I’ll never forget the first time I tested my abilities, or the glow that came from hearing the dance mistress’ praise of my potential. I felt truly alive when I twirled and flew to the notes of that tinny old rehearsal piano and I suddenly understood that this was my purpose; this was the reason God had put me on this earth. My father had other ideas. He had ambitions to a higher social status, I think, and the notion of one of his daughters upon the wicked stage was unutterably disgraceful. I will spare you those countless scenes where our wills and desires clashed. All that matters is that I was accepted into a professional company, and I turned my back on my family to follow my heart. I was sixteen years old, and I have never looked back.
Once out of the reach of my father’s restrictive government, I was free to indulge the rebellion that accompanies the adolescent years. I was never as shamelessly or thoroughly indiscriminate as Jacqueline or Felicité, but I saw no reason to remain the delicate, prim flower my father wanted me to be. I acquired a reputation as the diligent man’s conquest; unyielding at first but receptive if enough time and patience was invested.
But such behavior is bound to catch up with a person, even one as moderate as I had been. Some weeks after my first encounter with Erik, I was obliged to admit that my lingering indisposition might be the symptom of a greater difficulty. A visit to the doctor confirmed my fears, and upon leaving his office I hastened to arrange an assignation with my current lover.
Jules Giry was a scene-painter for our company, considered by most of the other dancers to be of too mean of a rank to be bothered with. But he had a charming air and a delightful (if somewhat audacious) sense of humor, and I enjoyed his company in every sense. As a result our relationship had already lasted longer than my previous trysts, but this did not diminish the difficulty of breaking the news to him.
His reaction was more or less what I had anticipated: numb silence for what seemed like an eternity, followed by a somewhat hollow "Are you certain?"
"Dr. Laval is," I said with forced calm, "and I have suspected it for some time now."
"But what—"
"If you’re about to ask how this happened, or if I’m certain of the paternity, I shall box your ears," I warned him in earnest.
He flinched. "I was thinking nothing of the sort," he defended. "I only meant to ask what you intended to do."
"Do? I shall retire from the company, and when the time comes I will give birth to a son or daughter, and I will raise it as best I can."
"You don’t think it might be better if you were to, well…what I mean is, there are ways to avoid that end…" he blundered.
I shook my head firmly. "No, Jules. I thought about it, but I really don’t want to do that. Besides, it’s too great a risk. Remember Jeanette la Fleur?"
"Jeanette…" He frowned in bewilderment. "I thought she miscarried naturally."
"No, she got rid of the unborn child herself…and then she couldn’t stop the bleeding." My fingers were restlessly massaging my belly, as if trying to comprehend what was taking place beneath my flesh. "I want this child, Jules. I didn’t ask for it, but I’m going to see this through."
He sighed as he rose from my side, marking a few paces in the room before he spoke again. "Well then, I suppose we must marry."
When a woman dreams of a proposal, she does not envision such a terse and casual sentiment. So you can understand my sudden vexation. "Please, do not think yourself obligated to such a miserable fate!" I snapped, as I stormed out of the room into the parlor of the small apartment I had managed to acquire. Once out of Jules’ sight, however, my calm demeanor ran away, and the tears I had held back burst free of their prison.
What am I going to do? A child…dear God, I know nothing about being a mother…
A pair of hands looped around my waist, and a tender kiss was laid on the base of my neck. "Forgive me," Jules said, stroking his cheek against my hair. "I did not mean to imply I felt obligated to marry you, or that I considered the prospect detestable." He spun me to face him, his ice-blue eyes sad and serious. "I love you, Adele. I’ve wanted to marry you for some time, only I wanted to wait until my finances were better. But this child…well, perhaps it is a sign from God, a warning that if I do not offer myself to you now, I will lose you forever."
I remained silent, though my anger was rapidly melting in the warmth of his words. "Such determination!" he said with mock astonishment. "I pray this child has your will as well as your wit, for if takes after me I fear it will be quite lost."
"Flattery will get you nowhere." But my tone and my heart were light; it was impossible for me to be angry with him for very long.
"No? Then perhaps I should try another technique…" And he proceeded to tease and coax the remainder of my terror into momentary silence.
We were married as quickly and discreetly as was possible, and shortly thereafter I ended my ballet career with a similar lack of fanfare. The other girls in the company made a token amount of fuss at my departure, with the usual well-wishes and hollow promises to write regularly. Jacqueline in particular simpered over me, but I hardly think it mattered to her if I left the company, remained, or was run over by a carriage. Throughout this my heart was heavy; dancing had been the whole of my life and I was reluctant to leave it for this uncharted territory. But as Jules had said, maybe it was a sign from God. Then again, Jules also said once that God must have a sense of humor—it was the only way the world made sense.
At any rate, matters progressed in their usual course. It was a warm spring day in 1863 when I sent for the midwife, and with her aid I gave birth to a healthy baby girl. Jules was needed at the theatre that day, and as both the child and I had endured the process without any complications the midwife left us alone shortly after the birth.
I’ve never considered myself a romantic, monsieur; the notion of love at first sight had always seemed ridiculously impossible to me. But I know it is real—I felt it the instant I held my newborn daughter in my arms. Her little face, still red from the ordeal, nestled against my breast serenely and caused the breath to catch in my throat. In that instant the enormity of what had just happened struck me. My body had created a new life, one which would be entirely dependent on me, who would need me to teach, protect, and guide her for years to come. The idea of such a great responsibility unnerved me, but I was determined to face it. I could only pray to God I would not disappoint…
Jules and I had discussed several names which might be suitable for our offspring, but in the end he placed the decision wholly in my hands. Out of all the works of the stage I’ve always been partial to the opera Faust, so I christened her Marguerite. But even I had a hard time calling such a tiny creature by so grand a name, and within a few weeks she became known as Meg. I think she prefers it.
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