HE CUT HIMSELF SHAVING AND uttered a loud blasphemy at the mirror, sending his razor spinning against the tiles with a flicker of his eyes.
Hector enjoyed certainty. He followed a rigorous schedule; he paid attention to the tick of the clock, marking the proper hours for appointments and activities. Lately, though, he found himself terribly uncertain, and the feeling was not improving. That morning he felt as if he were sinking into quicksand.
More than a week had passed since Valérie visited him at the Royal, plunging him into a miasma. He had wondered what he might feel if he ever spoke with her again. He had not imagined it would be disgust. But that was exactly what he had experienced. He could not help but believe that his past, his youthful love, was tarnished by her actions.
She had broken so many of his dreams, and it seemed to him that now she burned the last, sweet remains of his affection.
However, there was something liberating in the moment. He was like the man who is given a reprieve by the executioner.
And then she had swung the ax again, threatening to snatch Nina away.
Not that he could claim Nina was his in any way; it was ridiculous to imagine she might be carried off like a stolen brooch.
It was Thursday, and Hector had to go to the Royal. He was scrupulous in his punctuality. Mornings were not to be wasted. Yet he’d risen late.
Which was why he was in a bad mood that day. He made the blade spin in a whirl of silver and then stilled it. He leaned down to pick it up, washed it, finished shaving.
He concluded his preparations but stopped at the door.
Nina had not sent a letter, and the sensation that all was amiss, that Valérie had said or performed a new act of cruelty, was intensifying.
She is under no obligation to see me, he thought. And I cannot saunter into her home.
Perhaps he could send her a note. A simple, pleasant greeting. It would not be too bold. This thought revived him, and he set off to work, penned the note, and asked a boy at the theater to deliver it.
Unfortunately, the boy returned within the hour, looking mortified. “The lady said you should have your note back,” he told Hector.
“She said what?” Hector asked.
“She sent it back.”
He wanted to barge into her home, beg for an explanation, and he forced himself to remain calm. It would have been unseemly, and she would be put off by such rudeness. He sent another note the week after, and the answer was the same. Miss Beaulieu was not accepting his correspondence. What on earth had happened?
One day later, although it was a morning when Hector should have ventured toward the theater, he grabbed his coat and had a carriage take him to Three Bridges Quarter. There he waited in front of Nina’s address, though not for long.
He was relieved to see her walking out of the house on her own. It would have been awkward to have to pry her from a chaperone, perhaps impossible.
He quickly crossed the street and approached her, speaking before she had even caught sight of him.
“What has Valérie told you that you refuse to converse with me?” he asked, seeing no reason to waste time with pleasantries. His imperturbability had gone missing, he was near panic, and that more than anything pushed him forward, forgetting the politeness and conventions he upheld, which kept him safe.
“Mr. Auvray, I have an important appointment today and I cannot be tardy,” she replied, and though she looked surprised, she managed to sound utterly firm in her intent.
“Not until you explain what has brought about this change in you. I thought we were friends again,” he replied.
Nina stopped in her tracks and looked up at him. She sounded more hurt than angry. “Can you truly be this brazen?” she asked.
“If by brazen, you mean I enjoy knowing what kind of wrong I’ve committed, yes,” he said. And he was being ill-mannered and she’d think him vulgar, but he could not let her leave without an answer.
“You lied to me, again.”
“I do not understand.”
She walked as quickly as she spoke, her eyes fixed resolutely ahead of herself. “Valérie has told me how you have pledged your love to her, after you told me she no longer held a place in your heart. Well, the both of you can be happy, knotted in each other’s embrace, like the pair of snakes you are, for I refuse to play whatever sick game you wish to play with me.”
Nina attempted to cross the street, but he caught her arm and pulled her back.
“I play no games. Whatever Valérie said is a lie.”
“I will not believe you this time,” she said, shoving him away with a push of her talent.
He was not prepared for this, and it forced him to step back three paces. If their conversation had not been blistering, he might have congratulated her on the honing of her skills.
Undeterred, he followed her, his voice growing more gruff. “You must, I speak the truth. Valérie came to see me two weeks ago, demanding that I stop speaking to you—and when I refused, she left in a rage. Whatever poison she has poured into your veins is born of spite.”
She stopped and leaned against a tree, turning her head and looking at him.
“She wants to set you against me. Don’t you see that?” he told her, and he despised the anxiety that made him sound like a dunce.
“Why is she doing this?” Nina asked.
She was uncertain and young. He’d never realized how young she was. He knew the number of her years plainly, but it was not that; it was the inherent naivety that came with youth. He realized she had not stood a chance in Valérie’s presence and chided himself for not having spoken to her sooner.
“She wants you to marry Luc Lémy. She … sees me as an impediment toward that aim,” he said.
“Luc.”
Nina looked utterly frail, and he moved to her side, offering her his arm that she might steady herself. Her fingers tangled with his sleeve, and she had a breathless look, as if she’d been running.
“She has nothing to gain from my marriage,” Nina protested.
“I do not know why she is fixated on the idea, but I assure you it is what she wants. Nina—”
“I was not lying when I said I had an important appointment. I must go,” Nina declared, her voice low; he had to lean down close to hear the words.
His hand fell upon hers, and he clutched it tightly. “Nina, you mustn’t listen to her,” he insisted.
“It’s a terribly important appointment.”
“Nina.”
She raised her head and stared at him. Her lips wavered, but only for a moment. She had a solemn look about her. “I have accepted Luc Lémy’s marriage proposal,” she said.
It was odd. Hector felt little when she said this—perhaps he had already imagined this might be the case. He stood, expressionless, before her and wanted to tell her, Say no more, I understand.
“He has bought an emerald ring for me, and there is to be a party at Gaetan’s home in two days’ time,” she said, and she was a lady, and she now addressed him with a sober voice. Not a girl, not at all. She’d found herself, found her place in Loisail. “I am supposed to go for the final fitting of my dress today. Now. My mother and sister are here from Oldhouse for the party.”
He drew his hand back, his fingers sliding away from her own.
He could picture it already: Luc Lémy in his finest clothes, looking triumphant as everyone raised a glass for a toast. Nina, demure and pretty in an evening gown, blushing as her fiancé placed a kiss on her cheek for all to see. And the ring, it would no doubt be ostentatious, a heavy stone that would allow Luc Lémy to congratulate himself, which would let the world know that she was his own.
She who wanted beetles instead of rings, because Hector was convinced Luc Lémy knew nothing about Nina.
“Congratulations are in order, then,” he said mildly.
“Congratulations,” she repeated.
He averted his eyes. “I am sorry I troubled you. You have an important appointment, as you’ve said.”
“Yes, I need to go.”
She did. He did not even watch her walk away. Hands in his pockets, he stared down at the tufts of grass growing by the tree.
He’d wasted a morning on this silly business, and he had to make up for it; he decided he must head to the theater immediately. There were many matters to attend to. But when Hector slipped into a carriage, he felt so utterly exhausted, as if he’d performed two shows in a row, all the energy in his body drained, that he could do nothing but sit back and close his eyes.
“Boniface,” he told the driver.
When he got home, he peeled off his coat, his jacket, and tossed them on a chair.
He had not had a proper breakfast in his haste. That was what was amiss. He thought to go to the kitchen and fetch himself food, but halfway there he stopped and it hit him, like a knife thrust in his back.
It was despair. Despair he had not thought he could ever feel.
He placed both hands on his long table and pressed down on the wood until it began to splinter under his fingers.
He turned his head and caught sight of himself in a round mirror hanging on the wall, this beautiful gilded creation with a wreath of flowers serving as its frame. He gritted his teeth and made it shatter, pieces of glass tumbling to the floor because he could not abide his reflection.
The man in the mirror was not him. It could not be him because that man looked like a fool, hunched over in pain, and years ago he had decided, in the quiet of a bare, cold room, that this could never, ever be him. That he was the great Hector Auvray, performer extraordinaire, and it was wonderful being that Hector Auvray who loved Valérie Véries because as long as he was that man, he was safe.
There was certainty there.
He raised his hands from the table.
I am too old for this nonsense, he thought.
This, this, whatever this was. He did not even dare to think the word.