This morning he’d dropped by the store with the ticket and a plan. Foolhardy and impulsive, she’d leaped at the chancefor an evening out with the man she loved—or the closest approximation to an evening out.
As she reached the landing, she ripped her gaze away as if she didn’t notice him, as if his nearness didn’t shred her heart. But to continue their resistance work—to continue tolive—their relationship needed to remain hidden.
She brushed past him and climbed the stairs to the right. Then she turned left down a curved hall and found her box. Serge Lifar had been generous to the guests at the reception.
Red brocade covered half walls outlining the box, and Lucie stood at the balcony.
The Opera House’s red velvet and gilt spread below her in the auditorium, capped by the opulent ceiling painting and famous chandelier. The grand smell of the theater filled her soul.
Most of her years in Paris had revolved around this building—from six years of training and ten years of practice to countless performances on the stage before her.
The Palais Garnier represented everything she’d loved, everything she’d given up.
Along with the sounds of the orchestra warming up, conversation fluttered around her, harsh German tones predominating. Men in Nazi uniforms occupied the boxes to each side.
Perhaps this evening was too foolhardy.
“Mademoiselle Girard?” Paul stood in the entrance to the box.
She paused as if trying to place him. “Why, Monsieur Aubrey. What a surprise to see you here.” She extended her hand, encased in a long white glove.
“It appears we will be sharing a box, mademoiselle.” He bowed and kissed her hand. “May I say how lovely you look. That dress reminds me of peacock feathers.” He spoke like a polite acquaintance, not the love of her life.
“Thank you.” She mimicked his tone for the sake of German ears. “A customer gave me this ticket.”
“What a nice gift.” Paul joined her at the balcony, but at a painfully polite distance.
“It was. Someone gave him the ticket, but he couldn’t attend. He gave it to me, knowing I used to dance with the ballet.”
Paul smiled and cocked his head. “This ballet?”
“Yes, for ten years.”
“How fascinating.” He gestured to the two red velvet chairs. “Please be seated.”
Lucie settled into her seat and arranged her skirts. Paul sat beside her with the stiff smile of someone entering into a long evening with a mere acquaintance.
Her darling actor of an engineer, and she wanted to laugh and kiss him full on the lips. But German eyes were visible above the dividing wall. Watching.
So Lucie studied her program.
“Do you know any of the dancers?” Paul asked.
“Almost all of them, including my two former roommates.”
“Former?”
She hadn’t had the chance to tell him, and she pointed to Marie-Claude’s and Véronique’s names in the program. “They recently moved to an apartment closer to the Palais Garnier.” Financed by Klaus, no doubt.
“You must enjoy having the place to yourself.”
Lucie raised a flimsy smile. Actually it was empty and lonely.
The orchestra quieted, the house lights lowered, and the curtains drew back on the largest stage in Europe.
The first act ofLe Lac des cygnestook place in the palace park, where Prince Siegfried’s mother tried to convince him to marry. Tchaikovsky’s magnificent music swelled inside Lucie and pulsed in her fingers and toes, which knew each step. Longed for each step.
For the second act, the curtains closed and opened again, revealing the famous lake and Odette, the most famous swanof all. Ballerinas in white tutus flooded the stage, including Marie-Claude and Véronique.
