The Ladies of the Secret Circus Constance Sayers (e books free to read .TXT) 📖

beyond him down the street toward our destination, hoping this was a momentary diversion.

“Can I walk with you alone?” His doe-like eyes pleaded with me.

Sylvie tensed. I motioned to her to go on.

“I’ll be at the Closerie des Lilas waiting for you.” She gave Émile a final, disapproving glance before placing her hands in her pockets, spinning on her heels, and starting toward Boulevard du Montparnasse at a pace that let me know she didn’t agree with my decision.

Émile and I ambled down the street in the opposite direction, in silence.

“Why did you need to see me?” I stared straight ahead at the crowd in front of me, not meeting his eyes.

“I hated that you saw me with her,” he said. His tone was desperate. “I needed to explain.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation, Émile.” Clutching my purse tightly, I had a vivid recollection of that night. I was humiliated that he saw me in such a state, my bloodshot eyes, tearstained cheeks, and swollen face.

“But I do.” He stepped in front of me. The soft breeze blew at his hair, and car headlights illuminated him as they passed. “I don’t want her. I don’t know how that could have happened.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do.” I raised my eyebrow.

He placed his hands on my shoulders to stop me from moving on. “I tried to find you, but I could not get back into the circus.”

That was a curious development. Father had shut off Émile’s access to us.

“Then you didn’t come back here, either. When I couldn’t find you, I painted you, again and again. Each night. I would paint you and stare at you, telling you all the things that I am telling you now, and I would wake every morning—”

“And I would be gone,” I said. Am I terrible for admitting that I smiled at him then? It was just a small upward tilt of my mouth, but the idea that he had been in agony over me seemed fair. Now we were even.

“Each time, I tried to change something… your nose or your lips… anything so it wasn’t exactly you.”

“It isn’t like that, Émile. You can’t paint my essence, even by memory. It has nothing to do with changing my nose or lips.” I could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Have you eaten?”

He shook his head. “Oh, Cecile. I am so in love with you. After you left, I sent Esmé away. Nothing happened between the two of us, I swear! The look on your face. I could not believe what I had done and how stupidly I’d behaved.” He grabbed his head, like it was pounding. “We’d had too much to drink then we got dancing; that’s all. It was hot in my apartment. You must believe me.”

“Can I ask you something?” I stood close to him, looking up.

“Of course, anything,” he said. He began to wind up for another wave of protestations of his innocence, but I held up my hand to silence them.

“Even if what you say is true, had I not come to your door when I did, what would have happened between you and my sister?” The question lingered. I could see the guilt on his face. “I see.” Having my answer, I turned and walked down the street. Two blocks ahead, I could still make out Sylvie’s shape ahead of me.

“I’m sorry. Please forgive me,” he called, running after me, catching my arm. “I will do anything that you require to make it right. I will give up painting. We can move away together.”

I shook free of him. How dare he touch me when he just admitted to me that he’d wanted my sister. There was a cruel streak in me that longed to tell him there was nothing to be done, his choice had been made when he’d invited her to his apartment. The desire to see him twist for what he had done to me was great. Before I’d met him, my life had been lonely, but simple. Surely this spiteful inclination comes from Father. I took a few deep breaths in through my nose, trying to calm myself. I took him in and softened, for the man who stood before me looked to be days away from his own death. He had not eaten nor, it seemed, slept for days.

“Please,” he pleaded with me. He began pacing the street like a madman, tugging at his hair.

I was startled to see my own internal storm of emotions physically manifested in him. He looked like I felt. Waves of both worry and relief washed over me as I saw that his feelings for me had been very real, but then I realized that he was causing a scene on the street. Women were stepping away from him as they passed us.

“Let’s get you something to eat.” I took his hand and led him to Closerie des Lilas. As we approached, Sylvie, who’d found a two-seat table, frowned.

“Why is he still here?”

“Shut up, Sylvie,” I said, muttering under my breath as I attempted to locate another chair in the crowded café.

The three of us sat in the corner table while Émile ordered the duck. In this light, I saw the deep cavities that had formed under his eyes and cheekbones. The skin around his lips had taken on a dusty color. His face recalled the painting that Man Ray had done of Marcel Proust on his deathbed.

The dinner was deadly silent. Sylvie glared at him as he ate, her hands at her sides and her posture as straight and still as a dressmaker’s form. When he’d swallowed the final forkful of duck, Sylvie clapped her hands and announced, “Well, that’s done. You’ve eaten. Can we go now, Cecile?”

I was taken aback by her rudeness. “Sylvie!”

Scowling, she pulled out a cigarette and met my eyes, her face defiant.

After we left the restaurant, Émile reached for my hand. “Please come back with me.”

The idea of going back to that apartment where I’d stood