I glance over at Gideon, expecting him to be enthralled by the mostly naked women prancing across the stage. Instead, I have to suppress a delighted shudder when I see that his eyes remain fixed on me.
“An interesting theme for a cancan,” he says, that obnoxious left eyebrow arching like a gothic cathedral roof. “Thedanse macabre. Is this your choreography?”
“It is.” I lift my chin.
“You have quite the fascination with death.”
“Death is the last great equaliser,” I answer. “Poet or politician, fisherman or king, we will all meet death in the end. It is up to you whether you run screaming from your fate or greet Death with a smile and a curtsey.”
Or, in the case of some of us, cheat Death of his prize.
I touch my finger to my collar, a symbol of the life I carved for myself with bloody, broken hands, the life that I stole from another who didn’t deserve it.
Gideon regards me as he sips his drink. I ask him about his work. Men come to places like La Petite Mort to talk about themselves, to feelfor a few precious moments as though they are so powerful and clever that they can be adored by us. One of the first lessons my mother taught me was that behind the walls of our boudoir, women hold the power.
But Gideon brushes off my questions. “I want to know more about you, about this place.”
I tell him the usual story that suffices for humans in polite company – that I followed a lover to Paris, was entranced by the stage, and left the lover but not the city.
It does not satisfy Gideon. He picks at each detail, turning them over in his mind and asking ever more deep and probing questions. It concerns me that I might reveal a hole in my story, a chink in my armour through which this human man might undo me.
Thankfully, Zola and Renoir get into a fistfight over Zola’s opinion of Renoir’s new work, which Zola is declaring looks like an elephant threw up onto a gooseberry bush.
He’s not wrong, but I’d never say such a thing to Renoir. Artists can be so temperamental.
Still, at least they’re not as bad aspoets.
Gideon leans over the balcony and calls down encouragement as Renoir and Monet get Zola into a headlock and threaten to dunk his head in the privy until he admits that Renoir is the greatest artist of all time. By the time they’re done with their shenanigans, the room is in uproar, and Jacques has to circle in an intimidating manner to restore calm.
“My brother would love it here.” Gideon waves at his friends. His eyes flutter closed briefly, long eyelashes tangling together. “He had dreams of being an artist. He is good, very good. He could submit work to the Salon or find a wealthy patron, but he spends far too little time with brush in hand and far too much time with his head in a bottle or between somegrisette’s legs. He takes after my father like that.”
Ah, so that is why Gideon doesn’t touch alcohol.
I understand all too well how vice turns men into monsters.
“You should send him here. We have plenty of amusements for men with bottomless purses and little ambition.”
Gideon looks away, his mood suddenly sombre. I find myself wishing to pull him back into my aura, longing for that cheeky human who looks ready to fall to his knees for me.
“I am no artist,” I say. “I prefer to be a muse.”
“I don’t believe that for a second. I saw you dance.”
I scoff. “Dancing is aprofession. It’s a mask you wear to entertain, to tell a story. It’s not art the way Monsieur Manet and his friends do it.”
“I watched you, Arabella.” Gideon leans forward, his eyes dancing. “You had this expression on your face I’ve only seen before on my brother when he’s in the middle of a painting. You went somewhere else. You transcended. You may have conceived that dance for the audience, but you perform it foryou.”
Never before has someone stripped my desires so bare, nor cared enough to correct me on a lie.
“I’m visiting the Louvre tomorrow,” he says, not waiting for me to answer. “Would you like to join me?”
“The museum is only open during the daylight hours,” I say.
“And?”
“During the day, I sleep.” I gesture to myself. “All ofthishappens while I sleep.”
“You cannot make an exception?”
