“Where is Papa? I want to tell him.”
“Papa’s making a delivery for Madame Vinier. He’ll be back late tonight.”
Cosette’s excitement faltered. “Do you think Papa will let me dance? It’s only one performance.”
It wasn’t only her father’s permission that concerned her. Was she good enough to dance with the company?
She had little formal training. Ten years ago, Cosette did some extra handwork for one of Madame Vinier’s customers, Marie Sallé, the retired prima ballerina. She brazenly asked if Madame would exchange her needlework for lessons. The former ballerina was taken with Cosette’s dream of being a ballerina that she gladly paid her in dance lessons. After Madame Sallé passed on, Cosette continued learning by watching the dancers and ballet master rehearse and copying what they did.
“I don’t know what your father will say. He’s not been in favor of you dancing. You know traveling with the company is out of the question.” She put down the teacup she was washing. “He may agree to one performance.”
By the end of the evening, Cosette was tired, and her father hadn’t returned home.
“Go to sleep. I’ll speak to him.”
She wanted to talk to her father herself, but also needed to be rested for the rehearsal. When she yawned and couldn’t keep her eyes open, she kissed her mother good night and went to her room.
Tucked in bed, she closed her eyes and was near asleep.
She stood at the far end of a large room in front of a full-length mirror. The corps de ballet was in the center of the room rehearsing. She repeated her exercises over and over watching every nuance, correcting the turn of her foot, the position of her hand, elongating her extension until her body told her she was ready.
Alone in the center of the room, an orchestra played, and she danced. Her focus was solely on the music and her dancing
A distant timpani tried to intrude. She kept dancing.
As the music faded her steps became lighter until the music ended and she drifted off, sound asleep.
A whiff of cocoa had a barely awake Cosette licking her lips. She sat up leaning on her elbows and sniffed again. The warm drink was an extravagance, one she enjoyed.
Out of bed, she dressed and was about to leave her room when she found a note pushed under the door. She knew from the distinct handwriting it was penned by her father.
She heard her mother in the other room and picked up the note. Would she be off to the sewing room or the dance studio?
Cosette opened her door and sat at the table. “Papa left me a note.”
“He knocked on your door, but you were asleep, so he wrote you a message.” Her mother nodded at the note.
Cosette let out a deep breath and unfolded the paper. She read his message, looked at her mother, and read the note again. She stood up so quickly, the chair nearly turned over.
“Papa said yes.” Cosette stared at her father’s words. “I’m going to dance in the Paris Opera Ballet. Thank you for—”
“All I did was tell him you wanted to dance in a special performance. He said yes.” She placed a cup of hot cocoa next to her. “To celebrate.”
“I hoped. I dreamt.” She sat at the table, blank, amazed, and very shaken. “I never imagined he would agree.”
“He wants you to be happy. We both do. But you’re not a little girl anymore. I know this may be difficult, but some dreams are not what you think they are.”
Her mother tried to be gentle, but the three of them had had this discussion before. To say her parents didn’t think highly of a dancing career was an understatement. To her parents her dream was frivolous, unrealistic, and reckless. Neither of them understood that dance was as necessary to her as the air she breathed.
“Drink up. You don’t want to be late your first day.” Her mother squeezed her hand. “You can tell your father and I all about it tonight.”
Cosette hurried to the dance studio and waited with the other new dancers to be called into the rehearsal hall. The ballet company’s performance was in honor of her idol, the retired prima ballerina Marie Camargo. Cosette had practiced and danced every step of this ballet by herself. But knowing the steps and dancing without music wouldn’t be good enough. She’d let the music tell her what to do.
“Come in.” Claude Garnier, the ballet master, waved them in. “Don’t stand against the wall behind everyone. Find a place among the others.”
All the dancers spread out and made room for the new additions except those in the first row. They stubbornly closed ranks and stood their ground unwilling to allow anyone near them. Cosette, the last in the room, took a place in the crowded back row.
“You can’t stand back there. You.” The ballet master gestured toward her.