Masque by Bethany Pope

Her husband had an enormous appetite for life, and love – until he suddenly didn’t. Here, I will give you her address.’
    The only paper I had in my basket was the script for Faust. He scrawled on the back. I was happy to see that the cottage was very close to my hotel. I would call, on my way past. She would get more gold than coppers.
    9.
    I spent the night at the inn in relative comfort. I never used to be so inclined towards luxury, but my years with the Countess have softened me so much that the rustic little room with the peasant-style, rope-sprung mattress and clay washbasin (there was no mirror) seemed quaint, if not totally uncomfortable. The bed was stuffed with feathers and the linens were clean, so I enjoyed my sleep and rose with the dawn, to the sound of the stable boy’s wood chopping and the rooster’s loud crow.
    I had a hand-sized looking glass in my valise and I set it on the highboy dresser. The little mirror leaned against the wall and showed me enough of myself to reassure me that my hair had not become too dishevelled as I slept. At a little after six-thirty, the maid knocked with the breakfast I requested: a hot roll and a steaming mug of coffee. She left the tray precariously balanced on the mattress. I knew that since I meant to have communion during the mass I should defer satisfying my stomach, but I was so anxious about maintaining my strength for my performances that I did not want to risk wrecking my singing by altering any more of my schedule than was necessary.
    â€˜Oh, Madame?’ The girl was young for this work, eleven or twelve, dressed in a frock that began its life as a flour sack. Perhaps she was the daughter of my host. She was a thin little thing and could have used some feeding up.
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜There is a Gentleman here.’ She blushed, quite prettily. ‘A young and handsome one, with a nice little moustache. He arrived late last night and asked about you. He wanted to know if you were going to church. If so, he wanted to know when you would be leaving and he offered me a bar of chocolate and a five-franc note if I will tell him so.’
    Raoul. The little Comte. Did he not read the letter I sent him? I fumed, internally, carefully maintaining a light-hearted mask. Of course he read the letter. That is how he knew where I was. But then, if he read it, why did he not take me at my word that I wanted to be alone? I answered myself: because when you speak he hears only what he wishes to. He has always been like this; it is a habit from childhood.
    Think, Christine, think. You have to decide what to do. You know that he is petulant. You know that he is spoiled, and that his brother loves him dearly. His brother is your boss. If you rebuff his advances too harshly, this boy could ruin your career just as it is launching.
    The girl was staring at me, her big brown eyes open wide, waiting for a response. Suddenly, one came. It made its way to my lips as though in answer to an unspoken prayer. I must feign pleasure, play the game with him until I could return to the city and ask advice from my master. The ‘Opera Ghost’, as the dancing girls call him, was wise (I thought) in the ways of the world. I said, ‘Of course, dear. The Comte. I know him very well.’
    I smiled at her, allowed my grin to widen as her body relaxed. ‘Go wake him now. Tell him that the service begins at eight o’clock, and that if he should wish to walk me there I will be waiting by the front gate at a quarter to the hour.’
    The girl took my coin in exchange for a country attempt at a curtsey and clattered out into the hall in her antique wooden shoes.
    I paced the floor for fifteen minutes, thinking about everything that I knew. The Comte’s elder brother ran the opera house and kept La Sorelli as his whore. She bedded him and, because of this, had the honour of being the prima ballerina in the company, in spite of her drinking, while