Paris, 1813
The last note of the song echoed through the air of the smoky room.
There was no applause.
No one was even looking at her.
Out of habit alone, Bijou dipped into a curtsy and pulled the black curtain aside, exiting to the wings. She heard Monsieur Delacroix take the stage behind her to introduce the next act.
She descended the narrow staircase and wove her way through the tight hall stacked with extra tables and chairs and pushed into the café-chantant’s dressing room. And that was a generous description. Dirty wine glasses littered every surface, and the lamps were so coated with grime, they hardly cast any light at all. An old mirror in a silver frame stood propped up on an even older dresser. Bijou stood to the mirror’s left, avoiding the long crack that ran down the glass and forced herself to look into her own eyes.
This was the part of every performance that she hated. When she had to come back here and confront the ugly truth her own expression told her. She may have made her way through the aria functionally, but the audience could not have cared less. She’d made no impression. She was no better than a shadow.
Bijou took a wet cloth from the wash basin and ran it over half of her face, wiping away her day’s attempt at looking somewhat professional. As she looked back into the mirror, a flicker of movement in the room behind her caught her eye.
A boy Bijou had never seen before stepped forward. “Brava.”
Bijou spun to face him. “Excuse me?”
“The song you sang, just now. It was quite lovely.”
Bijou looked him up and down. The boy had a round face dotted with freckles, and his chest was wide, but not plump. He couldn’t have been older than seventeen. She glanced towards the door to the alley. “This area is for performers and employees. You cannot be back here.”
He shook his head, sending his copper curls bouncing. “Oh, I apologize, mademoiselle. I do work here. Monsieur Delacroix hired me yesterday. I’ll be helping clear tables and work around the stage. You’ll be seeing a lot of me!” He grinned.
“Ah. Well, then.” Bijou remembered Monsieur mentioning wanting to hire a stagehand weeks ago, but didn’t know he’d actually gone through with it.
The muffled sounds of claps and cheers came through the café’s walls. The boy still stood there.
“If you are new, you ought to see the rest of the show,” Bijou said. Mostly she just wanted to be left alone. “Seigneur Mystère is the greatest illusionist in all of Paris.” He was who the people came to see. Bijou simply filled in the gaps.
“I’ve never been much of a fan of magicians, to be honest,” said the boy.
“You should not be so hasty. Le Seigneur is very skilled.” Bijou had watched his act for years and she still couldn’t figure out his final trick, in which he appeared to levitate several feet in the air as the stage filled with green smoke.
“There is no skill in tricks,” the boy said.
Bijou held in a smirk and turned back to the mirror, continuing wiping her face. If Le Seigneur heard him say that, this boy would soon find himself flat on his back.
“Leda and the Swan, right?”
Bijou pulled the cloth away to find that the boy had come closer. “What?”
“That aria. It’s from Leda and the Swan, isn’t it?”
Bijou paused. She knew the character singing the song was named Leda, but she hadn’t known it was part of a larger opera. “I believe so, yes,” she lied.
“Do you know the story? The myth?”
She had no idea what this boy was talking about. “No, sorry.”
He didn’t seem deterred. In fact, her answer appeared to give him a jolt of energy. “It’s a Greek myth, you see,” he began. “Zeus, the most powerful of all the gods was a bit of a rogue, right? Many of the stories are about the lengths he goes to in order to seduce women. In this one, he falls madly in love with Leda, a human woman. In order to get close to her, he transforms into a swan and pretends to be hunted. Leda, being the beautiful soul that she is, protects him and takes him in.” The boy paused and started laughing. “Nine months later, she lays two eggs!”
Bijou wiped her face again. “Ah. How… amusing.”
“I wondered if you knew it because, well…” He paused.
Looking at him in the mirror, Bijou raised an eyebrow.
“Because it’s meant to be funny. It’s a comic opera. And your rendition was quite serious.”
Bijou squeezed the wet cloth in her hand before turning to face the boy again. Even in her heeled shoes, he still had considerable height on her. “Oh, really? Lyrics like, ‘Fear no more at my breast, gentle creature, The darkness of the world shall never blind you,’ are funny?”
The boy’s smile faltered. “The words themselves aren’t funny, you’re right, but they’re funny because the audience knows what Leda doesn’t. She thinks it’s just a swan, when we know it to be the lecherous Zeus.” The smile was gone, now. “I did not meant to offend, mademoiselle, I just thought it was a shame that the audience failed to hear your version of the song. I was always taught that the audience takes what performers give, so if you are bored with the song, they will be, too.” His eyes went wide. “Not that you’re boring! That’s not what I meant to say. I just thought if you performed it differently, you might have more success.” He paused to take a breath. “Because you should. You should succeed. Your voice is wonderful.”
From his forward intrusion in the dressing room, Bijou had assumed that this young man was as arrogant as all the rest of them were, but seeing him in front of her, babbling about the theatre and apologizing profusely, amusement, real amusement this time, washed over her. She tilted her head, letting her red hair fall over one shoulder. “What is you name, angel?”
The boy’s face flushed. “Louis.”
She extended her hand, which he immediately took and kissed. “You may call me Bijou.”
***
Louis propped himself up on the broom handle as he leaned out of the dressing room door, straining his ears to hear what was happening on stage. It had been a few weeks since he’d began working at Café Denicole, and he’d grown used to the nightly performance schedule. Bijou would be taking the stage any moment.
Leda’s aria hadn’t been in his mother’s repertoire, but the opera had been quite popular in the London theaters. He’d seen that number make full houses laugh themselves to death, when done properly. Thankfully, Bijou had been willing to overlook his accidental insult and had taken some of his tips regarding how the song should be performed. They’d spoken more about Leda, and who she was as a character. Louis had already decided he would use his next paycheck to see if he could find a prop swan. That would really help Bijou come alive.
“…and so I told her, ‘Madame, I am an illusionist, not the Messiah! If you want wine, you will have to pay for it yourself!’”
Anything happening on stage was drowned out by Le Seigneur’s story and Monsieur Denicole’s resulting laughter. Louis resumed sweeping.
“Boy.”
Was there a way to change the set? The song took place next to a river. Maybe he could—
“You! Boy!”
Louis’s head snapped up. “Oh, I’m sorry, Seigneur Mystère, did you need me for something?”
The illusionist reclined lazily in one of the stuffed chairs in the dressing room. He stared at Louis over the lip of his wine glass, his shirt unbuttoned down to the middle of his chest, the long black coat he wore for performances tossed across the side table. His straight raven hair hung past his shoulder blades, even when tied back, as it was now. He wore a confused look on his sharp, pale face. “Where are you from, boy? You’re not French, are you?”
“No,” Louis answered. “My mother was. But I was raised in London.”
Le Seigneur sniffed. “I knew it. And, you are new to Paris?”
Louis looked back and forth between the two men. “I am. Can you tell?”
“You have a glow around you, Louis,” Monsieur Denicole said, reaching for the wine bottle to refill his own glass. “That goes away the longer you stay in the city.” Monsieur Denicole had the figure of a man who had once been healthy and handsome, but who was being steadily drained by age. His hair was graying above his ears and the skin beneath his eyes had almost as many folds as the stage curtains.
“That,” Le Seigneur added, “and you look at Bijou like she’s the first woman you’ve ever seen in your life.”
Louis forced a smile. Seigneur Mystère had a knack for finding any opening possible for insulting Bijou. Louis wasn’t sure how she put up with it. “Not the first, sir, but certainly the loveliest.”
Both Denicole and Le Seigneur burst into laughter.
Seigneur Mystère straightened up, crossing his legs. “Foolish boy, this is Paris. I could walk down the street right now and come back with half a dozen girls, each one with a prettier face and stronger voice than Bijou’s.”
Louis’s grip tightened on the broom handle. “She is talented. We are lucky to have her here at the café.”
“She knows one song and it’s not bringing down the house,” said Denicole. “No, Bijou’s talents lie in other areas.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“And you don’t need to.” Denicole waved a hand at him, dismissively. “Now put your eyes back in your head and go clear the empty tables. Le Seigneur won’t be back on for another hour and people always leave when Bijou takes the stage. Go on. Go!”
“Yes, Monsieur,” Louis muttered.
The performance needed work, and Bijou herself would most likely benefit from some vocal training, but if those two buffoons couldn’t see her natural gifts, then they didn’t deserve her.
***
Bijou wrapped herself tightly in a blanket as she crept down the back stairs. She and Monsieur Denicole shared the modest apartment above the café. Bijou’s own parents had died when she was much younger, and Denicole had been a family friend. In exchange for keeping the place clean and cooking meals, he allowed her the use of the small second bedroom. Her childhood had been spent in the café, watching performers come and go.
She pushed open the alley door and stepped out into the street. Winter had come to Paris, and while surely the snow sparkled like magic in the heart of the city, surrounded by light and luxury, here, it just turned into sludge. More sludge and filth to join the runoff into the sewers. It only took one breath of that air to remind Bijou of the thought that kept her going.
One day, she’d get out. She had to.
She let the cold seep into her skin for a few moments longer before slipping in through the café’s back door. She often came here late into the night to practice. Sometimes, she wondered if she preferred singing to an empty room. That way, it was easier to pretend she was somewhere else. An opera house, perhaps. Or even the palace.
As she picked her way through the messy dressing room in the dark, a discordant twanging sound nearly made her jump out of her skin. It had come from the narrow hallway leading to the stairs up to the stage and café. Someone was here.
Silently as she could, Bijou eased open the hallway door and peered down its length. Beyond the sea of stacked chairs and chipped tables, a single wavering flame lit a section of the hall. That was where the old broken piano stood. She’d walked past it a thousand times. Someone was sitting at the bench, running their fingers over the cracked and dingy keys.
Bijou slipped into the hall, and in a few steps, confirmed her suspicion. “Louis?” she said quietly as the boy’s profile became clear. “What are you doing here? It’s past midnight. Have you not gone home?”
Louis looked up at her. His face looked a little strained, as if he had been concentrating for a long time. “Oh. Well, I could say the same about you, Bijou.”
She adjusted the blanket around her shoulders. “Denicole isn’t making you stay, is he? This piano has been broken for ages. If he told you to fix it, it was a cruel joke.” Louis had been a fixture of the café for over a year, but Le Siegneur and Denicole weren’t above assigning him menial or impossible chores out of sick pleasure, especially when they’d had far too much wine.
Louis shook his head. “No, no. I offered.”
“What?”
“My father worked with pianos and other sorts of instruments. Fixing them, tuning them, keeping them sounding nice. He taught me how. See?” He pressed a finger onto the piano’s center key, and a note echoed through the brick walls of the narrow corridor, slightly dulled, but in tune. “This piano wasn’t broken, it was just old, and in need of some care. Monsieur agreed to let me tune it up, on my own time, of course. I’ve been coming in early for some time now. I think it’s back up to snuff.” He lifted his hands and spread them across the keys, easing into a simple melody that made Bijou think of the sea.
“Did your father teach you to play as well?” She knew Louis’s mother had been a famous singer in the London theatre sphere, but she couldn’t remember him having mentioned his father before.
“He did.”
Bijou listened to the piece, the chill of the brick at her back held at bay for a moment while she imagined gentle shorelines and warm waters that seemed to be woven together with the notes. “You are very good.”
Louis hummed, doubtfully. “Passable, at best. But maybe, with the right tune...” Under his hands the song morphed into something Bijou recognized immediately. Leda’s aria.
“This...this is my song.”
“Not the true piece, of course,” Louis said, playing on. “The score is meant for a full orchestra, but I’ve heard it so much over the past year, I couldn’t resist. I had to try my hand at a piano arrangement.”
Bijou’s jaw tightened. Suddenly, it all seemed too coincidental. Louis fixing the piano, Louis learning her song, Louis being so kind. She’d gotten used to his presence in the café. He was always bright and happy and helpful. But moments like this, or when they’d first met, when he seemed to be paying her too much attention, always raised her guard. She couldn’t risk letting herself be fooled. “Why have you done this? Spent your time here? Do not lie.”
Louis sprung from the bench, the music cutting off with a jumbled chord. “Oh no, I’m not—” he stammered. “I was only thinking, you’ve always sung alone, right? Without accompaniment? But now that the piano is fixed, I could play with you! I think it would make your performance so much stronger. You could get more people to listen.”
She still wasn’t sure. Did Louis care this much about the café’s performances? What did he really want? Why did he always look at her like that? “I do not need your pity.”
Louis’s eyes went wide in surprise. “That’s not my intention! Not at all! I want to help you, Bijou. Please, hear me out.”
She stayed silent.
Carefully, Louis sat back down. “Because I have something new. Something I wrote, well, for you.” Even in the dim candlelight, Bijou could see the flush of his cheeks.
She had been ready to walk out of the hallway and not look back. To return to averting her eyes when she saw him backstage, clapping enthusiastically after every single performance of that wretched aria. To keep herself to herself.
But as Louis began to play, the walls she’d built around her heart tumbled down. The music was soft and sweet, and the tiniest bit sad. Then it built, growing stronger and more complex. Bijou could pick out the main melody and the supporting harmonization, and soon her throat and tongue were shifting, eager to recreate this melody, hungry for this music. Bijou had never been in love before, but she imagined that this song came very close. This song sounded the way love must feel.
“You wrote this for me?
“You are a marvelous inspiration.”
Perhaps it was the candlelight casting dramatic shadows, or the lingering effects of the music, but as Bijou looked at him, she no longer saw the bumbling boy who pushed a broom around the stage. She saw a handsome, endlessly creative young man who cared about art and music. Who cared about her.
She sat down next to him on the bench and experimentally hummed along as Louis played. When he’d finished, she turned to him. “Teach me. Please.”
***
Louis stood at the edge of offstage left, knowing the black curtain kept him completely shrouded from the audience. It was Saturday evening and the café floor was the fullest it had been all week. Saturday’s were when Le Seigneur was usually at his best, and the patrons of the café knew that. Louis, however, didn’t care. Tonight wasn’t about illusions or smoke or vanishing roses.
Tonight was the night.
Behind him, he felt Bijou shift from foot to foot. He turned to face her. “Are you sure you’re ready?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“And you don’t want to tell Denicole that you’re changing the program?”
“No,” said Bijou. “I’d like to surprise him. I think he will appreciate it. He’s out in the house tonight, so he hasn’t seen the costume.”
Over the past week, Louis and Bijou had spent their late hours after the café closed learning and perfecting the song he’d written. It was set lower than Leda’s aria, a more comfortable key and range for Bijou’s voice. Additionally, they had also pooled together a portion of their wages, and Louis had been lucky enough to find a second-hand ballet costume. Its dark blue skirt flared out below the hips, hemmed with a delicate ruffle. Fabric fastened to the fingertips and shoulders, patterned to look like feathered wings, blue and gold.
She was absolutely beautiful.
Louis pulled the heavy curtain aside. “All right. Then take the stage, mademoiselle.”
As she brushed past him, Louis inhaled the sweet smell of powder and citrus. There was no time to linger, however. He had stashed the newly repaired piano behind the stage’s backdrop. He deftly navigated the curtains and ropes, and took his place at the bench, waiting for Bijou’s cue.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Bijou called out to the café, clear as a bell. “Welcome to the Café Denicole.”
Louis could only make out her silhouette, illuminated by the stage lighting through the thin backdrop. Her greeting was met with weak applause.
“We have a special treat prepared for you tonight. The marvelous illusions of Seigneur Mystère!”
More polite applause.
“But first! A brand new song, written by our very own Louis!”
Louis’s breath caught in his throat. Giving him credit hadn’t been part of the plan. His body thrummed with opening night excited energy, nervous tension, and the soft delight that filled him whenever Bijou called him ‘angel’ in passing.
He let five more seconds pass, then began to play.
The song told the story of a young woman who spent her days watching the bluebirds roost near her home, dreaming of the day when she, too, would meet the love of her life and spread her wings. He’d kept the lyrics hopeful and playful, and when paired with Bijou’s crystalline voice, the images of the song were brought to life. The people in this part of Paris lived hard lives. They were owed a small taste of happiness. Louis wished he could close his eyes and fully picture the scene, but he resisted, focusing instead on the keys beneath his hands. He had to play perfectly. He had to be perfect for her.
As one, the final note on the piano faded with Bijou’s voice as the song came to a close. Louis held his breath.
Please let them clap. Please let them have heard her.
Silence.
And then.
“Brava!”
The rushing, frantic sound of applause poured forth from the café floor. It was loud, it was fierce, it seemed to roll in waves and waves. This was the kind of applause Seigneur Mystère received from a full house on his best night. No, Louis thought, it might be louder than that.
Louis leapt from the bench, nearly knocking it over, making it to the left wing just in time to see Bijou rise from her curtsy. The next second, she was standing in front of him, bouncing, her eyes wet.
“They liked it!”
“You were wonderful, Bijou!” Louis said, bouncing with her.
She reached out and clutched his hands. “No, you are the wonderful one!” Bijou lifted herself onto her toes and kissed his cheek.
Louis swore he felt the universe shift beneath his feet. Everything faded away except for her. He was a wayward comet pulled into the orbit of her shining star. He would explode if he didn’t do something now, right now. He placed his hands around Bijou’s waist and hoisted her into the air, spinning her around and around. Her hair and the costume fluttered, red and blue, fire and sky, and she laughed. He couldn’t help but join in.
Still giggling, and still, to Louis’s pleasure, hand in hand, they nearly tumbled down the stairs and into the dressing room. Le Seigneur stood in front of the mirror, picking dust from his black coat. He turned to them as they entered and his expression wiped the smile from Louis’s face.
“Well, aren’t you two proud of yourselves,” Le Seigneur said, snidely.
Bijou ignored him and ran to Monsieur Denicole, leaning on the doorframe. “Monsieur Denicole, what did you think? Louis repaired the piano all by himself and wrote a new song! We just had to perform it tonight. We wanted to surprise you!”
Denicole looked past Bijou to Louis. “It was certainly something…different.”
That wasn’t quite the rave review Louis had been hoping for.
“May we continue? Making new songs?” asked Bijou.
His strained eyes softened as he gazed down at her. “I suppose—”
“Denicole…” Le Seigneur said quietly. To Louis, it sounded like a warning.
Monsieur Denicole heaved a sigh. “Bijou, you know you don’t need to…” he trailed off.
“Need to what?” Bijou said.
He cupped her face, stroking his fingers around her temple. She didn’t pull away. A hard lump settled in Louis’s throat. “Try so hard. If you’re worried about losing your place here, you shouldn’t be. Our arrangement takes care of all of that. You’re cared for. The old song was fine. I just don’t want to see you disappointed.”
Bijou backed away. “You don’t think I’m good enough. Still.”
“Bijou, my dear—”
“No,” she said, clutching her arms around herself. “Leave me alone.” Stepping quickly, Bijou burst through the door to the alley outside.
Seigneur Mystère turned lazily back to the mirror. In the reflection, Louis saw a cold grin settle on his thin lips. “She’s much more trouble than she’s worth, if you ask me, Denicole.”
“No one did.” Monsieur crossed the small room, grabbing the neck of a half-full wine bottle on his way and slipped into his office, slamming the door.
“Hmph. Idiots,” muttered Le Seigneur.
There it was again. The arrangement. This wasn’t the first time Louis had heard it mentioned, mostly by Monsieur. He’d never had the courage to ask Bijou about it, which only left him the dark and dangerous pools of imagination. He hoped his sinister, distressing thoughts were wrong, but there were moments when Monsieur and Bijou seemed much closer than simply an employer and employee. The way he spoke to her, the way she accepted his touch…
“Seigneur,” Louis said, “please, tell me. What is this arrangement Monsieur Denicole always brings up? Between him and Bijou?”
The illusionist made a sound somewhere between a snort and a cough. “If you haven’t figured it out by now, you’re much stupider than I thought.”
Louis pressed his lips together in frustration. “Please.”
“Curious, are you?”
“Yes, I am,” said Louis. “Bijou is far too talented for this hole, and the way you speak to her, I’m sure you’d be happy to see her go. Denicole isn’t encouraging her career, but she doesn’t seem to feel free to leave. I just want to know why. What’s going on between them?”
Seigneur Mystère gave him a pitying look, like one would give puppy tripping over its own paws. “They live together, you know.” He pointed toward the ceiling. “The apartment above the café? Both of them. Very small space. I’m sure it gets rather cold at night, hm?”
Louis would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of that answer himself, and hated every time he had.
“I’m sure they’d let you join their bed, if you asked nicely.”
“You’re disgusting,” Louis spat back. He stomped up the creaky stairs to the café.
“You have nothing to worry about,” he heard Le Seigneur call after him. “No one is opening that little bird’s cage any time soon. You can drool over her from the wings to your heart’s content. Just clean up after yourself this time.”
***
The cold outside air helped Bijou keep herself from crying. Across the street from Café Denicole was a crumbling stone bridge that crossed one of the Seine’s tiniest offshoots. Bijou watched the snowflakes fall and disappear into the rushing water, one after the other. Ice becoming water, becoming air, becoming ice again. It must have been tiring. An inescapable cycle. She clenched her hands on the stone railing. She couldn’t feel her fingers.
“Bijou! There you are.”
She didn’t turn around.
“It’s freezing out here. Come back inside and change.”
She shook her head.
“Here.”
Something warm and slightly scratchy covered her shoulders and back. Louis’s faded black cardigan. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his hands rest on the railing next to hers.
After a moment, he spoke. “I hate to see you so upset. Denicole doesn’t know what he’s talking about. We can try again tomorrow!”
He didn’t understand. “What is the point, Louis?”
“Huh?”
Bijou turned to look up into his face. “I am only fooling myself. I turn twenty-three in one month. If becoming a singer was going to happen for me, it would have already. I’m just a joke, and everyone knows it. Denicole, Le Seigneur, everyone. My future only leads me here. To the cellars of Paris with the rats. And even they don’t want me.”
“No, Bijou!”
She blinked in surprise at his angry and insistent tone. Louis never got upset like this.
Louis spread his arms, gesturing behind them toward the café. “You are worth much more than that, more than this place! Denicole and Le Seigneur have been toying with you for years. You cannot let them win. You cannot tie your feelings about yourself to them. You have talent. I can attest to that, and so can that crowd tonight. That was all for you, Bijou. Your voice. You earned that.” He gently took her hand, the warmth of his skin seeping into her icy fingers. “Dream bigger. I know it’s hard. But you are not alone. If you cannot see your dream, then I will. I’ll dream for you, and do whatever I can to help you reach it.” His grip tightened. “I swear to you, I will lay the world at your feet.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m not.”
Bijou stared into his eyes, looking for any trace of mockery or falsehood. And found none. “Why would you do this? Why do you care?” she asked.
“You...you mean a great deal to me, Bijou,” Louis said, his eyes dropping to the side. “I don’t think my life would be the same if you weren’t in it. I hope I never have to find out.”
Bijou felt like her insides were cracking apart. It was starting to feel possible. She could believe him. She could have his confidence and enthusiasm. She could believe she was worth something, the way he did. She could accept his support and offer it back to him in return.
She took a step forward and leaned against his strong chest. “It’s not fair,” she said softly.
“What isn’t?”
“You’ve been in the theatre for far too long. It’s made you so eloquent. I cannot hope to compare.”
His hand found her chin and lifted her face up toward his. “Then it’s a good thing you’re a singer, not an orator.” He smiled. “Together, we can make you a star, Bijou. First, the café, then, the whole city. And to do that, we will need more songs.”
“I can’t stop you, can I?” she asked.
“No, you cannot.”
Bijou’s mind flashed back to the dressing room. “But, Monsieur Denicole said—”
“He didn’t say ‘no,’ did he?” Louis said, cutting her off.
She hesitated. There was a chance that pushing Denicole too far would find them both out of work and living on the street, but she brushed it aside. There was something magical about Louis. If she was going to make a choice, she would choose dreams and magic. Reason had brought her only misery.
“Bijou,” Louis said. “Are you with me?”
The snow and street around them sparkled with new light. “Yes.”
***
Louis balanced on the topmost rung of the ladder and gave his paintbrush another dip. Monsieur Denicole had tasked him with repainting the café’s marquee sign. The words “Café Denicole” had always been emblazoned above the building in Seigneur Mystère’s signature colors, black and green. But the paint Louis had been given today was black and gold. Gold for Bijou.
Louis and Bijou had gone to work after agreeing to proceed with her dream of becoming a renown singer, continuing to meet in the café after hours to write and stage songs. They’d been averaging a new performance almost every week. Winter was gone and April was just around the bend, and the buds weren’t the only thing blossoming. With a new repertoire that was written for her and her alone, Bijou flourished. They had written fifteen songs together, each one more popular with audiences than the last. The café was at full capacity every night now, not just on the weekends. Denicole had no more reason to protest. In fact, he’d become quite encouraging.
“Are you sure this is the place?”
“That’s what Charlotte told me. Down this street and just past the bridge.”
Louis looked down. Two young girls walked down the street below him, one boldly examining their surroundings, the other shyly clinging to the first girl’s heels.
“Margot, I’m not sure about this...” squeaked the girl at the rear.
“Don’t be such a scaredy cat, Sophie. Do you want to see the show or not?” reprimanded the first girl, Margot.
This was a common problem. The café was gaining popularity, but it was still in a disreputable part of the city, difficult to find among the twisting alleys. Louis looked at his hands and realized the girls’ search would be even more difficult since he had blacked out the sign. He ought to have finished painting much earlier in the afternoon, but had been preoccupied with piano arrangements for tonight’s performance. Louis was about to call down to them when a tall figure in a black coat swept around the corner.
“Good evening, young ladies!” said Le Seigneur, the polished silver head of his cane clutched in his black leather-clad fingers. “Do my eyes deceive me, or are you little cabbages looking for something?”
Sophie retreated further behind Margot’s back. “Oh, no, monsieur, w—we were just, um—”
Margot lifted her chin. “We were looking for the Café Denicole. Do you know it?”
From his position above them, Louis couldn’t make out their faces, but he felt certain Le Seigneur was slipping on his thin smile that made him look far too much like a snake.
“Know it? Cherubs, I am the one who made it what it is!” He let out a smooth and sticky laugh.
The girls looked at each other. “So, we are in the right place?” asked Margot.
“Absolutely!” Seigneur Mystère lifted his cane and tapped the tip on the front door of the café. “The entrance. And inside, many wonders await you!”
Sophie, upon hearing confirmation, appeared to have gone rigid. Her squeaky voice was even more tense. “Do you, um, by any chance—would you...?”
“Yes, yes? Do not be so coy!”
“Would you be able to introduce us to Mademoiselle Bijou?” The words tumbled out of Sophie’s mouth like fruit from an upset apple cart.
Seigneur Mystère lowered his arms. “Bijou?” he said, after a pause.
“Yes! We are such fans of her songs!”
“Our friend Charlotte saw her sing here,” Margot added.
“You...came here to see Bijou? Not the marvelous illusions of Seigneur Mystère?”
Margot scoffed. “That magician who opens for her? Oh, of course not. Charlotte said he was creepy.”
Louis held in a snicker. He agreed. Le Seigneur’s pale skin and ice blue eyes gave him a ghoulish appearance, especially under stage lighting.
“That’s all silly tricks anyway,” said Sophie. “Mademoiselle Bijou is a true talent.”
“Do you know her, monsieur?”
Le Seigneur didn’t answer. Louis held his breath and watched the man twist his hands around his cane, so tight the leather of his gloves squeaked. Then, without another word, he slammed through the café’s front door.
Sophie yelped in surprise.
“How rude!” said Margot.
Louis smiled. It was about time the oh-so-fabulous Seigneur Mystère realized he wasn’t the center of their lives anymore. The world would only care about a man who could pretend to float for so long. Louis took up his paintbrush and outlined the curve of a D in glittering gold.
***
There were times when Bijou felt like she could hardly keep up with all the changes happening around her. The best of all, though, was that when she returned to the dressing room each night, she no longer had to force herself to look at her reflection. She could look willingly, now. These past months had given her new pride, and she simply couldn’t stop smiling.
Tonight’s performance had been the greatest yet. To celebrate the warmer months, Louis had written a charming song about the Spring Goddess’s relations with Old Man Winter that the audience had lapped up. Not only were Louis’s songs beautiful, they were often very funny and a little risque.
The energy of the café had changed, and so had the building itself. The dressing room had been rearranged to make room for the vanity that Monsieur had brought for Bijou after the night when they had sold out of their wine stores. She had makeup now, too, real makeup, like a professional singer, not to mention a steadily growing rack of costumes. Gone were the ugly stuffed chairs and used glasses. It was a space for all of them now, not just Monsieur and Seigneur Mystère.
Bijou unpinned the white rose from her hair and gently placed it in the empty perfume bottle on the vanity’s countertop. She took up the hairbrush and started combing through her red curls, when the stairwell door open and Monsieur Denicole practically danced in.
He kissed his palm and blew it in her direction. “Another full house! And another night with more drinks sold than the last! Bijou, my dear, I do not know what to say. You have made this a true café-chantant. Not only are these tiny streets filled with your music, but we are making more money than ever before.”
Bijou turned on the stool to face him. “Thank you, Monsieur Denicole. Louis is owed much of the credit as well.”
Louis was busying himself with arranging the costume Bijou had worn tonight back on its hanger.
“But of course!” said Denicole. “Our own little composing prodigy. You’ve found a good place among this family, Louis.”
Louis nodded. “I think so too, Monsieur.”
Denicole pointed at them both. “I have big plans in mind for you two. Big plans. At this rate, we should be able to hire a proper ensemble. Professionals, not a novelty. Not like those blind violinists around the corner.” He clapped his hands together. “And we can rebuild the stage! Give it some new varnish, new curtains! We are purveyors of grand entertainment, after all!”
“How exciting,” said Bijou. Monsieur seemed serious. Perhaps there was a chance the café could become a respectable venue.
“But that will all come with time.” He stepped toward her, reaching for something inside his coat. “Let me show you my appreciation in this moment, darling.” He withdrew his hand and pulled out a long, small box covered in purple velvet. Packaging meant for something expensive. And he offered it to her.
Bijou’s eyes went wide as she took the box and opened its lid. Inside was a large yellow stone, topaz, she thought, set in gold casing. It had been carved into an oval, and the delicate facets glinted in the light. The gem was strung on a chain that seemed to be made of hundreds of tiny golden links, twisted together like rope. “Monsieur Denicole,” Bijou breathed, “it’s beautiful...”
“Jewels for my jewel,” he said, caressing one hand over her shoulder before making for the back door. “Go ahead. Put it on. Freshen up! I’m taking both of you out for dinner tonight. Somewhere nice. Somewhere in the city. Tonight, we celebrate!”
Silence filled the dressing room after Monsieur’s departure. Bijou’s eyes were still locked on the jewels in her hands. “I’ve never owned anything like this before.”
“It’s a lovely necklace,” said Louis. “Monsieur has a good eye. Gold suits you.”
“Thank you, angel.” Bijou held the two ends of the clasp behind her neck. “Could you?”
“Of course.” He stepped behind her, hooking the brilliant string together.
Bijou ran a finger along the chain, feeling the nearly imperceptible ripples of the tiny links against her collarbone. She looked at Louis in the vanity’s mirror. “Everything’s changing for us, isn’t it?”
“I promised you it would,” he answered, softly.
Bijou reached over her shoulder and brushed her fingertips across his, still hovering near the back of her neck. So many dreams and miracles were in her life now, because of Louis. Day by day, the need to thank him, to repay him, to be his happiness, only grew stronger. Their connection felt so powerful in moments like this. Moments when they were alone.
But Bijou knew she couldn’t indulge in that particular dream. Not yet. She sighed. “Go on, join Denicole outside. He’s so happy and dizzy, I worry he will wander into the road and be trampled. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Louis grinned at her. “Right. I’ll see to him.”
Past her own reflection, Bijou saw Louis give her one last look before he shut the door behind him.
Humming to herself, Bijou set about washing away her dramatic stage makeup, and painting on something suitable for a city evening. She pictured it in her head, an elegant restaurant with spotless linens and chandeliers. Monsieur would order a bottle of very fine wine, and still be likely to drink too much of it, but his temper had changed these last few months, too. Spirits put him in a jovial mood, especially after a night like this, flush with profits and customers. If he was floating on his own cloud, maybe there’d be a moment. Maybe there’d be a window of time where Bijou could slip away with Louis, somewhere private and beautiful. That would be it. That would be when she’d tell him that she loved him.
“Brava.”
Bijou sucked in a sharp breath and spun around. Her body relaxed when she recognized the man emerging Monsieur Denicole’s office. “Oh! Seigneur Mystère, you startled me. We all thought you left early.”
“I did not.”
Bijou waited for him to call her stupid or display any of his regular cruelties, but he said nothing more.
“My apologies.”
Shadows peeled away as he moved into the light of the room. His usually stick straight black hair looked a little tousled. Perhaps he had fallen asleep in the office.
Bijou tried to push forward with conversation. “The audience was impressive tonight, no? So many people.”
“Indeed.”
For so many years, Seigneur Mystère had been nothing more than a bully to her, another obstacle she had to get through to complete each day. But maybe he could change, too. Maybe they could find common ground. “Isn’t it nice?” she asked.
“What?”
“How well we’re doing. I feel like, we’ve finally become equals, you and I. The stage belongs to both of us. I understand why you love it. Performing, I mean.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Equal, are we? After all of my training, all I have sacrificed, all I have lost, my condolence is that you are now my equal? What lofty aspirations I must have had, to finally be able to say I stand even with Denicole’s guttersnipe.”
And, there it was. Same old Seigneur. Bijou rolled her eyes and turned back to the mirror, wiping at her eyeshadow. “Must you always be this pleasant? I was being nice. Your show today was good. It is always good.”
“I am.”
Bijou jumped. She hadn’t heard him move, but suddenly, he stood directly behind her, pressing against her back.
“I am good,” Le Seigneur said, leaning down to her ear, his voice taught. “Denicole knows it. And I don’t have to fuck him to get my spotlight.”
“Excuse me!?” Bijou tried to stand, but Seigneur Mystère gripped both of her shoulders, holding her down.
“No one gets anything for free, Bijou. There is always a cost.”
“What are you doing? Get off of me!” She tried to push his hands away, to wriggle out of his grasp, but he was too strong.
“You don’t have what it takes,” he whispered, harshly. “You are a silly songbird, flitting from perch to perch, waiting for someone to feed you. The consequences were going to catch up with you. Sooner rather than later, it seems.”
“You’re scaring me...” Bijou felt tears sting her eyes. Cruel as Seigneur Mystère was, he had never laid hands on her before. And there was something in his expression. Something that frightened her more than any of her darkest nightmares.
“Your pet was right,” said Le Seigneur, brushing her hair away from her back. “Gold does suit you. But red has always been your color.”
In one swift motion, Le Seigneur seized Bijou’s necklace and twisted it in his hand.
The chain cinched around her neck. Her hands flew up to it, trying to pull it loose, but the links were too strong to snap. Bijou gagged as Seigneur Mystère twisted again. The heavy topaz stone crushed against her windpipe.
She tried to strike behind her, but her arms couldn’t reach the man intent on choking the life out of her. He raised the arm clutching the necklace, lifting Bijou from the stool, suspending her by her neck. He feet scraped and brushed the floor but couldn’t find purchase.
Her gaze spun wildly. She couldn’t breathe. The chain wouldn’t break. Instead, she could feel it cutting into the skin of her neck the higher Le Seigneur lifted her. Something wet was on her skin. Blood. The necklace was going to cut through her throat.
And she couldn’t make a sound.
Sound. Sound!
In another burst of panic, Bijou kicked out with her foot, and her heel collided with the stool, knocking it over. She kicked again and felt her leg sweep across the vanity’s surface, sending her makeup and dressing tools to the floor. She threw her leg forward again and found her intended target. The delicate wooden frame holding the mirror snapped beneath the force of her kick and the glass crashed to the ground, splintering into large, jagged shards.
Le Seigneur growled and pulled her backward, his grip still firm on the jewelry around her neck.
Her vision was starting to go foggy.
Please, please, please.
A creak. A gust of air. The smell of the street.
“Bijou? Is everything all right? I heard a crash—BIJOU!”
Dashing footsteps. Scraping glass. Two loud grunts, one of fury, one of pain.
Without warning, Le Seigneur loosed his grip, and Bijou fell to the floor. She gasped and heaved, forcing air back into her body. Her arms shook as she pushed herself up in time to see Louis retreat from Seigneur Mystère’s figure, pulling something away from the man’s side, near his ribs.
A shard of mirror glass. Dripping, covered in something slick and shiny.
Louis had...
A long, gurgling breath escaped from Le Seigneur’s throat before he fell to his knees, then to the ground. Still.
Louis tossed the glass away and ran to her. “Bijou! Bijou, are you all right?”
“I... You...” she stammered. Her voice sounded strange and labored. “You killed him.”
He was blinking rapidly and swallowing hard. “I—Yes—He was going to—I’m sorry—I saw you, and I—”
“No!” Bijou said, throwing her arms around his shoulders, pulling herself close, pressing her cheek to his shoulder. “No, no, no. Thank god you came back.”
For a moment, they sat on the dressing room floor, holding each other, trying to find a calm rhythm between them to slow their hearts and breath.
“What happened?” Louis asked. “I thought he’d left for the day.”
Bijou shook her head. “No, he was here. In the office, I think. But he was acting so strange. Darker. More than usual.”
Louis looked down at her. “Your neck. You’re hurt.”
Bijou reached up and felt the places on the sides of her neck where the chain had broken skin. The gashes throbbed and stung. She pulled her hand away and looked at the blood coating her fingertips. “It’s fine, it’s...” She stopped short.
“Bijou?”
As she watched a single red drop trail down her finger, Bijou’s gaze fell beyond her own hand, to Seigneur Mystère’s body on the floor. A dark pool was steadily spreading from the place where Louis had stabbed him, seeping into the fibers of the rug. The blood on her hand was red. The blood on the floor was not.
“His...his blood,” Bijou whispered. “It’s black.”
“What?” Louis looked at Seigneur Mystère, the weaponized mirror shard, and his own hand. “Oh my god.” Hastily, he wiped the inky fluid off on his pants. “What...does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” said Bijou. “Something bad.”
They both stared at the expanding black stain. This was more than Bijou could explain. This was something beyond her imagination. Fear returned and settled somewhere deep inside her chest.
“What do we do now?” Louis asked. “Should we tell—”
“We have to leave.”
“Leave?”
Bijou nodded. “Yes. Leave Paris. Leave France.”
Louis’s face blanched. “But.. I…wh—what about Monsieur? He said—”
“Louis. You are smarter than that.” She took his hand in hers. “We are no family to that man, we are a meal ticket. He would turn us both in before blinking an eye.”
“But we haven’t done anything wrong! Le Seigneur attacked you!”
“No one will listen,” Bijou said. Her mind was working fast, now. “We’ll be imprisoned, and I’ll...” She paused, the very idea causing her to choke up. “I’ll never see you again.”
“Bijou...”
Though he was trying to keep his face brave for her, Bijou could tell Louis was just as scared as she was. That was it, then. Louis was her angel of hope and dreams. She could handle the darkness and grit of reality. She could get him through that until it was safe to dream again.
Bijou set her jaw. “We should take what we can. I have some money hidden here, in the dressing room. There is more in the apartment, but I don’t know if we have time. The bustle of the queen’s maid costume, on the rack. My purse is hidden there.” She pointed while scooting on her knees closer to Le Seigneur’s body.
“What are you doing?”
“I will search him. The purse, Louis, quickly.”
“I...uh...” Louis looked like he was about to faint.
She turned, staring directly into his frightened eyes. “Listen to me. I’m sure this wasn’t a part of the life you imagined for us. But this isn’t the end. We can start over, try it again. But I need to know. Are you with me, Louis?”
The glaze of panic left his face and he let out a slow breath. “Forever.”
Despite everything, Bijou felt a soft warmth around her heart. They would be fine.
She brought her attention back to the corpse in front of her while Louis dashed for the costume rack. Gingerly, she pulled back the black blood soaked portion of Le Seigneur’s coat and felt around for an interior pocket. Her hand brushed against a hard lump. She pulled the object out. A familiar iron medallion lay in her palm.
At the beginning of his levitation trick, Seigneur Mystère would hold this medallion and its ribbon out in front of him, like a pendulum. Slowly, the disc would begin to float into the air, as if it were drifting through water. As the audience sat mystified by the medallion, Le Seigneur would astound them again by lifting his entire body into the air.
Bijou had seen the object from a distance a million times, but never up close. She examined the relief, depicting a crescent moon, surrounded by a wreath of foliage. Bijou held it up, letting the lamp light further define the details. The metal was cold in her hands. As she turned it, the faint lettering around the outer rim became clear. Two words.
Ordo Nocturnus.
This story is available fully narrated with the Then Came the Fire audiobook! Available here!
Copyright © 2022 by Rachael Huszar
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