“Remi? Ma petite, please come out!”
Manon? Remi’s eyes snapped to the door.
“Where are you, Remi? Please come out,” the ballerina called again, a tremor of fear in her voice. A knock at the door caused her mother to jump away from Monsieur Deschamps. “I do not mean to disturb, Madame Cuvilyé, but your daughter has disappeared.”
“What do you mean? You cannot find her?” Remi’s mother pulled open the door. “Where could she have gone?”
The director composed himself quickly. He quieted her mother and led them out into the hall. His voice was reassuring. “We will find her, Madame. She could not have gone far.”
When they were gone, Remi pried herself unsteadily from her hiding spot.
She wandered out into the hall, a mess. Her dress was dusty and had snagged on something, and her hair was matted to her cheeks where tears had fallen. She did not feel like herself, and even when her mother found her and scolded her, she did not feel the anger as deeply as she should have. It rolled off of her like a wave against a sturdy rock.
“What is wrong with her?” her father asked.
“She is tired.”
Remi would have argued, but she did not know how to say her heart was broken. Later, when they were all home and settled in, Remi’s mind wandered back to the dressing room. In bed, she tossed and turned, her body too hot as sweat clung to her skin and nightdress. She felt sick and dizzy. Climbing out of bed, she searched the house for anyone still awake. It was the smell of cigar smoke that brought her to the parlor. Her father was surprised to find her awake at such a late hour.
“Ma petite? You should be sleeping.”
“Papa? Am I leaving?” Her voice broke as tears sprang from her tired eyes. Alarmed, her father hurried over and tried to calm her. “I don’t want to leave you, Papa!”
“No, ma petite. Whoever said such a thing?”
“Monsieur Deschamps,” she cried, bubbling with more tears. “He told Mama to bring all of us.”
The cigar tumbled from her father’s lips, his face twisting into a monstrous grimace. He lunged from his chair and grabbed at Remi’s shoulders, shaking her. “What? What did you say?”
“Papa, you’re hurting me!” she cried.
He let go of her arms but kept a grasp on one of her hands. In a rush of rage, he dragged her up the stairs with him and burst into the bedroom where her mother sat, brushing her hair. A look of sheer horror crossed her mother’s face. “Bernard, what are you doing?”
“I knew it!” he shouted. “All this time! You let that little enfoiré touch you, you whore!”
Her mother’s mouth fell agape, and she tore her gaze from him to Remi. Confusion marred her stricken face.
“Don’t look at her!” Remi’s father crossed to her mother, cupping her jaw with one hand as he tilted it violently backward. She nearly fell from her stool, uttering a choked cry.
“Tell me the truth. Is she mine?”
“Bernard…” her mother croaked, tears spilling down her face.
Remi trembled at the door, unsure what to do. Her father was a frightening thing to behold as he carried on shouting at her mother.
“Tell me who it is, Alain!” Remi’s father shouted. His voice boomed like drums being struck in a concerto. “Is it Deschamps? Is he her father?”
“Please, Bernard.” Her mother begged, sparing a pleading glance at Remi. “Not in front of her.”
Remi’s father twisted, unmoved by the plea. He bared his teeth like an animal. “Perhaps you should have thought about that before you conspired to leave me!”
Her mother’s eyes widened. “How could you know that?”
“She was there, Alain! The little bastard girl heard it all,” he screamed.
Remi’s mother, horrified, found her again. “What have you done?”
Her father gripped her mother’s shoulders, and she swiped at him, wriggling to try and escape across the bed. Her father was quick, though, and grasped her ankles. He climbed atop her mother’s flailing body and pinned her in place.
A sob ripped through Remi’s throat as warmth trickled down her legs. “Papa, stop!” she cried. Over and over again, she begged, but her little voice could not abate her father’s harsh words.
“You bitch!” he shouted. “You won’t leave me! I’ll kill him before he can take what’s mine, do you understand?”
Her mother said nothing, sobbing.
Eventually, someone came to her rescue. Kind hands found Remi and pulled her from the room as one of the maids closed the door. The sound of their heated voices did not leave her, not even as she bathed and changed out of her soiled nightgown. Her father was loud—louder than she’d ever heard him. His fury rattled Remi to her core. It was a side of him she’d never seen before, and his horrible expression of hate stayed with her throughout the night.
The screaming, the anger—it followed her into a tortured slumber. She knew that nothing would ever be the same.
STARTING OVER
BEN
MAY, 1898
Ben’s anger abandoned him. Instead, he felt disgusted—not just with her story, but with himself. Her family abandoned her. Left adrift across a channel to live with a family that never truly felt like family.
“My father never treated me the same after that,” Remi added meekly. “He couldn’t even look at me, so my governess was compensated generously to keep me away from him—and my mother. At least until he could arrange to have me sent here.”
