Chapter 2
Fun facts: I already knew that Odette was most likely based on Emma Livry, but I found out today Louis Mérante and August Emmanuel Vaucorbeil were both real guys. Merante was even in a Degas painting! We're just going to ignore that part of history (and his story) because it doesn't work in this grand fiction I've created in my head. I don't own the characters I'm just playing around with them.
The train gave a depressed whine before shuddering to a stop. Louis Mérante stood, stretched, and quickly disembarked from the train. He found his valet, gave brief instructions on where to meet him before heading to the street to hail a hackney cab. After days stuck on the train from St. Petersburg he had half a mind to walk to l'Opéra, but thought better of it as he caught a glance of the hawkeyed pickpockets and beggars that lined the streets.
A short time later he was striding up the steps of Théâtre de l'Opéra, considering the last time he had walked those steps eight years ago, in the opposite direction. He had been a hot-headed prima donna, arrogant and overconfident. He had fought with Lucien, arguing that a principle role at 16 in St. Petersburg was more important than joining the corps at l'Opéra, even though a principle role would be his within four years. St. Petersburg had money and women, and the fame he had enjoyed had kept him going for years. Two years into his second five-year contract, however, he'd begun to feel creatively stifled. He wasn't given the opportunity to expand the choreography, even though he'd equal to the task. He'd written to Lucien, who'd tried to get him out of his contract, but was unable to. Finally, after ten long years in Russia, he was returning home as a principal and assistant director of choreography. It was a step below, had he stayed in Paris, but he had no one to blame but himself.
He was so lost in the past that he didn't see the elderly maid until he'd bumped into her, knocking her to the ground. "Forgive me, madame," he stopped short. This was no old maid, but a young woman. "Forgive me, mademoiselle," he helped her to her feet, retrieving her cane. "Did I hurt you?"
The maid blushed and looked down, a position at war with her innate grace. "No sir. Forgive me, I meant no offense."
Stunned into temporary silence, Mérante simply stared at her, willing her to look him in the eye again. After an eternity passed in three heartbeats, he released her hands and handed her the cane. "No offense, mademoiselle." He bowed, watching her shuffle past, spine straight, head up. She was a study in contradictions – meek yet confident, ungainly yet graceful, icy with the warmest blue eyes he'd ever seen.
He was still picturing her as he walked into Lucien's office, but the sight of Lucien made him forget her for the moment. Lucien had aged far more than ten years since he'd last seen him. The older man greeted him with a handshake, which Mérante shook off, pulling his mentor into a hug. Lucien's letters had hinted at urgency, leaving Mérante to wonder if he was ill.
They discussed Mérante's expanded role over dinner brought by a brown-eyed servant. Mérante longed to find some pretense to ask about her, but what reason could he possibly have to need to know about her? After a few hours Mérante finally excused himself, heading to his temporary flat in the theater district. Exhausted, he fell into a sadly dreamless sleep.