Page 122 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘Apart from the fact he’s a German.’

‘If I remember rightly, are not Frieda and Werner both German? And yet we are friends with them. You need to stop being so small-minded, Henri. It does not suit you, makes you look old and sour.’

Before Henri could retort, she stalked away towards the triplets.

‘She is trouble. Always has been. She has an eye for you, Michel.’

‘I know.’

‘Ah. You do? Most men give in to her. I expect she’s seething with jealousy about you and Frieda.’

‘She has made a few comments.’

‘And yet she hasn’t made a scene. Yet.’

‘This is good wine,’ Michel said, changing the subject. He lit a cigarette, his eyes on Odélie as she kissed Frieda on both cheeks and giggled with her. Behind them, Monsieur Bertrand and Madame Rosie held hands. Michel smiled at the pair, happy that Bertrand had found someone.

‘That is nice to see,’ Henri said, following his gaze.

‘They are well matched.’

‘She was not married, you know.’

‘Who? Madame Rosie?’

‘No, not her. My love. In fact, the main problem was that she was not a she at all.’

Michel inhaled the smoke then blew it out in front of him. Quietly, he said, ‘I see.’

‘A young tightrope walker. He was magnificent to watch.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Dead,’ Henri said simply, no trace of sadness in his voice. ‘Did we drink all the wine?’

‘Not quite.’

‘Come with me to my house. We will finish it there. Perhaps get Werner to join us if he is up for it.’

Michel followed Henri to the house, his head aching. He watched the count walk a few steps in front, whistling a tune. He had met men like Henri before, and had, as others did, believed it to be wrong – immoral. But looking at Henri now – his kindness for the others, his willingness to help – made Michel feel as though he himself may have been the one in the wrong.

Inside, the house was warm. Henri asked Michel to wait in the living room whilst he went to fetch Werner. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked by five minutes before Henri appeared once more, Werner on his arm, wearing a plum dressing gown, a ruddy flush in his cheeks.

‘You are looking better,’ Michel said.

‘I wish I felt it.’ Werner sat heavily in an armchair by the fire and Henri placed a blanket over his legs. ‘Henri said we were celebrating. I told him we should wait until after the show – but as you can see, he does not listen.’

‘And when have I ever listened to you?’ Henri sang out, as he poured the rest of the wine into crystal glasses. He handed out the drinks then placed a record on the gramophone. The song Michel knew so well began to crackle, Fréhel’s voice calling out to dance the Java with the one you love.

‘La Java Bleue,’ Michel said.

‘I thought that, as we were on the subject of love, this was the most appropriate song.’ Henri sat on the sofa, the orange glow from the fire casting strange shadows so that for a moment, Michel thought Henri was crying.

‘I thought this was a celebration. Why are we talking about love?’ Werner asked.

‘It is a celebration – a celebration of love. Have you never celebrated the great loves of your lives? Éva, the circus, Frieda?’

Werner shook his head. ‘I have other things to do with my time than be a romantic like you!’