“Non.” I didn’t want Father to know that I cared about Émile or that I was bothered by the camaraderie between them.
“Tell me. Has Esmé gone and stolen your candy?” He motioned over at the painter and his subject, so close they were almost touching.
Father has always known how to choose the precise knife with which to stab you in your weakest spot. I glared at him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
A thin smile appeared on his lips, and he deduced that he was correct. “Or did you just hand it to her as you did when you were younger?”
“You’re enjoying this,” I said, chalking my palms and wiping them on my thighs.
“I have no opinion one way or the other on the matter, although you know how I do enjoy chaos.” His tone changed, low and grave, like a warning. “This is a lesson for you, Cecile. Where your sister is concerned, one day you will need to fight for what is yours.”
His comment lingered long after he’d left.
After practice, Doro found me. “The painter was looking for you,” said Doro’s puppet. “They left.”
“They?”
“Esmé and her fly.”
My heart sank. “Together?”
“He said that you’d know where to find them.”
Buoyed by Father’s words, I decided that today I would claim what I felt was mine. I threw on my best dress, a blue chiffon drop-waisted number, and allowed my hair to cascade down my back in ringlets. As I left, I found Doro standing by the door again. Once, on a dare from Esmé, I tried to take him with me, absorbing his essence. It nearly killed me, sending me to bed for weeks with a raging fever.
When I stepped onto the street, I realized that the circus had, indeed, moved. It took me a moment to orient myself. No longer on the Left Bank, but now in Montmartre. I caught the omnibus to Boulevard Saint-Germain and then walked to Montparnasse. It had been a nice stroll, but it had taken me nearly two hours.
When I reached Le Dôme Café, I didn’t see them sitting at the bar or in the café. An uneasy feeling set in. I walked the two blocks to Émile’s apartment. As I opened the door in the landing, I heard Esmé’s voice coming from the rooms upstairs. Then the beginning of a song from Émile’s phonograph, “Oh, How I Miss You Tonight.” My instinct told me to turn around and return to the circus, but I’d led her to him, insisting he paint her.
I ascended the stairs and knocked on the door. Inside, I heard a furious scrambling and giggling. They were drunk. Placing my ear to the door, I heard the sliding of clothing as it was arranging back on bodies. My heart sank. I was too late.
Not long ago, I had been in that room; my clothes had been on that floor. I’d been a fool to think he cared about me. Tears began to flow down my cheeks as I turned and began down the stairs, my legs hurting from the earlier walk.
Finally, Émile cracked open the door, just a hair. From the look of horror on his face, it was clear that he had not been expecting me. His face had a conflicted look, like I had interrupted something that he’d wanted in the moment but now was ashamed of.
At least he looked sorry, that was something. A real cad wouldn’t have shown even that much emotion.
“Qu’est-ce?” I heard Esmé call from the bed. I couldn’t see her, but from my angle on the steps, I could see the tangle of bedsheets through the crack in the door.
My eyes met Émile’s. I’m sure I looked frightening with my red, swollen face, but I didn’t care.
“Cecile.” He moved toward me, but I shook my head and placed my finger to my lips.
I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing that I’d caught them together. Turning, I continued back down the stairway.
June 24, 1925
Émile never returned to the circus.
I have no idea if Esmé’s painting was ever completed or if they took to working on it at his apartment, away from me.
After last night’s performance, Sylvie and I stopped by the Closerie des Lilas. We’d ceased going to Le Dôme, to avoid seeing him. As we were leaving the café, I heard his voice calling to me from across the street.
“Ignore him.” Sylvie touched my hand protectively. There has been a change in her recently. She was always the third person in our mortal trio, but she has taken greater care with my feelings over my sister’s. This hasn’t always been the case. When we were younger, Sylvie vacillated between Esmé and me, choosing sides and tipping the scales as it suited her. From the memories I have, I know that Sylvie could be fickle. Often, I’d be left out of the maze while she and Esmé played, deciding that I couldn’t follow them for silly reasons. But like her mother, Sylvie was also a political creature. While she has been a friend to me, she is not unaware of my increasing stature within the troupe, and it has tipped her loyalties a bit.
“Cecile.” Émile’s voice was pleading. I heard cars honk as he crossed to me. When he finally caught up to us, he was out of breath from running down the street.
I was stunned by what I saw in front of me. In the two weeks since I had found Esmé in his room, there had been a startling change in him. Dark circles hollowed the area under his eyes. Normally thin, his frame was now skeletal and his clothes hung on him. “Émile? What has happened to you?”
“I have been looking for you,” he said, breathless. “You are not easy to find.”
“You could have found her at the circus,” said Sylvie sharply. She looked
