Every girl in the hippodrome had one.
I had learned the knife was not just for men. The secret to being a rider in the hippodrome wasn’t that you must be agile, or that you must be good with horses, or that you must be strong and steady as the horse careens to the far end of the arena and back with you riding on its back. It was that you must hide inside your costume a little of a killer’s heart.
The animal will be tender with you, and you with it, but the animal never forgets that when what it wants for survival requires your death, it will become unafraid to kill you. And so you cannot forget this, either.
It is, on reflection, good training to be a courtesan. A woman of any kind.
§
Euphrosyne brought me back her apartment, and we fell through the door into the entrance hall, gasping. Inside, looking very stern in her chaise, was a woman I first assumed was the concierge. At the sight of her, Euphrosyne began laughing, her hand over her mouth at first, which then only made her laugh the harder.
Shit, my friend. That knife. I never saw a man look like that, ever. I could get used to that.
You’ve quite an arm yourself, I said. I began to laugh as well.
The woman by the door was not amused. Who is this? she asked Euphrosyne. You’re not allowed this sort of guest.
It’s only for a few minutes, Odile, I promise, Euphrosyne said.
There’ll be a fine for this, Odile said ominously, as we passed by her.
In her kitchen Euphrosyne held out her hand for my knife, and when I gave it to her, she stabbed it into the cork of a bottle of wine and twisted it out. She drank from the neck thirstily and handed it to me, and I did the same. This calls for a proper smoke, she said, and fumbled in her skirts, extracting two cigars. She cut the tips and struck a match against the stone of her counter, and soon the fragrant smoke lifted between us. She waved me to her balcony and handed me one.
I held it in my hand, happy.
Pull it into your mouth, not your throat, she said, as if I did not know. And she winked. It’s good practice, and then she giggled.
Now I can’t, I said, and made a face as I blew the smoke out in a gust.
She laughed openly now, and I smiled and held it to my mouth again.
So it is that I can, I said.
Under the soft light coming off the city in the dark, we smoked and watched the street below, passing the bottle between us until we grew quiet.
She reached out and took my hand and began to sing, loudly down into the street,
De préférence chaque soir,
L’amateur contemple
Les belles d’nuit qui s’font voir
Au boulevard du Temple!
In the street, a pair of drunken men roared their approval. Again, she said to me, and hit me on the arm, Sing with me!
We sang it again, and as we reached les belles, she sang instead les reines, overemphasizing it, and I laughed at her doing this until I was choking a little on the wine and smoke, and then she laughed at me, also until choking.
Again! she shouted at me. Everyone must hear us!
We sang it again, over and over, until the street complained loudly. At this, Euphrosyne pouted and threw her now-empty bottle into the street, where it made a satisfying crash. The concert is over, she yelled down. We clambered back into her apartment.
Les reines d’nuit, she said, toasting, as she stabbed another bottle open and drank.
Les reines d’nuit, I said, and drank after her.
Do you imagine the police are still searching for us?
I shrugged. I honestly could not say. I was still unused to the world, unused to the idea of police. In my life until then, every time I’d left, I’d left, and no one remembered me, and no one cared. Or, at least, not that I ever knew. As I stood in her kitchen, a glass of wine in my hand, as drunk as I ever had been, it seemed, yes, unlikely that anyone knew me except her.
I would think they are, she said. I am so tired of them, though. Are you?
I was about to shrug again and then she said, Yes, I can tell you are also.
It is dreary, this life, she said, and her head hung down for a moment. When she looked up at me, she said, But there are moments it is very bright. Do you love me? she asked.
I nodded.
Yes, I love you, too, she said. She stood and walked over to me. When I watch you in the ring, as you leap through the fire, it’s like you’re the only beautiful thing in all the world.
No one had ever given me this kind of compliment before, and it lit the air around us. I saw myself briefly as she must have seen me. All this time I’d admired her, I did not know she also admired me. I had never thought very much of what I did until then.
All the world, she said again. And then, Did I kill him, do you think? she asked. I think I might have killed him.
I said nothing to this, afraid she might have gone mad. I loved her, it was true. But I barely knew her.
I hope he is stronger than that, I managed. She laughed.
We’ll need a disguise, she said. Come.
I had never seen an apartment like hers—I did not yet know what it was or where I was. The front rooms were decorated like a theater’s lobby, with red velvet and gold braid, as if her bedroom were a theater box. Dark cherrywood furniture and thick rugs. I stopped myself from lying down on the one in her foyer. The door to her bedchamber had been made to resemble a box door exactly, papered in pale pink silk, which matched the fabric of the chairs, the bed, and her tufted vanity seat. All felt vaguely obscene, and yet magical, so different it was from the outside. I wanted to go back out to the foyer and enter again and again, to feel it again.
She went to her closet. They must be very good disguises, she said. For we are now murderesses. She gestured at her bed. Please, she said. Make yourself at home.
Where will we go? I asked.
Oh, she said. Maybe to Biarritz? Do you have any money saved?
I . . . Yes, I said quickly. I do. I thought of the money I’d saved, still there, for Lucerne.
It’s only for a little while, she said. I’m sure he’s not dead. I’m sure he’s just now with his friends, alive and already on to some café for a digestif.
On the bed, I nodded. She held out a beautiful tweed traveling costume. This, perhaps, she said. It’s so modest, no one will recognize me in this. She smiled at me. Unless they see the shoes.
I wondered how far to go with this. I was expected at the cirque the next day.
Now for you, she said. Have you been to Biarritz?
I struggled to think if I had. It wouldn’t matter, in a sense. So much of my time with the circus, the towns we’d been in, it had never mattered. Perhaps, I said. If I could just smell the air, I would know. How will we get there?
The train, she said. I’ve always longed to go. We will dress and find a café near the Gare de l’Est, and have caffè corretti until we can leave.
What are those? I asked.
Espresso and an Italian spirit called grappa, she said. It’s delightful. Here we are. You will wear black; we’ll say you’re in mourning. We both will! We will be a cancan funeral. We will wear veils. I’ll dress you up like a proper young lady in mourning, and we’ll say you’ve lost your fiancé if anyone is to ask. I’ll pretend to be your lady’s maid.
I did as she asked. She loved me, and I loved her despite our being nearly strangers. What else was there to do? I took off my night’s costume.
Will we really wear the shoes? I asked her. Won’t that give it away?
I suppose you’re right, she said. And yet I cannot bear to leave them.
I couldn’t, either. We left them on. It was as if without them, we might walk anywhere, but most especially, away from each other.
When she was done, I was otherwise entirely disguised. I laughed at the sight of my eyes peering through the veil. How do you walk with this? I asked, and batted at it.
Try to appear lost in sorrow, she said. Someone has, after all, died.
> This was meant as a joke, but instead there was then a quiet, as if the ghost of her tormentor had passed through the room.
You are never lost in sorrow, it seems to me, ever. You do know the way. In fact, you don’t think there’s any other. Sorrow seemed to me to be more like a road wound through life, through the days of your life, like the old Roman ruins near the Tuileries or the rue d’Enfer—underneath this life, but never really apart from it.
Here I was standing on it, with her.
We descended the stairs, singing the refrain of our song again, this time softly, she with a single gloved finger on her mouth for us to be quiet, and then laughing, we threw open the door to the street.
The sky was the color of a blue serge, the edge of it by the horizon beginning to glow red.
We began the singing again, swinging our arms as we walked, singing softly, sometimes loudly, making our way to the omnibus, singing as we walked when no bus came, all the way to the little café across from the train station, where we sat and drank those sharp, hot coffees with grappa. The waiter who served us was a beautiful gentleman, and he delivered each round with perfect solemnness, as if he were doing something grave, all while we chirped and gossiped. It was only after his third visit that I understood he might be observing a solemn tone with me because of my veil. When I said as much to Euphrosyne, we became very quiet, and then we laughed the harder until we were crying and shaking. And yet he was the same when we paid and left.
We could not shame him.
Not until we stood in line at the window did I understand she was entirely serious. As she returned with my billet and pressed it into my hand, I asked, What of my show?
She shrugged. Her eyes went dark. I must go, she said. Can you stay? When you go back, they will take you in, they will ask after me. The police will question you; they will want to know about that knife.
You can stay, she said, when I said nothing to this. She kissed my cheek and then turned and left me, walking quickly.
I stood still, as if turned to stone. As I watched her leave, the feeling that the only thing I had in this life was heading down the platform for the train away from me overwhelmed me. I would likely go to jail alone if I stayed. But if I did not show at the cirque, I would be sacked and replaced.
As I shifted and I felt the knife at my thigh, I understood I’d made my choice when I drew the knife.
I ran down the platform after her, and when I pulled even with her, I saw her smile.
What does one do in Biarritz? I asked.
We take the air, she said loftily, even a little sadly. She took my ticket from me and handed them both to the agent, who waved us aboard.
When we found our seats, she leaned her head against the window, watching as the landscape passed outside.
She asked, Will you watch me sleep? And then, when I wake, you can sleep. It is the only safe way.
Of course, I said.
I leaned onto her shoulder. I watched her and the land moving outside her window, the speed like nothing I’d ever seen. Somehow monstrous, as if we were moving faster than we should. The enormity of the night’s events was becoming clear. My trip to my mother’s family was truly abandoned, and yet I was not afraid. With Euphrosyne, a loneliness I had felt even when my own family had been alive was gone. Behind me was the world I’d once lived in and here ahead of me now was something else altogether.
Who would we be? I wondered. Or, rather, Who were we now? For it seemed to me the night had wrought a transformation. I pulled my knife out again and held it up in the dark.
She squeezed my hand when she awoke. Good girl, she said. And then I fell asleep, waking only when the porter knocked to ask after our plans for dinner.
§
We found rooms easily enough. Afterward, we counted our money and decided we had enough to last us for two weeks and that, we decided, was enough time for us to discover if we were wanted women. I dictated a letter to Euphrosyne for the cirque owner, saying I had to leave suddenly to visit a sick aunt and that I hoped he would understand.
Is he kind? she asked me.
I think he may be, I said. I knew he’d be angry, but I was sure my little rose would bring me luck with him again.
Each day Euphrosyne read the newspapers from Paris for some report of the death of the man she’d attacked, but after the first few days, when we saw no sign of the crime, we relaxed into the idea that he was alive and would be satisfied if she apologized. We decided we would act as if we were on a holiday. I’d need my job once I returned, but, for now, I was still inside the dream born once I’d pulled that knife.
I was unaccustomed to this kind of bathing. It amused me. Little tents covered the beach and from the distance resembled a parade of giant gowns. I imagined enormous women climbing down from them, as if from fantastic machines. The beachgoers made their camps underneath them.
The other apartments here were full of stylish women looking sadly out at the ocean from their windows, the cafés, the boardwalk, anxiously asking after letters. At first we laughed to find so many women here, and then we did not laugh. It seemed many had been promised money or a visit, and sometimes the man or the money came. More often, it seemed, this was where a man sent a mistress when he needed her to be away from Paris and away from the attention of others. A town for the end of an affair.
On our first walk on the promenade, as we drew near the Empress Eugénie’s palace there, Euphrosyne became excited. I wonder if we can see her, Euphrosyne said. She looked into the imperial resort with real determination, as if she were about to march up to the front door and ring the bell.
It’s like a dream for me, to meet her. Have you ever seen her?
Yes, I said, nodding at the vague memory of the woman in a domino mask. And it was then I told Euphrosyne the story of singing for the Empress and the ruby rose.
I kept it pinned into my bodice, and so I took it out to show her.
She gasped. Her fondness for the Emperor and Empress, her worship of them, this was one of the first things I learned about her, and this was when I did.
He gave this to you? You performed for her? Can you see her, do you think? she asked me. Could you go and call on her?
I shook my head no before saying anything. The idea made me recoil.
You could, you could. I don’t understand you, she said. If the Empress herself has seen you, you could be a real singer, and instead you’re out with the likes of me! She laughed at this, enough to begin coughing. I don’t understand.
You should be a singer, she said. This is what that means.
As we turned to go back, she said, When you do become a famous singer, when you’re a grande dame, you remember me, all right? You remember your Euphrosyne. We walked back to our hotel among the legions of waiting mistresses. We should get you back to Paris, she said. Now that it seems we’re not murderesses. Get you back to your glorious career.
I laughed.
I want you to swear something to me, she said then, drawing up short as she waited for me to stop laughing. Here, right now. We’ll swear it together.
I looked cautiously at her as she summoned what she was going to say.
We’re not to be like these, she said, gesturing at the stylish women around us. This is our vow. We’ll not come here again, ever, if it means waiting for some man to eventually stop paying our bills.
Some of the women near us heard and moved quickly away, indignant or sad, or both. She and I hadn’t discussed them once, and I understood why now.
Raise your right hand and place it on your heart, she said. Swear on that heart of yours, never.
Never, I said.
Never, she said.
We returned. We were happy, proud. We were sure we’d succeeded. And we were arrested the night we returned to the Bal Mabille.
§
The man Euphrosyne had attacked was not dead. As a result, he insisted on justice. We had humiliated him and his friends, and he insisted he wanted only an apology from her
and it would all go away. At the women’s detention center, he appeared with the police to accuse her. His head had an elaborate bandage that contrasted intensely with the conservative black suit he wore.
I didn’t recognize him. He was not, at the least, a regular, or hadn’t been. I wondered what it was he could have done to offend Euphrosyne enough that she would do this. Either way, she refused him an apology after all.
She’s a filthy wretch of a whore, isn’t she? the policeman said to the accuser. He shook her by the arm. Come on, you don’t want to go to the magistrate now, do you? Apologize and we’ll let you go.
There’s things you can pay me to do, Euphrosyne said quietly, but that’s not one of them. The policeman laughed.
You’re a wit, I’ll give you that. We’ll see if the magistrate likes it.
The magistrate we saw the next day. He eyed her tiredly as he detailed the case. You are the one called La Frénésie, also called Euphrosyne?
She nodded her head yes, defiant.
In the end, he charged her with not just the assault but also with the corruption of an unregistered woman, me. He sentenced her to six months and to pay fines, and she screamed before being led away. Then it was my turn to take the stand. I was surprised to learn I was to be charged with my own corruption—for being unregistered in the company of a fille en carte.
Do you understand the charges against you? he asked.
I shook my head no—they seemed spiteful.
He ran through it again.
Is she to have no friends, then? I asked.
This interested the judge. She may have friends, he said. You may be one of them. Though you may not be in her company.
Her friend but never to be with her? I asked.
That is correct, he said. A woman of virtue is a precious thing. Rare as she is, he added.
If I am unregistered and caught with her again, then I will be brought here again, charged again with my own corruption?
The Queen of the Night Page 9
