Chapter 19 #2
I’d never before been—having neither the occasion nor the disposable francs to justify a visit—but I’d heard stories of twinkling gardens and sparkling women, flowing absinthe and a giant stucco elephant that had been installed after the 1889 Exposition Universelle.
It was said that, secreted away in a hidden room only accessible through a spiral staircase in the pachyderm’s leg, paying gentlemen could smoke from opium pipes and watch as barely clad women belly danced.
Every corner of the Moulin Rouge was an appeal to carnal appetites, an altar spread for decadence and sensuous gluttony.
I couldn’t believe I’d actually get to see it with my own eyes. “We’re really going? Truly?”
Raoul nodded. “You’ve been working so hard these last few weeks, I thought it a fine idea to surprise you all with a marvelous outing.”
“A surprise indeed,” I agreed before glancing at my gown.
After cleaning, I’d changed into my very best dress—a pretty pink brocade that I loved—but as I looked at Meg’s stylish bustle and the deep scoop of her neckline, I knew I was dressed all wrong.
I’d planned for an evening in, not a night of revelry.
“I’m afraid I’m not ready for such an extravagant adventure. ”
“Nonsense,” Raoul protested. “You look almost perfect.” He plucked a white flower from his lapel and tucked it behind my ear, cupping the curve of my jaw with an intimacy that left me breathlessly hungering for more. “There,” he appraised. “Just right.”
Behind us, one of the other men coughed, and Raoul turned to him good-naturedly, the moment ended.
“Ah, yes. These are my good friends, Narcisse Favreau, Marcel Marchard, and Philippe Cadieux. When they heard I was taking some of the opera’s most beautiful dancers out on the town, they simply insisted on accompanying us.”
I smiled, recognizing the last gentleman’s name. “Monsieur Cadieux…you’re Lisette’s fiancé, aren’t you?”
His amber eyes brightened. He was a short man with a fashionably large russet-hued handlebar mustache. “I am indeed.”
“Will she be joining us tonight?”
“Oh, no. No, no, no. She’s been quite occupied as of late. Wedding plans and all that.”
Meg nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yes! You should see her—”
“We thought we’d save poor Philippe from an evening of it,” said one of the other men—Narcisse, I thought—cutting her off. His dark hair was slicked back with pomade, and he wore a dapper green carnation on his jacket. “Shall we be off, then?”
Raoul glanced at me, eyebrows raised with sudden concern. “Are you all right with an evening out? I know it’s not what I promised…”
I beamed at him. “It’s even better than all that. Just let me grab my things.”
“I can’t believe how dazzling it really is,” Meg whispered to me once we’d been seated.
The table Raoul has reserved was right in front of the outdoor stage. Swagged lines of sparkling lights zigzagged across the courtyard, and cleverly placed mirrors amplified their glow so that the whole area was somehow both as bright as day and as deliciously dark as a midnight assignation.
Everywhere we looked, people were laughing and dancing—with each other and by themselves. It was a kaleidoscope of merriment, a faceted jewel of glamour and joie de vivre.
Onstage, a young woman in an elaborately feathered robe led the audience in a chansonnette. She waggled her fan at anyone foolish enough to mess up the rousing beat, as a coy smile played across her painted lips.
“Champagne for the ladies,” Philippe decided, calling out to a nearby waitress. “And a round of absinthe for the rest of us!”
The men made noises of appreciation before leaning back to take in the surroundings.
“Would you prefer something else?” Raoul asked, leaning in toward the side of the table where Meg and I sat. “Wine, or a cocktail, or, or…punch? Whatever you like.”
“Champagne is always what I like,” said Meg, with a smile so wide her dimples winked.
She twisted in her seat, looking from one end of the courtyard to the next, and shifted this way and that as she tried to catch glimpses of what was going on inside the main building.
“What a wondrous night! Thank you again, Monsieur le Vicomte, for thinking of us.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “This is so thoughtful.”
“I just wanted to do something special for you,” he said. “Something fun.” He glanced up, taking in the lights and performers and the elephant that towered over it all.
A familiar-looking woman with flaming red hair danced by, her movements erratic and frenzied. She seemed all angles—pointed elbows and knobbed knees.
Meg let out a shallow gasp. “That’s Jane Avril!”
“Who?” I asked, taking a second look.
“La Mélinite. The girl on all the posters out front. She’s their star performer.”
I could see why. We watched her spin about, gliding through the crowd with an undeniable presence and a strange grace.
Even when she was joined by another dancer, an impossibly tall and slender man dressed all in black and just as agile as Jane, it seemed as if she were performing on a stage completely alone.
She was wholly absorbed in each movement, every flex of muscle, every lift of leg. It was marvelous to watch.
“This is certainly a far cry from our strolls along the boardwalk in Deauville, isn’t it?” Raoul said, his voice warm and low in my ear. I turned toward him and was surprised by how close he was, leaning in as if he couldn’t bear to have a single bit of space wasted between us.
“I loved those strolls,” I said, and dared to slip a hand along his forearm. It was hardly a bold act, certainly not in a place such as this, but it gave me a thrill to so openly show proof of my affection.
The line of lights hanging above us reflected in the blue of his eyes, making it look like the entire night sky was caught in his stare. “Do you remember the picnic we had in the attic?” he asked. “That afternoon when…Oh, what was it?”
“It stormed,” I said, remembering it all. “You’d come by to pick me up, but there was all that rain and those horrible gale winds. The one spot of bad weather during your whole holiday.”
“Funny, I don’t remember it being bad at all.” Raoul’s gaze flitted from mine, as if he were watching the memory play out before him like one of the acts onstage. “I remember we snuck up that loaf of bread and those thick cuts of cheese your father had just brought back from the market.”
“And we spread a blanket in front of the garret window and feasted while sprawled on a mound of pillows,” I added, drawing out the story with him as the flood of memories rushed over me.
I could smell the dust of the floorboards and the ocean’s salt.
Everywhere in Deauville smelled like the sea.
I remembered the way the hairs on my arms rose when our fingers brushed, accidentally or not, and the exquisite ache of being sixteen and alone with a gorgeously handsome suitor.
“We were quite the bohemians,” he mused fondly. “Do you recall the game we played?”
I paused, thinking. There’d been the picnic and the pillows.
We’d watched the rain lash at the windows, and I’d cried out in exaggerated alarm each time lightning shot across the sky, using it as an excuse to shiver closer to Raoul and his warm arms. We’d told silly stories, embellishing moments of no importance into acts of heroism or great comedy. And then there’d been…
“Little White Lies!”
Raoul smiled, looking pleased. “I thought myself so clever for coming up with it.”
“I don’t remember how it started.”
“You begin with a lie. A little, tiny thing that might go completely unnoticed. You speak it like a truth and then add on another and another, until the person you’re talking with calls one out. Whoever gets in the most lies wins.”
I snapped my fingers. “That’s right!”
The waitress arrived with her tray full of drinks.
She handed coupes of champagne to Meg and me, then began passing out the tall absinthe glasses to the men.
Each came with a flat spoon resting across the rim and a single cube of sugar.
She offered a pack of matches, but Marcel pulled out a silver lighter and flicked it open with a practiced hand.
The waitress set a carafe of spring water in the middle of the cups and, after giving the table a knowing grin, sauntered away.
“Let me show you how it’s done,” Narcisse offered, leaning in toward Frederick and Jean-Luc.
“Do you want to play again?” Raoul asked, drawing my attention to him.
“Don’t you want to…” I gestured to the production going on before us: the sugar cube’s inferno and subsequent dousing, the mixing in of the burnt granules so that the bright-green liquor turned as stormy as our attic afternoon.
He shrugged. “I’ve never really cared for absinthe.”
“Good heavens, how can you say that, man? It’s the nectar of the gods!” Philippe cried, overhearing him, then let out a loud hoot of laughter as Meg raised her coupe to his. “Santé!”
“Santé!” the rest of our group shouted back.
Raoul ignored them, keeping his eyes trained squarely on mine. “Do you?”
“Tonight?”
“Yes, Christine.”
“I…” A delicious shiver of anticipation shot through me. I knew it was nothing but a silly little game, something that children would play, but each of his words fell with a strange weight, making it seem as if the stakes were somehow higher than before. “I do.”
He grinned. “Good.”
In a flash, he removed a lighter from his pocket and caramelized his sugar cube. When the absinthe was prepared, he clinked his glass against mine and swallowed it down in one gulp. “Drink up.”
With a cry of amused outrage, I raised my coupe in a toast before taking a long swig. The champagne bubbles immediately tickled my nose, and I felt the childish urge to sneeze.
“I think about that day a lot,” he went on. “Do you remember what I said that made you win the game?”
“No,” I replied, patting a napkin to my lips. My first lie.
He looked wounded. “Truly?”
I shook my head. Another point for me.
“ ‘You’re not my forever favorite.’ ”