“But I’m not a child now. I’m nearly nineteen.” Juliet hesitated before she spoke again. It was the question she’d longed to ask him for more than two years. “Have you thought of me since we parted?”
Marchant seemed to struggle with what to say next. He looked into the crowd. “I tried to forget you, but it was not easy.”
Juliet smiled. This was the answer she’d been hoping for. She could see the future now. Him painting her in the studio, then making love to her. She was someone more interesting now, worthy of him. She knew French and Italian writers, she could talk to him about the Botticellis she’d seen, the Sistine Chapel, the Raphaels, the Titians, and the Caravaggios. She was caught up in this dream life for a moment, until she saw his eyes catch something behind her and his demeanor changed. Juliet turned to see the blond woman approaching them with a smile. The woman was certain enough of Marchant’s affections not to be concerned to find him in conversation with another young woman.
“There you are,” the woman called.
He lowered his voice and spoke quickly. It was not unkind, but the tone was low and sharp. “You were my greatest mistake. I saved a sketch of you that I keep in my studio. It reminds me of man’s folly—my folly. I don’t say this to be cruel, Juliet. I say it to be honest. We must never see each other again.”
“Surely you don’t mean that.” She looked up at him panicked, searching for some sign of the man she had known. “Surely not. We’ve just found each other again. What has happened to you?”
He leaned down. It was a whisper that only she could hear. “You were my ruin, child.” He bowed his head and straightened. “You must excuse me, but I hope not to see you again.” With that, he passed her, almost knocking her to the side as he slid his arm around the beaming blonde and they were gone.
Holding her mask in her gloved hand, Juliet stood frozen in the Grand Foyer as the opera patrons returned to their boxes for the second act. Needing air, she paced the foyer and finally looked up to find Varnier standing outside their box. He walked to the balcony and looked down at her, finding her clutching her stomach. She saw his eyes scan the crowd and land on Marchant climbing the stairs at a quick pace with the blond woman in tow. Juliet had only to glance at Varnier for him to know what had transpired between them. Turning, he rushed down to her, passing Marchant on the stairs.
Varnier slid his arm in hers, holding her up as she grew shaky. “Shall we go?”
Juliet nodded. Varnier steadied her against the wall while he gathered their coats. She couldn’t speak, and she wobbled down the front stairs of the Palais Garnier. The night chill hit them.
When she was safely seated in a coach, she felt Varnier’s hand on hers. “You can’t be with him. It’s not possible.”
“Why?” Out of the public eye, tears streamed down her face. The streets of Paris passed her as horses’ hooves pounded the cobblestones. She found comfort in the bustle of people crossing streets, shopping, clutching each other against the cold, laughing. There was happiness in Paris. It was all around her.
When Varnier didn’t respond, she pressed. “Will you answer one thing for me?”
“If I can.” He stared out at the Paris night, looking more melancholy than Juliet had seen him.
“That’s not good enough,” she said sharply. “I need an answer from you.”
“All right.” He nodded.
“How did you know about him? No one knew about him. I never told you.” Juliet’s face felt hot. She pictured Marchant in his studio in Challans. It was impossible to reconcile him with the man who had so coldly rebuffed her inside the Opera House. The gentle man who’d sketched Paris for her was gone.
Varnier was quiet for several minutes in the coach. She waited silently for an answer.
“Your mother.”
“My mother? You said you didn’t know her.”
“You asked how I knew about him—about Marchant. It was through your mother.”
“What was this thing between you and my mother?”
Varnier would not look at her. His voice was monotone and he simply stared out at the streets of Paris passing by. “She left me word about you and Marchant.”
“Liar. You were her lover?”
“You’re wrong.” He shook his head. “I was never her lover.”
“Then what were you? Because you weren’t her brother and you aren’t my uncle.”
“I am in your mother’s employ. I told you.” He sank a little in his seat, still refusing to look at her, his voice growing smaller.
Juliet had never noticed his profile before, the line of his nose, which looked softer from the side. He was so different from Marchant. Why, she thought, was every man judged against Marchant in her eyes? “That’s a lie. My mother couldn’t employ anyone. And she’s dead so surely any bind that connected you to her is gone.”
“I need to protect you. That’s all you need to know.” He turned to her and took her face in his hands, pulling her so close that she could feel the heat of his breath and smell a faint tobacco smell. “You must listen to me. There is nothing but heartbreak for you with that man. He can never love you.”
“I know,” said Juliet, tears falling down her face. “He made that very clear.”
Varnier still held her face. He met her gaze. As they passed the gaslights on Saint-Germain, she could see the concern in his eyes. “I’m sorry he disappointed you. I’d give anything not to see you this way. I tried to keep you from him all this time for your own good.”
“You knew he’d behave that way, didn’t you?”
Varnier nodded. “I feared he would.” He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, holding her head to his lips for a moment.
After the ball, Juliet began to see the world cut in two. The world before the masked ball and the one after. Before the ball, her life had purpose—and that purpose was to be reunited with Marchant. Like a little fool, she had believed he’d loved her, even looked for her. Now the fantasy was gone and the days were empty.
She plunked notes out on the piano, read the books placed in front of her by her instructors, but there was only a short-term purpose: finish the sonatina, start another novel, endure another meal. Endure was a good description. Juliet found herself simply enduring. Each morning, she woke with an empty feeling in her stomach as if some part of her were missing. In those few moments she struggled to think of what had been lost, so primal was the depth of her pain. And then she’d remember Marchant—the way he’d looked at her with something like contempt—and she could hardly manage to dress herself. Her appearance suffered. She lost weight until her clothes hung on her and her hair became dull. Varnier became so worried that he suggested another trip to Italy, but Juliet begged him not to take her there. All the paintings there—it would be too much. Even the sight of the paintings in the house revolted her, so Varnier had them all removed.
While it had never bothered her that Varnier had always gone out in the evenings, Juliet had begun to wonder where he went. From her balcony, she’d watch him walk down the street, catching an omnibus at the end of the block. Soon she learned he caught the same omnibus each night, and it took him to Montmartre. She’d heard about Montmartre—with its bustling squares and decadent dance clubs.