Enchantée(59)

When they reached the courtyard door of 11 rue Charlot, Lazare said, “I’ll wait here until you’re inside.”

“Weren’t you the one who said my disregard for my own life was equal only to your own?” she teased. “Merci, but I’m perfectly capable of walking these last few steps on my own.”

“Of course you are.” Lazare paused. Waiting. “You’ve utterly bewitched me, you know.”

Camille fiddled with the cuff on his sleeve. “Does that mean I’ll see you again? You won’t fly off somewhere?”

“Is tomorrow too early?”

She laughed. “It doesn’t have to be tomorrow.”

“Oh yes, it does.”

Lazare looked as if he might say something else—do something else—but he simply bowed. “Until then.”





31


She watched him walk down the street until he melted into the darkness, and she pressed the music box to her lips, as if somewhere on the star-scattered oilskin there might still be a faint trace of him.

“Camille.”

A shadow separated itself from the gloom.

Camille stumbled backward, her hands scraping against the courtyard wall. She felt for the door, but could not find it. Where were all those soldiers she’d seen before?

“Wait.”

It was Alain. She shrank back against the wall. Please, she begged silently, let him just leave her alone.

Instead he ambled closer, taking his time. His black cape hung too large around his shoulders, his cocked hat pulled low over his waxen brow. His face was haggard and Camille could find no kindness in it at all. Beneath his hat’s brim, his blond hair hung in greasy strands, as if he’d had neither water nor inclination to wash it. His coat was missing buttons, his boots filthy as a soldier’s returned from war, and one of his fingers was inexpertly bandaged. The wrapping was rusty with blood.

Camille’s hand tightened around the metal balloon.

“Overjoyed to see your brother, as always, non?”

Slowly, carefully, she edged toward the gate. When she found it, she jabbed at the lock with her key, but in her shaking hand it skittered uselessly against it.

“I’ll open it for you.” Alain was by her side, too close, his breath dank, his clothes reeking of sweat and strong cologne.

Camille tried again. This time, she heard the thunk of the bolt as it slid back. She willed her voice steady. “Leave me alone, Alain.”

“I need money.”

“For your debts?” she asked, her voice caustic. “No more of your sisters’ dresses to gamble with? Or have you completely stopped being a soldier?”

“Bah, I wasn’t made for it. They wanted to send me to the country. I was to guard the nobles’ bread carts from hungry peasants.”

It was a terrible thing to have to do. But it was his job, just like she had hers. “It’s better than starving, as those poor people do—”

He put his hand on her arm. She tried to pull away but his grip was strong. “I wouldn’t have come but for the man who holds my debts. You have no idea what he’ll do to me if I don’t pay up.”

“He’ll speak to the police? Surely you have figured out how to escape them by now?”

Alain persisted. “What about some jewelry, something of Maman’s?”

Anger flared inside her. “You sold it all, remember?” Everything but the diamond tear-shaped brooch, and he had been too stupid or afraid to search the burned box for it. “Even the miniature of Sophie and me that hung on Papa’s watch chain—you gambled that away, too.”

He paused a long moment, and when he spoke his voice was distant, melancholy. “Remember how we used to pretend we were in Astley’s?”

The Englishman Astley had opened his Ampithéatre Anglais in Paris when she was nine years old. Extravagant posters had advertised its miracles. MAN RIDES FOUR HORSES ABREAST! JOCKO THE MONKEY SMOKES A PIPE! CLOWNS! JUGGLERS! DANCING DOGS! After weeks of enduring her relentless begging, Maman and Papa gave in and took them all. They had money then, but the tickets weren’t cheap, and their seats crouched under the ceiling at the back of the smoky second tier. Under the blaze of two thousand candles, the lively crowd applauded and sweated. The rope walkers crisscrossed the air, wobbling on purpose to make the audience shout for them to stop. White horses in blue harnesses flashed by. Straddling their backs was a rider holding a banner that spelled out ASTLEY’S in gold. But when the dancing dogs came out, they were too small for Camille to see. Sophie was already up in Papa’s arms, clapping her little hands. Though Camille strained on her toes to look over the silhouetted heads of the crowd, she couldn’t. It was so unfair!

Then Alain said, Don’t you worry. Put your arms around my neck and I’ll lift you up. He was only twelve, but he was tall, and when he pulled her onto his hip the world of the theater unfurled for her. In ecstasy she watched as Delilah’s Dancing Dogs capered across the backs of twenty chairs, yipping happily and catching morsels in their mouths. For weeks afterward, she could not let the entertainment go. Not Alain, either. He’d loved it as much as she. Inspired, he juggled lemons—then plates—for her and helped her prance along the thick rope they stretched across the salon carpet. He even let her ride on his back, balancing on one shaking leg, like her heroes in the ring.