“Not everyone is a weasel like Franz,” Bastien drawled, directing her towards a round table where Elise was serenely sipping a violently vibrant drink. A little lamp was casting a soft,red glow on her dark skin. When Celine squinted, she noticed with a start that there was an empty sketchbook propped open in front of her. The pencil in Elise’s hand moved swiftly.
“You wanted me to act friendly, I did,” Bastien said. “And would you look at that, it pays to stick your tongue down someone's throat.”
It certainly did, but Celine was growing tired of his explicit vocabulary. “Do you always have to be so crude?”
“Do you always have to be so repressed?” Bastien clicked his tongue and performed a sudden pirouette around her. “But if the lady insists. Regard thither,” he exclaimed dramatically. “It recompenses to grow thy tongue to someone’s throat. Does that sound better?”
“Elizabethans are turning in their graves right now, but sure, that’s better.” Celine averted her attention towards the tables again. “Weren’t we here for something?”
“Right.” Bastien gestured at Elise. “Meet my informant. Mademoiselle Sartre.”
Flicking her eyes up, Elise thinned her lips at them. “I thought I told you to meet here an hour ago.”
“Traffic,” Bastien shrugged.
“Mhm. Come, sit. My sister gets drinks on the house.”
Celine thought it highly convenient having someone who looked like a split version of oneself. Free drinks were one thing. If she had a twin sister, this entire ordeal of lying and sneaking around would be so much easier.
Resting her purse on the edge of the table, she took the seat opposite Elise. Bastien dragged another chair over, iron legs grating on the black tiles of the floor, and sat facing the stage.
“Thank you for meeting with us,” Celine began awkwardly. She was quite unsure how to take Elise’s civility over the matter. She wasn’t as grievous as Franz, but she hadn’t really attempted to hide her dislike of Celine and Bastien since theirfirst day. “I know our circumstances at Maison Baudelaire aren’t particularly friendly ones, but I apprecia—”
Elise interrupted, “Thank Elana, not me. She is the one with the weak heart,” and cut Bastien a pointed look.
He simply rocked his chair back, grinning. “You can always join us,chérie.”
Elise let out a noise of repulsion and turned her focus on the sketchbook. Celine couldn’t repress her curiosity. She peered over the lamp, trying to catch a glimpse of the bold strokes the other girl was casting down. She hadn’t expected to find someone else who sketched designs in dingy cabarets.
“Franz has it,” Elise said suddenly, startling Celine into sitting up straight. “Your sketchbook, I mean. He swiped it from your station when you ran outside that day.”
Bastien rocked the chair back in place. “And you couldn’t have told us then?”
“I am telling you now. I owe you nothing else,” she returned tersely. “I just don’t want to compete against that pretentious rat in the end. If you’re going to beat me, Mademoiselle LeBeau, I’d rather you do it yourself.”
Celine considered her for a split second. But it was Bastien who spoke again. “You take this competition thing too seriously.”
“If I’m not serious about it then I will never make it,” Elise replied. “People like you and my sister will never understand what it’s like to walk through life having to do more than simply flash a smile and get people to bend to your whims.”
Up on the stage, Elana was rounding up her backup dancers. Circling behind her stood two young boys; one holding refreshments while the other was heeding her instructions, a look of utter adoration pasted on his face.
When she returned her attention to their conversation again, Elise appeared a little miffed. It wasn’t clear if it wasCeline, or Bastien, or something else that annoyed her. Until a high squeal pierced the air, and she saw Elana rushing towards them, throwing her arms around Bastien’s neck.
“You came!”
“I couldn’t possibly miss your pretty twirls up on the stage, now could I?” He pressed a kiss on the crook of her neck, right where the low neckline of her stage costume began. Elana didn’t seem to mind the wry looks the other patrons were giving them. In fact, she made a show of settling on Bastien’s lap. Bastien, however, had grown conscious of the attention. “Perhaps next time invite me for a private show,chérie, hmm?”
Celine ignored their chat and turned to Elise. She pointed at the costume. “Did you design that?”
It was, by all means, a rhetorical question. The style consisted of all the elements Elise usually used on her looks for the competition: dramatically ornamental details in pastel colours mixed with bold, dark base fabrics. A gothic twist on Belle Epoque.
“My sister and I moved to Paris with very little money and very different passions,” Elise replied, to Celine’s shock, rather willingly. “We wanted to make it on our own, so…” she shrugged. “But the seamstress who hired me wasn’t one inclined towards haute couture. I had to find another way to experiment with my talent, unlike you and MonsieurReneauhere.”
“My mother’s fame has nothing to do with Celine’s talent,” Bastien replied curtly. The arm he had wrapped around Elana hung limply at her side as if his earlier affection had only been feigned. “Maybe except for inspiring her.”
Elise squinted. “You mean it didn’t open the doors for you two regardless of the rules? I’m shocked.”
“Elise!” her sister exclaimed.
