Page 58 of Our Strange Duet

“Adventure?”

“The vicomte is taking us out for a night on the town,” Jean-Luc added, swaying on his feet so much that I had to wonder how long all of them had already been adventuring.

Meg all but trembled with excitement as she scream-sang, “We’re going to the Moulin Rouge!”

A frisson of giddiness shimmered through me, immediately sweeping me into their boisterous spirits.

Situated at the base of Montmartre’s hill and christened with a spinning red windmill, the Moulin Rouge was one of the most storied nightclubs in all of Paris. Though it had been the first establishment to be wired with electricity, it was said that those who performed on its sprawling dance floor shone even brighter than the lights.

There were revue acts, bawdy comedy routines, and contortionists so flexible that some in the audience fainted while watching. It was a dazzling world of debauchery, packed with frilled skirts and ruffled bloomers, exposed black stockings and spangled corsets.

I’d never before been—having neither the occasion nor the disposable francs to justify a visit—but I’d heard stories of twinkling gardens and sparkling women, flowing absinthe and a giant stucco elephant that had been installed after the 1889 Exposition Universelle. It was said that, secreted away in a hidden room only accessible through a spiral staircase in the pachyderm’s leg, paying gentlemen could smoke from opium pipes and watch as barely clad women belly danced. Every corner of the Moulin Rouge was an appeal to carnal appetites, an altar spread for decadence and sensuous gluttony.

I couldn’t believe I’d actually get to see it with my own eyes. “We’re really going? Truly?”

Raoul nodded. “You’ve been working so hard these last few weeks, I thought it a fine idea to surprise you all with a marvelous outing.”

“A surprise indeed,” I agreed before glancing at my gown. After cleaning, I’d changed into my very best dress—a pretty pink brocade that I loved—but as I looked at Meg’s stylish bustle and the deep scoop of her neckline, I knew I was dressed all wrong. I’d planned for an evening in, not a night of revelry. “I’m afraid I’m not ready for such an extravagant adventure.”

“Nonsense,” Raoul protested. “You look almost perfect.” He plucked a white flower from his lapel and tucked it behind my ear, cupping the curve of my jaw with an intimacy that left me breathlessly hungering for more. “There,” he appraised. “Just right.”

Behind us, one of the other men coughed, and Raoul turned to him good-naturedly, the moment ended.

“Ah, yes. These are my good friends, Narcisse Favreau, Marcel Marchard, and Philippe Cadieux. When they heard I was taking some of the opera’s most beautiful dancers out on the town, they simply insisted on accompanying us.”

I smiled, recognizing the last gentleman’s name. “Monsieur Cadieux…you’re Lisette’s fiancé, aren’t you?”

His amber eyes brightened. He was a short man with a fashionably large russet-hued handlebar mustache. “I am indeed.”

“Will she be joining us tonight?”

“Oh, no. No, no, no. She’s been quite occupied as of late. Wedding plans and all that.”

Meg nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yes! You should see her—”

“We thought we’d save poor Philippe from an evening of it,” said one of the other men—Narcisse, I thought—cutting her off. His dark hair was slicked back with pomade, and he wore a dapper green carnation on his jacket. “Shall we be off, then?”

Raoul glanced at me, eyebrows raised with sudden concern. “Are you all right with an evening out? I know it’s not what I promised…”

I beamed at him. “It’s even better than all that. Just let me grab my things.”

“I can’t believe how dazzling it really is,” Meg whispered to me once we’d been seated.

The table Raoul has reserved was right in front of the outdoor stage. Swagged lines of sparkling lights zigzagged across the courtyard, and cleverly placed mirrors amplified their glow so that the whole area was somehow both as bright as day and as deliciously dark as a midnight assignation.

Everywhere we looked, people were laughing and dancing—with each other and by themselves. It was a kaleidoscope of merriment, a faceted jewel of glamour and joie de vivre.

Onstage, a young woman in an elaborately feathered robe led the audience in a chansonnette. She waggled her fan at anyone foolish enough to mess up the rousing beat, as a coy smile played across her painted lips.

“Champagne for the ladies,” Philippe decided, calling out to a nearby waitress. “And a round of absinthe for the rest of us!”

The men made noises of appreciation before leaning back to take in the surroundings.

“Would you prefer something else?” Raoul asked, leaning in toward the side of the table where Meg and I sat. “Wine, or a cocktail, or, or…punch? Whatever you like.”

“Champagne is always what I like,” said Meg, with a smile so wide her dimples winked. She twisted in her seat, looking from one end of the courtyard to the next, and shifted this way and that as she tried to catch glimpses of what was going on inside the main building. “What a wondrous night! Thank you again, Monsieur le Vicomte, for thinking of us.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “This is so thoughtful.”