, about the beauty of what he was about to watch and hear. It helped him forget his grand age. He did love a good ballet once in a while.
Félicie was slowly warming up. Clara's tutu was big and somewhat of a hindrance, but she was fine by it. She knew what it meant, wearing that costume, in the Opéra, for a representation. She worked hard for it, and honestly thought she deserved most.
"It is time to begin Mam'zelles," a familiar masculine voice called, followed by determined yet discrete footsteps. "I need Coryphées ready to take position on four to six in ten minutes. Rosita and Félicie, are you there?"
Félicie jumped to her feet and rushed to the man, followed by a peaceful Rosita securing her own diadem firmly in her hair.
"Félicie ready to fire!" The youngest one exclaimed before recoiling in a grimace at the boom of her own voice. "Er... I am ready Monsieur," she murmured with more restraint.
"Yes, I got that the first time," Louis Mérante sighted, reflecting tiredly over his student's enthusiasm. "I wonder though... this is the twenty-first representation, and you are yet to show any weariness. I wish I could have that unending pool of energy," he muttered before making his way towards the access to the stage.
"Me too," Rosita murmured while affectionately patting the smiling young girl's red hair. "Let's go, Félicie."
As they took their positions on stage, ready for curtain raising, their teacher gave a quick attentive look towards the laughing audience taking their seats. Another day, another representation, another tiring evening. It was the lot of dancers, and weirdly enough, he felt as if those times when he was the one dancing on stage, were less tiring than those spent supervising so many dancers. He couldn't wait for this season to end, so that they could all rest, him especially.
Doctor Jules Toussaint was careful to exit the music venue as silently as he could. The performance was amazing, as expected. His bladder's retention, however, was not what it used to be on this four-hours-long show. He was glad he remembered where the toilets where, or else he may have embarrassed himself looking for it...
The Opéra at night was also quite a sight, especially after having been exposed to such sounds and sights for two hours straight. Silence was everywhere, lights were dimmed behind their lanterns and there was not one thing moving amongst those statues and frescos. What a sight, indeed...
There was one noise, though. He could hear the subtle brushing of something against the floor, in a corridor right next to the central stairs. Probably a caretaker sweeping. He pitied the poor lad, having to clean behind so many guests, in such a muddy period of the year...
He craned his neck towards the sound and stood there for a few seconds, puzzled. The caretaker was a woman, very thin and graceful, sweeping methodically. She was... oddly familiar.
He stood a minute or two on his spot, watching the oblivious woman sweeping the long corridor, with that strange feeling of knowing something, something that was on the tip of his tongue but was not willing to come out just yet. She finally straightened with a discrete sight and her hand reached for something next to the wall. It was a strong and not very elegant wood cane, and as her body pressed into it, obviously relieved and used to its assistance, it all clicked in the Doctor's head.
"Odette? Odette Emarot?"
She froze. Silence went on for a bit before she turned to face him. Her face was thin, way too thin, but her guarded expression made it shine in a much livelier way.
"Who are you?" She demanded in a low voice, barely audible from the other end of the corridor.
"I cannot believe you have kept that old branch..." He thought aloud mechanically, his eyes suddenly brisk and attentive, studying her alert body. "Didn't I tell you to find a better one, my sweet child?" He added almost sadly.
Her eyes widened and her posture straightened.
"... Doctor Toussaint?" She murmured, before taking a few steps in his direction.
He smiled and was about to join her when he noticed her walk. Motionless, he watched attentively as she closed the distance between them, until she stood right in front of him, smiling with amusement.
"Are we still playing that game? Ten years later?" She asked mockingly.
"Which game?" He replied in a distant tone, visibly preoccupied.
"The one during which you watch me walk all around the place while you just do nothing," she answered, raising both eyebrows meaningfully.
He smiled fondly.
"It was for your own good, my dear. And you were honestly fast to catch up on me," he praised her.
"I was young..." Odette muttered, resting once again on her cane. "And I won that cane from it, so I would say it was worth it."
They both laughed, looking at the cane wistfully.
"Do you still hurt deeply in your hipbone during winter, child?" He finally asked, his preoccupied eyes overseeing her face and body again.
"Yes, but way less," she admitted. "And not always. Mostly when I... hum... Don't find the best side of the bed."
"I see," he mused, wondering.
He marked an hesitation.
"Please don't be offended but... I was frankly surprised by your walk just now."
"So we were playing," she murmured, the ghost of a smile still on the lips.
"Unpleasantly surprised," he clarified, and her smile disappeared. "Because during that year of re-education I did with you, and after that frankly successful last surgery, I progressively started to think that in a few more years, I would see you walk like before. Not dance like you used to, unfortunately I am no magician, but walk, yes, I believed your body and mind were young enough to allow such a recovery."
Odette remained silent. He was not the first person she disappointed in her life after all.
"I am sorry, I did not mean to lower your spirits in any way," he finally sighted. "I am just an old man that tends to lose himself in the past."
"That would make two of us," she replied calmly.
"Yes... Yes indeed, I guess being a caretaker at the Opéra could be considered a life by proxy for you, hum," he said sadly, staring at her.
Her silence was kind but seeing her like this, a poor child that certainly lived the worst trauma that could happen to a ballet dancer, he felt a tug in his mind, and a pinch in his heart. What had she endured after she left the hospital? What was she still enduring everyday of her life, cleaning where dancers saw their dreams come true, unable to reach her own?
"Sweet child, tell me," he finally asked after his few seconds of introspection. "Are you busy tomorrow around 5:30 AM?"
"Does eating count as an occupation?" She replied calmly.
"I would like to see you at the hospital," he continued, unfazed by her remark. "I would like to take a look at your scars, if you will allow me, to see if there is something that could have escaped me all those years ago. To see if I can help you. That is... if you want to be helped?" He added hesitantly.
"It is... very kind of you, Doctor," she murmured, lowering her eyes. "But I'm afraid I have to decline. I have no money to pay you for this."
He vigorously shook his head, annoyed.
"Child, I am sixty years old. I am too old to care about money now. Let's consider this consultation to be part of that care package the Opéra paid for you back then, and let's not speak about it again, alright?" He said adamantly.
She hesitated, surprised.
"Listen... It is my professional conscience speaking now. Someone who has been my patient one day, will always be my patient. Please... Would you indulge me on this whim?"
He was begging, and she felt it. Her neck straightened with her resolve, and she sighted.
"You have always been a good person to me Doctor, when I was at the lowest of my life. And I'm always up at 5 AM anyway so... If you insist, I guess I can pass by," she finally accepted.
His radiant face spoke more than his "Thank you."
He joined Auguste before the exit, as per usual at the end of the show. The man had never missed a representation, even if he technically could have. No, Auguste loved Ballets, and would never miss one willingly. Such was his passion in the arts and the people.
"I agree to it, but there is one demand I need to insist on," Auguste was saying to one of the patrons, a thin man with an heavy green coat and a moustache that revealed an impressive grey volume. "I must be sure this won't be taking more time than needed, that I will still have her as my employee afterwards."
"Of course not, Auguste. Come on, I am not going to make her disappear, what kind of doctor do you think I am?" The man exclaimed, outraged.
"I... fortunately do not know that much," the Director replied mischievously.
"Touché," the Doctor laughed, his moustache bouncing. "Well, if it's all fine with you, forgive me, but I must bid my farewell. I have to make sure I am on time tomorrow morning."
"Certainly, good night to you, Doctor," Auguste sang with a slight tremolo on the 'you'.
Louis had no problem rolling his eyes behind his friend back, while the small and energetic man hopped to the main gate and exited in the icy winds.
"I will go as well, Auguste," Louis informed his friend, who jumped dramatically and turned to him. "I need my beauty sleep, if you see what I mean."
"HA! Louis Mérante, such a good laugh," he replied, then remained a few seconds silent, observing him. "Did you know who that man was?" He astutely inquired.
"Absolutely not. Your doctor I guess," Louis said, making his way towards his office to pick up his coat.
"Not only my doctor. It his true you only came back to Paris a few years ago, and it is also true that you have a perfect health, so that would explain why you never heard about Doctor Jules Toussaint. He has been the official Opéra's Doctor for the last twenty-five years," the Director explained with a slight satisfaction.
"Is that so..." Louis muttered, patting his pockets for his office key.
"Each time we sent a dancer to the hospital, he would treat them, and at a fairly lower cost. You have had several students in that case those last three years, you brute!" Auguste added with thunderous laugh.
"Yes, I guess," sighted the Maître de Ballet, stopping in front of his door and inserting his key. "Well, I will remember the name in case I need it one day, thank you Auguste. Have a good evening."
"He is the one that treated Odette."
Silence fell and Louis Mérante froze, his door half-opened.
"He performed the surgery on her and re-educated her into walking for almost a year. He honestly worked a miracle, Olivier told me," the Director added sadly.
Louis Mérante hesitated.
"Were you... there, when it happened, on stage?" he finally asked.
"Alas I was. I saw everything from the audience. Olivier and Marie were truly broken after that event," Auguste muttered, his creased brow giving away his reminiscing of those terrible memories. "They had such hopes and dreams for her. She made it look easy to believe."
"How did it happen?" Louis murmured, finally turning around to look his friend and colleague in the eye.
August sighted.
"Louis, my friend. I could give you the point of view of a spectator. I really could. But this tragedy... I know why it captivates you. You left a promising child on her way to be an Assoluta. You came back to a crippled woman, hidden in the shadows. This, my friend, is not my story to tell," Auguste Vaucorbeil said gravely. "I am sorry."
They both remained silent, then Louis turned away once more.
"I see. Thank you for this piece of information, Auguste. Have a good evening."
"You too, my friend."
Odette was at the hospital door at 5:15 AM. Paris was starting to wake up, carts rolling in the streets, horses pounding the pavement, and there she was, after a slow twenty-five minutes' walk. The hospital was still closed, but she knew her way around. She had been here before, for a long time.
Ambulances were all parked, horses in their stalls. A calm night it had been then. There was a shortcut from there to the long-stay area. Everyone was asleep except for the night nurse about to finish her shift. She didn't know that nurse, thus avoided her to go straight to Doctor Toussaint's office. Straight to the point.
She hated that hospital. It reminded her of a time when she couldn't feel anymore. How can you feel when the reason for which you live went up in smoke, literally. It took time to feel again. Alone time, second chances, meeting people. Luck. It took a lot. It took a child speaking too much and living as much.
"Odette? My, you are indeed an early bird, I had forgotten!" The coated doctor exclaimed upon entering his office. "I bet Eugénie doesn't know you are here either, if you are as discrete as you used to be as well!"
"Good morning, Doctor Toussaint," the young woman murmured, busying herself with a standing skeleton in a corner of the room while the doctor took off his coat, gloves and hat.
Félicie would be ecstatic if she could see this place. So many weird objects.
"And a good morning to you too my child," he answered before sitting on a chair in the middle of the room. "Before I begin with my unsufferable questioning, there is one thing I must ask you. Please, take this seat."
She complied and he observed her calmly for a few seconds.
"My dear... Would you like some tea first?" He finally asked, his eyes twinkling.
She rolled her eyes.
"Yes, thank you."
"Fantastic! Alright, let's begin then."
There was no sense to the doctor's questioning overall, but it never had been anyway. He asked her what kind of activities she was doing on her everyday job, and right after that, if she liked smashed peas with lard in a meal. He politely requested her to show him her scars, inspected them for a few long minutes, made her walk with her knee and her hip showing, all the while debating with her about how more useful a spoon and a knife were, compared to a fork and a knife. She told him about Félicie and her incapacity to eat correctly with a fork, and he avidly asked her about how they met and what kind of girl she was.
She stole two madeleines from the tea tray while he wasn't watching, knowing Félicie would love them. And he wouldn't mind, really.
He showed her three stretching moves to do, arguing it would help her feel better on the long run, and if she did them every day. He also insisted that she walked eighty meters daily without her cane, as if there was no wound. She argued she wouldn't if she didn't feel like it some days. He laughed at that, "of course child." So patronizing.
He insisted to give her a book. A translation from an English poet. She took it more out of politeness than need. Only Doctor Toussaint would think he could heal people with words.
"I will have to go patrol my long-term patients at one point, they must be waking up as we speak," he finally sighted, checking his pocket watch. "I wish we could have more time to talk, Odette, I really missed our little discussions."
"I understand Doctor," she nodded. "Thank you for checking on me, I can assure you, I am more than fine."
"More than fine," he repeated with a smile. "How funny."
"How so?"
"I remember you, after the surgery. It was like talking to a wall. You had lost your will to live, and it was terrible for us to watch you fall into that dark limbo day after day," he murmured, sadly overlooking her. "And I see you now, ten years later. You have changed. You got better. But alas, you still haven't found how to live for yourself yet."
"Live for myself?" She repeated, frowning. "What is this, a charade?"
"No, merely an observation. I see a spark in you, Odette. I noticed it when I first saw you this morning. What were you thinking about just before I came in?" He asked her, his eyes suddenly piercing.
"I... I remember thinking Félicie would love your office, because it's full of weird things," she answered truthfully.
"I see. You really love that child. Do you see yourself in her?" He wondered.
"Not really. She is a lot humbler than I used to be. But she is talented, and certainly loves dance as much as I did," she admitted. "So yes, maybe I can see myself in her, just a tad."
"You want her to fulfil her dream, of making dance her whole life," he guessed as she nodded calmly. "You are currently doing everything you can to allow her that privilege, right?"
"Yes... What's wrong about it?"
"Nothing is wrong about that."
"Your tone says otherwise."
"Well, that is not really living for yourself, Odette. It is living for her."
She remained silent, and he saw that she already knew that. Acknowledged it.
"I was very surprised when I saw you last night. You shouldn't have had that strong a limp. You should have healed. But I haven't been a good doctor," he added sadly. "I healed your body. I forgot your spirit. Your body can't heal without your spirit."
"My spirit is fine," she interrupted him.
She didn't like where this was headed.
"You told me you thought you had lost the girl at one point, you told me that for a few days, she was sent back to the orphanage. What were you feeling, Odette, when it happened? And during those days?" He insisted.
She took a few seconds to collect herself.
"I was empty."
She paused.
"I did what I was supposed to do, I cleaned the Opéra. But... It was only my body doing what it was used to. The rest of me was... Dull. Muted."
They both contemplated her words.
"I'm glad she came back," Odette finally murmured, lowering her eyes on her lap. "She gives me strength to carry on."
"You think?" He wondered aloud, his brow creasing. "What does she do to give you strength, precisely? She dances?"
Odette hesitated.
"No... Well, yes. But mostly, she persists. Even when she falls, she persists. Even when people try to push her back, she persists," she tried to describe.
He thought for a while.
"When she was taken away, did you feel as if it was you who lost dance all over again?" He questioned.
"No," she replied, barely hesitating. "She didn't... She could still dance. She could still use what I had taught her. But I wouldn't see it."
"You taught her," he repeated, surprised suddenly. "You taught her? Well, isn't that extraordinary... You taught her, and she persisted under your teaching. My child..."
He was suddenly in awe.
"I was wrong. You are not living through her. You found a new way to express your love for dance. You gave her your dancing!" He almost whispered, stupefied.
"I suppose... It is a way of putting it..." she murmured, her own eyebrows rising.
Then remained silent for a few seconds more, the doctor weirdly beaming at her. It was getting awkward.
"Hum, I think I shall be on my way, my shift has already begun," she muttered, rising carefully from her seat and retrieving her cane, the one he offered her ten years ago.
"Of course!" He stood as well. "Please, take those remaining madeleines and give them to your girl, will you?"
"Thank you, Doctor," she murmured, avoiding his eyes, the weight of stolen madeleines heavy in her pocket.
"And please, could you come back next month? I would like to see if there is progress with your limp," he almost implored her.
"If you insist, and if it's still free," she answered, a bit amused.
"Very nice. Will you read the book? And will you do your exercises?" He added, while trotting through the corridors of the hospital.
"Yes, Doctor," she sighted while they were passing through the building's main door.
The sun was pouring all over the courtyard. An unexpected February warmth certainly not unwelcomed.
For the last three months, Félicie and Odette had been two fingers of the same hand. The young girl was still taking dance lessons from the Opéra and maintaining her role as Clara throughout the whole winter season. The rest of her time was allocated to helping Odette clean the Opéra, while training a bit more with her. It was the most exhausting, but also the best part of her whole life.
Today though, she woke up on an empty stomach and with worry. The sun was pouring through the small window in their attic's room, like it would at 8 o'clock those days. There was not a sound from their neighbours, Troup Dancers and Musicians, as there would usually be.
She was definitely late for dance class with Louis Mérante.
Why didn't Odette wake her up as usual? She kept wondering aloud while rushing to dress in her training tutu and slippers. She could reach the classroom in 3 minutes if she took the shortcut inside the walls, but she would get web covered. Still, she noted while passing in a rush in front of an antique clock, she would be only ten minutes late, instead of fifteen.
She skidded through the passage, coughing dust and spiders, and jumped in the girls' locker room, before dashing to Mérante's class and skidding to an ungraceful halt in front of it. She could hear her teacher chanting positions, his stick pounding regularly on the varnished parquet. She checked through the door.
He was distracted by something in the street. She took her chance and rushed as silently as she could next to an amused Nora. As if nothing was wrong.
"Félicie."
She bit her lip. Well, she tried.
"Come see me at the end of class," Louis Mérante said, glaring at her scornfully.
"Yes, Monsieur," she murmured, lowering her eyes shamefully.
It was probably her worst dancing experience (after her Casse-Noisette casting against Camille of course), she realised while class was unfolding slowly. She did not sleep enough because of last night performance, did not have time to warm up with Odette before class, which meant she was painfully stiff the first half of it, did not eat breakfast either (Nora snorted each time her stomach would grunt, which was often), and Mérante was watching her with those hawk eyes that kept saying 'I will skin you alive soon'.
What a nice start of the day, she mused while watching longingly her friends leaving the classroom, leaving her alone with the most respected and impressive member of the teaching staff of the Opéra.
"You were late. You know I do not tolerate lateness," he began, harshly looking down at her.
She sadly lowered her head.
"I am sorry," she murmured. "Odette didn't wake me."
"You shall not count on others to wake you up. You must find that will in you to do it by yourself," he lectured her.
She didn't answer, contrite.
"This must not happen again. Am I clear? And you must make an effort to look at yourself in a mirror in the morning, you are covered with webs. God knows there are enough mirrors around for that," He grumbled.
Her stomach loudly growled, and she blushed from head to toe.
"So- sorry," she stuttered.
"Why haven't you eaten yet?" He frowned. "It's past breakfast. You need to eat if you want to grow strong as a dancer."
"Odette didn't leave anything for me as usual," she muttered shamefully.
He paused.
"What do you mean? Wasn't she with you this morning?" He asked hesitantly.
"Well, usually she would be, because she always lets me sleep more on show nights and wakes me up a bit before class so we can eat breakfast together, but I dunno, she wasn't there this morning. I hope she didn't fall somewhere and couldn't get up or something," Félicie muttered hastily, suddenly worried. "Oh no, what if she went outside and got into an accident?" She exclaimed horrifyingly.
"Calm down for God's sake," Louis Mérante muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm sure she is fine. Where is she supposed to be at this hour of the day?" He added.
He knew very well where the young woman was supposed to be, but he would be damned if that astute girl realised that he did.
"The Director's office!" Félicie eagerly pointed out, before rushing to the door, then stopping hesitantly.
"I will come with you," he said on the most neutral tone he could find in him.
He only hoped Auguste would be roaming the rest of the Opéra as usual, because he was really starting to feel his sneer upon him each time Odette and him were in the same room.
He was not there, to his relief. And to Félicie's, Odette was sweeping gracefully ashes from the hearth.
"Odette!" The child exclaimed, rushing to embrace her in a ferocious hug. "I was so worried!" came her muffled voice, her face pressing into the woman's apron. "I imagined you had been run over by a horse."
"Did you have a nightmare again?" The worried caretaker asked, her eyes barely taking time to acknowledge Louis Mérante's silent stature in the doorway.
"Oh no! I was... late for class," she confessed. "Did you forget about me?" She added, biting her lower lip.
"No, I did not. I am sorry, I had to go out for something, and time ran short... Here, take this."
"What's that? Oh, it smells... it smells like the bakery!"
"It's called a madeleine, eat, it's breakfast," she answered quietly, before hesitantly turning to Louis Mérante. "Can I help you Monsieur?"
"I told Félicie I would not tolerate another lateness, and that she should learn to wake up by herself," he explained, unsure of how to act with her.
"Oh. I will make sure it doesn't happen again then," she slightly bowed, avoiding his stare.
"Very well," he murmured. "Have a good day."
"You too Monsieur."
He tried not to rush out of the room. He could still hear Félicie's delighted chewing and Odette's discrete laugh. He knew his heart was beating a bit too much. He needed to calm down. He needed to dance.
There was a room which key only him possessed. It was his secret place. When he needed to compose, to create, to dance, to think, or just to take a short nap, the room was there. And he had half an hour before his next class.
Sweep, sweep, turn. Sweep, sweep, pointé… Ouch, no, not a pointé, glissé. Sweep, sweep…
"Out of the… nite… no, night… that coven- covers me," slowly uttered Félicie's voice. "Out of the night that covers me. Is it about the night, as the night with stars? Or about a kind of coat that's called night?" She muttered aloud.
Camille snorted. They both were in the middle of the big stage, the blond one training her pirouette, the red-haired one struggling over a small book with a hard cover.
"Idiot. It's a metaphor. It's a way of saying the night is so dark, it's almost as if you are hidden under it, like it's a kind of coat," Camille patiently explained, before performing a double pirouette.
"Oh," murmured Félicie, thinking deeply. "It's… elegant."
"Keep reading," came Odette's voice from one side of the stage, accompanied by the methodical sweeping of her broom. "Don't try to understand the words you read yet, just read aloud. And lower your raised leg a bit when you turn, Camille, you will get better balance."
Both girls immediately obeyed.
"Black as the pit from pole to pole," Félicie continued. "I tank… I thank whotever gods may be. For my… this word is so long. Unonc- unconquable, no, un-conquer-able, er, soul."
Sweep, sweep, turn.
Pirouette, double pirouette.
"I thank whatever gods may be, for my unconquerable soul. Uh. I like this sentence. Who wrote this again?" Félicie exclaimed, deciphering the hard cover once more.
"William Henley, well, for the English version at least," Odette said tiringly. "Keep reading, kid."
"Yeah, yeah," the girl sighted, before hesitating. "I really am not fond of reading, though, you know."
"A ballerina must be able to read easily," Camille retorted, before Odette could speak. "Mother always tells me it's important for a lady shining in society to be able to have a good culture, because it allows good conversation and people see you in a flattering way. I have a tutor for that at home."
Odette nodded.
"Camille is right, Félicie. I understand what you mean nonetheless," she added, before quicky thinking. "If it helps, you can see it like your dance training. Your body must perfect all those dancing steps before you can let yourself shine through them."
"Hum."
The red-haired girl drew a decisive breath, before lowering her eyes again on the paper.
"In the fell cluck- cluckch- clutch. Of circumf- circumt- cir-cum-stance, I have not winched- winced, nor cry aloof. Nor cried aloud. In the fell clutched of cir-cum-stance, I have not winced nor cried aloud."
"Good," Odette praised, with a slight smile, quickly eyeing Camille on the side, stretching her legs on the floor. When had she become the guardian of two, honestly?
"Under the blue joinings of chance," Félicie continued, focusing intently.
"Bludgeoning," Camille intervened after looking over the other girl's shoulder rapidly. "It means beating someone with a cane, I think."
"Under the bludgeonings of chance," Félicie repeated. "My head is bloot- bloodied, but unbowed. So dark," she muttered.
"I like it," Camille murmured, switching to cladding. "Even beaten up, he won't give up."
Sweep. Pause. Sweep.
"Be-yond this place of… Wrasse? Wrath? And, uh, tears. Beyond this place of wrath and tears, looms but the horror of the shade."
Odette looked at the whole stage from the other side. It was the biggest one ever built, that stage. Thirty-five meters from front to back. Forty meters from left to right. Gas lighting at the front. Oh yes, she knew that kind of stage.
"And yet the menace of the yeers, of the years. Finds. And shall find, me unaf-unafraid."
Forty meters. She used to dance on twenty. She used to chain pirouettes on twenty meters without breaking a sweat. Ten years and one tutu on fire had done their job.
"It matters not, how straight- strait, the gut. The gate. How charged with… punish-ments, the scrott. The scroll. How charged with punishments the scroll."
Odette looked at her leg, then at the girl reading. Her girl, maybe. But the girl was not her.
"I am the master of my fate."
She lowered her broom on the ground, and stood up, straight. Her right leg winced when she put it right against the floor. She could feel the scars stretching on her thigh and knee.
"I am the captain of my soul."
Her gaze resolutely fixed over the curtain on the other side, she took a few, slow tentative steps. Stand straight. Take your time to place your weight. Remember the good Doctor's exercises.
"I like those two sentences," muttered Félicie.
"Can you read that last stanza again please," Camille asked, her head turned tower the reading girl. "I think I like it too."
"It matters not how strait the gate. How charged with punishments the scroll. I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul. It's weirdly inspiring," Félicie muttered, frowning.
Camille hummed, lost in her thoughts on the floor. Félicie raised her head and remained speechless for a few seconds, her eyes following Odette's slow steps in front of her. There was a tear flowing slowly from the woman's eye but her lips were sealed with fierce determination. No cane in view, only two legs, struggling to move in front of one another.
"ODETTE!" The red-haired finally exclaimed, making Camille startle as she rushed to her mentor's side. "What are you doing? You… Are you crying?" She asked in a lower, shakier voice.
"I am fine," the woman murmured, her trembling hand reaching in front of her, somehow trying to help her legs moving.
"I can bring your cane to you," Félicie proposed, hesitant.
"No. I must continue."
"But why?"
"Because I am the captain of my soul."
Silence fell, Félicie anxiously following the woman's steps, and Camille standing a few steps behind her, equally worried but mainly queasy.
"Can I at least hold your hand?" Félicie finally asked.
Odette did not answer aloud, but her hand eventually moved towards the girl, who immediately grabbed it with both of hers. As they both made their way towards the other end of the stage, slowly, so slowly, Camille finally reached a decision. Rushing like the wind, she went to grab the cane resting on a chair, and brought it back to Odette's other side, timidly matching her pace to the one of her former caretaker. She didn't dare reach for the other hand though.
A door opened somewhere, and children's laughs and discussions slowly filled the backstage. As Odette was reaching the left side of it, and the end of her strength and will, a measured and familiar male voice raised and silenced all children.
"Very well Mesdemoiselles, let's not lose time, go position yourselves. Wait, where are Félicie and Camille?"
"I think they are on stage already Monsieur," Dora's voice spoke up.
Odette did her last three steps and stopped, feeling like she would faint. She needed to stay strong. She could do it. She felt herself wavering though.
Félicie's hand squeezed her own and slowly brought it towards Camille waiting in front of them, holding patiently the cane.
"Thank you girls," she murmured, her voice so dim they barely heard her. "You should go now."
"Will you be okay?" Félicie worried, watching both hands grab the cane and spasm around it a bit.
"I have to," Odette murmured, mentioning with a nod they really had to leave her now.
She could hear Louis Mérante's discrete steps growing closer. She slowly made her way towards the exit door, heavily weighting on her cane. She needed an empty classroom to stretch, not another confrontation with the man.
"Is everything alright?" She heard him say before she crossed the threshold.
"Yes," Camille answered decisively. "We are ready Monsieur."
Auguste was a bit distracted, which made it all the more complicated to exchange efficiently.
"What about Giselle? We could re-enact the choreography our own way, give it a 1883 update," Louis Mérante sighted, crossing his legs tiringly.
The Director scoffed.
"Giselle… It is so… 1850!" He complained, slumping a bit more in his chair.
"Well, we do need something familiar on our next programming… I am glad you let me propose my own choreographies, but I really think a traditional public piece is needed for next season," the Ballet Master insisted.
"I knooow Louis! Believe me, I know…" The grown man moaned dramatically.
"We can't have only the Nutcracker twice in a row. We can't do La Sylphide because it was on before last season for two years. What about Coppélia then?"
"No, no, no. This is all so conventional…" muttered Auguste, playing absently with a feather.
Louis Mérante paused. Ah.
"You already know what ballet you want," he observed astutely, while the other not so innocently smiled at him. "You are making me list ballets until I find the chosen one, aren't you?"
"My friend, I don't want to force a ballet on the Ballet Master," Auguste Vaucorbeil said joyfully. "I want to know what YOU want, of course!"
"Of course," said Ballet Master sighted. "As per usual."
He was about to keep listing flatly all Ballets he knew when a sharp knock on the door cut him off.
"Come in!" Auguste exclaimed, suddenly standing elegantly but also a tad dramatically.
The door opened energetically and a small man with shining eyes and an impressive moustache sauntered in.
"Why, are my eyes abusing me?" The Director delighted. "Doctor Toussaint, how can you be here twice in only two days? It is more than those last two years combined!"
"Good evening Auguste," the doctor answered, mildly amused. "I would advise you against getting used to it though, I am only passing by."
He eyed the Ballet Master who had just risen from his seat.
"Ah! Doctor, this is Louis Mérante, my esteemed Ballet Master and friend," Vaucorbeil introduced politely.
"Good evening Doctor," Mérante bowed.
"I see. Well, I guess it's as good if you are here, Monsieur. Forgive me Auguste, I do not have much time but I certainly have an important favour to ask you, so I will go straight to the point," Toussaint quickly spoke, addressing a quick nod towards his new acquaintance.
"Gladly, what is it?" The Director frowned.
"Do you have a teacher position available?"
Silence fell and both Opéra Staff Members exchanged a look.
"We have a stable teaching staff currently," Louis Mérante said, hesitating a bit. "Although one of my colleagues, Madame Rochefort, has admitted needing an assistant recently."
"Does the assistant position pay enough to live decently?" The Doctor insisted.
"This is the Opéra, Doctor Toussaint," Auguste said, half-amused. "We do pay people a minimum wage."
"I would like to add that whoever you want to propose for assistant position here at the Opéra, I will have to be the judge of their capability in the job," the Ballet Master added quickly.
He didn't know why he had mentioned that assistant position. He already had someone in mind for it after all. If only he was brave enough to confront her about it.
"Well, this is perfect," Toussaint muttered. "Auguste, you need to give that position to Odette."
Silence fell.
"And I must insist that you give it to her as soon as possible. I have no doubt she will be competent, but mostly, I am terribly worried about her health. All that work she does, cleaning this gigantic place, it is not helping her. It gave her a purpose all those years, but now it needs to stop. Do you understand Auguste?" The Doctor fervently pushed, looking the Director in the eye. "She is drowning down there. While she is so much more than that. She has twelve years of dance training to prove it."
"I see," Auguste Vaucorbeil sat, deeply contemplating his desk and thoughts. "I understand, Doctor."
Louis felt is heart beating again and managed to draw a few discrete breaths. He did not expect that.
"I will talk about it with her, and with Monsieur Mérante, but I cannot guarantee this will happen I'm afraid. I already offered that solution to her two years ago, and she refused, very adamantly should I add," Auguste Vaucorbeil grimaced under his Ballet Master's incredulous stare.
Why didn't he know about that?
"Yes, I think I see what you mean. But please, try it again, and keep trying if you can. It is really important," the Doctor insisted.
"For you Doctor, I will do my best," Auguste grinned, rising again from his seat. "I will put my best man on that case," he added, winking towards Mérante.
"Fantastic. I will take my leave then. Oh, I almost forgot, here you go," he said, reaching in his pocket to drop a check on the desk. "My wife and I do enjoy being curators of the Opéra," he finished with a sincere moustachy smile. "Farewell and good evening gentlemen!"
"And to you, Doctor," Auguste answered, bowing, the Doctor already disappearing through the front door.
Auguste Vaucorbeil turned towards his frozen Ballet Maste with a smug look.
"Well then, my friend. I guess I will let you announce the big news to your new assistant, right?"
"She won't accept," Louis Mérante murmured. "I… I've been trying to find a way to ask her to take the position recently, but… she is not…"
He left the words hanging and the other man rolled his eyes.
"For god's sake, Louis, I am not asking you to make a wedding proposal to that girl," he purposefully said. "Moreover, I think, with a name like that, she would be the perfect addition to the staff considering next season's traditional ballet."
Louis Mérante slowly raised his eyes to his friend's. What did Odette have to do with a ballet? …Oh.
"I thought we didn't do Swan Lake in Paris Opéra," he finally murmured. "You said it yourself when I arrived five years ago."
"Well, I changed my mind," Auguste winked. "Get on that saddle will you? I need to go see our esteemed Conductor now."
Auguste Vaucorbeil stormed joyfully out of his office and Louis Mérante remained there, confused and more than a little distraught.
When it was late and everyone had left the Opéra, Odette would be in a barely used classroom at one end of the building. She would usually stretch or just reflect gloomily over her leg in there. It was in this room she had dared, six years ago, for the first time, to really look at her wounds, to acknowledge them. All those mirrors showed her what she really was now, in all honesty. She had cried a lot that night.
Today was not for crying though. Her cane in hand, she stood as straight as she could, trying to remember how it felt not to suffer. Doctor Toussaint had warned her about the pain, about the necessity of it as well. She was moving scarred muscles, unused for a long time. She felt weak, but also, strangely long-sighted.
He had said that she was supposed to walk normally. She thought it was impossible. She had not done anything to try to walk correctly since she had been set free from the hospital. Maybe she had been wrong.
She slowly stretched her arms, then got to the ground, bending slowly, carefully over her legs. She needed to get to know that body better. Maybe it could work better now. She had lost so much of her strength and flexibility over the years though.
She almost didn't dare to name it, even in her head, because she was afraid of that word. But it was really Hope she felt.
He wasn't expecting such an opportunity to show up, but there it was. He had a distressed Rudolph on one arm and a deeply asleep Félicie on the other. Apparently that date had not gone as the young man had planned.
"Is she dead?" The distraught young man whispered, frenetically inspecting the unmoving young girl from head to toe. "I was just showing her some moves, I have no idea what happened, Monsieur!"
"She is not dead," Louis Mérante sighted. "She is just… extremely tired, it seems."
The blond man had tried shaking her and moving her, unsuccessfully. It said a lot about the trust Félicie had into him, and into the Opéra, falling asleep so easily and so deeply in the middle of a classroom.
"I will take her to Odette. You should go, it is very late and both of you have classes tomorrow," he scolded Rudolph lightly.
The boy had at least the decency to look ashamed of him.
"Forgive me, our passion for dance made us forget everything about time and space," the young Russian boy sighted with a dramatic arc of the arm over his forehead.
He was quick to mutter a good evening and leave the room when he noticed the Ballet Master's clearly unfazed look.
Now all that was left was that sleeping red head on the floor. Well, at least he knew where she lived…
That was it, she was certainly not going to try that again. Not only her knee and her hip hurt, but she also felt an awful amount of pain in those muscles she had not used in ten years. She couldn't even do first position. Ugh, it was the worst evening, she thought while heavily reaching the corridor leading to the attic's stairs. Oh god, and she still had those dumb stairs to climb… If Félicie wasn't in her life, she would have seriously considered sleeping in the kitchen. Emma wouldn't have minded.
The sound of a door opening on her right froze her on the spot, and she hurriedly threw herself behind a pillar. She knew her and Félicie inhabiting the attic was legal, but her pride had not changed all those years. She was not going to let anyone see her go to the attic while she was not a ballerina herself.
She risked a look and remained petrified, unable to decide what to do. Louis Mérante was carefully readjusting Félicie's head on his shoulder while closing the door behind him. The girl was sound asleep, even snoring a bit, still dressed in her dancing clothes. Odette knew that look on the child's face: she would not wake up, even if everything around her was crumbling down.
The Ballet Master slowly started his way towards the attic, opened the door giving way to the stairs and disappeared behind it. Odette waited a few long seconds before following suit, more silent than she had ever been. She could see the light of the petrol lamp he was also carrying, fluttering rapidly in the spiral staircase. She guessed at which point he reached the main hall of the attic and discreetly sneaked after him.
Félicie and her had divided their room with props, with Félicie's bed immediately in the main part of the room and hers behind a heavy curtain dividing the place in two. They called Felicie's room, the living-room, and would usually both sit together at their makeshift table there, drinking some tea brought from the kitchen.
Now, there was a petrol lamp on the table, and a man carefully, almost tenderly, sliding Félicie's form inside her bed sheets. He hesitated a second before reaching for her feet and sliding her slippers off, leaving them next to the bed. She was still sound asleep, and he readjusted the linen on her before fondly stroking her hair.
"You really ought to say no to Rudolph sometimes," Louis Mérante murmured aloud, before straightening and walking back to the lamp.
He startled upon seeing Odette in the doorway, completely unmoving.
"Lord, you scared me," he muttered, before embarrassingly reassessing his surroundings. "Forgive me for intruding, Félicie fell asleep and wouldn't wake up, I thought…"
"Thank you for bringing her back here Monsieur," Odette murmured, softly lowering her head in a grateful gesture.
"It was my pleasure," he answered, before hesitating. "There is… Also something I need to talk about with you."
She gave him a piercing stare, almost challenging. Such heat in one look.
"I am sorry for this morning. It won't happen again. I can assure you, I will do my best to help Félicie become a top dancer of the Opéra," she adamantly said, her eyes flashing.
He realised those blues were a bit dangerous to him. They blocked his pathway effectively and he had to swallow before answering.
"I know you are, do not worry, I have been very conscious of that for the last three months actually. I need to talk to you about something else, but I would rather do it tomorrow morning, if you would allow for it. There is someone I want you to speak with."
"Someone?" She murmured, suddenly insecure. "I would rather not meet people."
"Please, Odette. It is only one person."
She barely flinched at the free use of her name. It felt natural on his tongue.
"And it will actually help you be even more useful to Félicie," he added, raising an expectant eyebrow.
She frowned and sent him a knowing look. Don't play with me, she seemed to say.
"Fine," she muttered impatiently. "I will be there, if you insist."
"Thank you," his voice was obviously relieved. "Come to my classroom directly, around 8 AM. Good night, Madame."
"Good night, Monsieur," she murmured, not resisting one last look in his eyes, seemingly on fire with the lamp reflection.
His hand brushed her arm as he rounded her, aiming for the hallway behind the door. She knew he couldn't help himself. She knew he barely realised touching her. He had been a dancer for too many years, and like many male dancers before him, his hands would always try to help her stand, to keep contact for support. As if his body had not received the memo from his mind, and still considered her a ballerina.
But she was not a ballerina anymore, she thought, as she closed the door behind him.