vii.

GENEVIEVE GARNIER'S RATHER DISTINCT DINNER PARTY for four—hosted primarily in the honor of Monsieur Edgar Laframboise—was a feat now two weeks old.

The memory of it was still stark in Laurentine Bonfamille's mind, and though she rarely ever dwelled much on her past younger then ten years old, she had thought of the dinner party everyday since it had occurred.

It wasn't the food per se, or the conversation the hostess had to offer over the dinner table. It was merely the company of Monsieur Édouard Arsenault that Laur reflected on religiously.

It was everything he had said to her, his presence, his eyes, the way he had catered to Berlioz-the promise he had made to her, the agreement they had settled on afterwards, the way he had held her elbow and uttered her shortened name in her ear.

Laurentine thought of all of these things with a religious ferocity every day that passed, and her blue eyes—as well as her legs themselves—seemed to chart for her a desperate course of longing that her rational mind fought hard to dissuade.

She always searched the audience eagerly from the stage when she performed the past two weeks, she was skittish and showed an excited interest in the calling cards that she received, skimming through the names with an anticipation before she reached the last card and her heart seemed to fall each time in her chest. She went on frequent nightly walks with Berlioz, in hopes of running across the person she was so desperate to see.

Laurentine had, on occasion, even tried to glean the whereabouts of the particular gentleman she was fixated upon, from Genevieve Garnier. The girl had mistaken Laur's interest as an interest in Garnier's own affairs, and had proceeded to set down the intricate details of her attachment—which had seemingly become official though there was no ring involved—with Monsieur Laframboise, failing to mention Monsieur Arsenault each time.

Laur had stopped approaching Garnier then, being content with only exchanging heartfelt pleasantries with the woman when they ran into each other at the opera house and amidst performances, and then going her own separate way.

In her heart, all Laurentine could think about was Monsieur Édouard Arsenault, the promise he had made to her and the three dinners with him she had agreed upon.

Why hadn't he attempted to get in touch with her? He knew she performed at the Roses Bleues opera house, Genevieve had made that quite clear at the dinner party to the gentlemen—mostly in order to remind Monsieur Laframboise of her own whereabouts. The point was, Édouard Arsenault knew where Laur worked, she had even mentioned the address of her mansion to him during dinner in certain yet careful terms.

"Well, where I live at 66 Avenue des Pr'es, it isn't quite as peaceful as here in the suburbs, but I do just adore the bustle outside my windows on the best of days."

The topic had been brought upon by Monsieur Laframboise when he spoke of the location of his family home in Marseille. Laur had been quite forward in putting out her own address like she had, but it was just that Monsieur Arsenault hadn't even asked her in the guestroom when they had been alone, and she did not want him to have any trouble locating her when he decided upon their first dinner night.

Mon Dieu, there was only one Bonfamille Mansion at 66 Avenue des Pr'es! And besides, was not her address known to everyone in the Roses Bleues opera house? The gentlemen admirers she had, hadn't they too cleverly smuggled out the information of her address from the opera house to send her calling cards and flowers and to drop by to pay her a visit?

Certainly, it wasn't that hard. There had to be something keeping Monsieur Arsenault busy, for Edgar Laframboise had started frequenting the audience of the opera house for a whole week now, catching Laur's eyes on stage as he patiently enjoyed her number and waited for Genevieve's performances.

It had taken Laurentine all her patience to not to give in and directly inquire about Édouard Arsenault's whereabouts from his friend that last time she had run into the gentleman after the show outside the opera house, his arm around Genevieve Garnier's waist as the latter preened and pratted with her chin held high, displaying to the entire street and to her admirers gathered outside, that she was fish just freshly caught.

Laur had hoped Monsieur Édouard Arsenault too would just magically show up outside the opera house—if not in the audience, eager to talk to her with his hazel eyes bearing intensely into her soul and making her heart beat faster each second.

But he hadn't shown up at all, and Laurentine had barely covered her disappointment each time when she was faced with other men waiting for her outside in her brief walk from the exit of the opera house to her waiting carriage. She tried often enough to hold up her pleasant demeanor, to thank them deeply for their compliments, to politely deflect dinner invitations and kindly refusing to accept a gift or two, but to what extent can one truly mask their disappointment? Isn't the feat visible in eyes, heard in the wavering tone of voice, or even sensed in a fake smile?

Her behavior was sensed-and rightly so—by her sister and Colette Blanc, the latter having returned to Paris for a new fresh start at the boutique endeavor in her plans. Though the two had been busy amidst their trips to and from their newly purchased boutique shop on 74 rue de la Boétie, they had still spotted the difference in Laur's behavior.

They—and no one more so than the maid Manon—noticed Laurentine's eyes glitter as the tray with the calling cards was brought to her, the sudden awareness when the bell rung at the main door, the hopeful startle when Manon announced a caller waiting in the drawing room, and the falling gleam in her manner when a different gentleman's name was pronounced.

Each time Laur had hoped for Édouard Arsenault's reappearance, she had been let down.

Now, two whole weeks later, she had started to harbor a slight anger inside her, an emotion she hadn't felt for years for anybody. At her most severe, she had only ever felt indifference towards somebody, and she hated the feeling of it.

But anger was much worse. Feeling the frustration, irritation, anger that stemmed from what she could only label as a betrayal, felt so much worse. How could Monsieur Édouard Arsenault have vanished like this? Had he not made her a promise? Had he not asked her to dinner?

Well, he had said that he would ask her for three dinners, he hadn't yet, but the point remained the same, did it not?

The other gentlemen who asked Laur for dinner dates were adamant and quick. They were insistent, so much so that she couldn't fathom why Monsieur Arsenault was delaying.

Could it be that he had asked her out of mere reciprocation? Because she had asked him to ask something of her and he had just said the first thing he thought was cordial?

Laurentine gasped audibly. Mon Dieu, was she fretting over a gentleman—with her heart involved head first in the mere idea of him—who was not even thinking of her the same way at all?

"What is it?" Adelaide Bonfamille asked then, snapping her elder sister's attention back into the bedroom in the Bonfamille manor where Laur was draped in her silk nightgown on her velvet covered loveseat.

"Have your thoughts lead you astray, sister?" Adelaide raised a brow, her thick cheeks pink with the force that she was using to rub her night cream in, as she made her way towards Laurentine.

"You have been staring out the window and right at the moon, but I can tell you're not thinking of that poor glowing star in the sky at all. And besides, no such scientific fact about the moon is so shocking as to elicit a gasp. Atleast—I hope not."

Just at that moment, Berlioz came trotting into the master bedroom—Laur's bedroom—his paws drowning in the plush carpeting as he navigated his way to the loveseat, climbing up to settle into Laurentine's lap as she aided his endeavor.

"Mon Dieu, this cream is sticky," Adelaide huffed, turning back to eye Laur's vanity where the crystal cream pot still sat.

"I cannot understand why you do not feel absolutely weighed down with this on, sister," The brown haired girl continued, annoyance on her face. "Apart from smelling like a thousand flowers on the planet and costing a million, I don't suppose it is of much use to one's actual skin."

Laurentine didn't answer, not feeling in the mood to debate with her younger sister over the power of her favorite night cream. The realization that she had unknowingly exaggerated a certain gentleman's interest in her simply because it was her own interest that was the dominating one, was disheartening in a way she hadn't ever felt before. How could she have let herself go this far? And that too with only a single meeting with the gentleman?

Laur could tell herself that she had made this mistake before, when she had found herself admiring some gentlemen for something or the other before they revealed something of themselves—opened their mouths, essentially—and she had to quickly steer herself back. But no, Laurentine hadn't exactly made this particular mistake before.

Never had she before become so completely entranced with a man like Monsieur Arsenault. She had never met anyone like him before. No one had been so keen and adamant to take her side against something someone else had said before, nobody had offered to help out for Laurentine's sister before-for her sister had always been her responsibility and no gentleman had ever come close to even care to ask how Adelaide was doing. No other gentleman—that Laur had met—had ever taken even the slightest of interest towards Berlioz before.

No other gentleman had touched Laur's elbow, whispered her name in her ear, and had made ripples of exciting flares cascade down her body. Laurentine wanted to know what it would feel like to be entirely held by Édouard Arsenault. She wanted to know what it would feel like to have him touch every inch of her body.

"Are you blushing?" Adelaide exclaimed, startling Laur as she blinked and Berlioz jumped.

"That's it, I must know what has been up with you these days!" The girl cried, her eyes sharp and beaming at her elder sister as she plopped herself on the edge of the loveseat, making Laur adjust herself and gather her feet to make space for her sister.

"No, I—," Laurentine tried, not knowing what excuse to make.

For the past two weeks her erratic behavior and interest in potential callers had often lead her to make up believable lies to quell her sister, Colette's and Manon's questions. A guest from the opera house she was waiting for, a musician who was seeking for her opinion on something, a journalist writing an article on her. The lies had come easily, and each time Laur had believed that once Édouard Arsenault reappeared in her life, she would introduce him to her family and she needn't lie anymore.

But that hadn't been the case, and at present, Laurentine's heart ached in disappointment at herself, so much so that coming up with another lie was feeling more exhausting than she could fathom.

Adelaide Bonfamille and Colette Blanc's busy presences, gliding into and out of the mansion everyday, with their minds fixed on their joint business endeavor, had done nothing to distract Laurentine's own mind from the dilemma she had been thrust into.

The girls hadn't once asked for any such piece of advice from Laur, that would initiate her to atleast think of something else, momentarily if not permanently. They had both been busying themselves with sufficient trips to stores in order to purchase furniture and decoration for their boutique, whilst rebranding all of Colette's old designs to be presented again.

The hustle and bustle going on in her own mansion had only aided in minimizing the amount of questions on her behavior that Laurentine had gotten, for if Adelaide and Colette had nothing to engage their own minds, Laur wouldn't have been able to harbor a single thought in her mind before either of the girls would've read it blank off of her face.

Suddenly then, before Laurentine could begin to answer her sister—the birthing of another rather haphazard lie—Manon entered the room, the maid's black uniformed form covered in a white frilly apron at her front as the girl's white linen cap sat a little askew on her ginger head.

Manon curtseyed quickly.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, my lady," The girl began, her eyes settling on Laur. "But you have been sent a card and delivery, Monsieur Benoit asks if you are awake to receive it or if you would like to leave it to the morning."

Laurentine exhaled slowly, feeling herself getting excited again. It wouldn't do to have her hopes dashed again for the umpteenth time. She composed herself, managing a cordial smile.

"Tell him I shall receive it now," She spoke. "I'm awake enough, aren't I?" 

The maid smiled, quickly nodding and turning to leave to deliver the message to the butler. 

Laurentine felt the appreciation for her mansion's butler then like a fond hold on her. He had been given leave for Christmas and New years, and she had insisted he take a considerable time off. His return to work had been a balm to her soul. Without even inquiring why, he had merely watched and understood Laur's sudden and persistent interest in the calling cards, deliveries and her frequent walks and inquiries if anyone had called at the mansion while she had been away. 

He had started informing her of all of the callers without her having to ask again, and he was sure to mention the names of the callers first and foremost before he spoke of their associations or work or the varying purposes some gentlemen came up with as pretenses to have the chance to speak to Laur on a one on one basis. Benoit knew his mistress had no desire for commercial business at all, let alone with any of the gentlemen, and he could spot the made up pretenses quite expertly each time. 

Laurentine met Adelaide's eyes then, the chubby girl's eyes narrowing at her sister with an annoyance as her pink cheeks glistened with cream. 

Laur couldn't help but giggle, bringing out her hand to pinch Adelaide's right cheek in between her thumb and the side of the crook of her pointer finger, pressing lightly on the thick flesh and laughing as the girl freed herself quickly and easily, courtesy of the grease of the cream. 

"I hate when you do that!" The girl got up, folding her arms across her chest, offended. "I'm not a baby, sister!" 

"I know you aren't, my love," Laur smiled, melancholy suddenly seeping into her voice. 

Tomorrow was the final day setting up the boutique, and her sister and Colette would soon open up for business after that. Adelaide Bonfamille was a girl of twenty, almost twenty and one. She was no baby, and though for Laurentine she would always remain the little girl she had worked hard and established herself to provide a better life for, there was no denying that her little sister was trying hard to escape the cover of Laur's wings and efforts. That fact hurt, but had it not always been an inevitable feat? At least Laur had provided a ground to catch her sister if she fell, at least there would always be every support she could offer at Adelaide's back. 

As if reading all those thoughts on her elder sister's face, Adelaide's annoyance sombered, and she huffed before plopping herself back down on the loveseat and putting her head on Laurentine's lap, making Berlioz shift slightly to make space for the roommate sharing his spot.

Laur smiled, reaching her hand to caress her sister's forehead, her fingers gently playing soothing motion's on the girl's skin. 

"I don't understand why you have to receive a suiter's delivery at this time of night," The younger Bonfamille girl uttered, changing the air of the conversation as if the thoughts in Laur's head were threatening to spill out. 

"I mean, goodness, do these men not sleep?" She huffed, "All of them are what, hotel owners, doctors, cafe chain owners, lawyers, investors, firm owners, bankers, and you're telling me they have truly no other thought in their minds at this hour but that of you?" 

Laurentine swallowed thickly at the word bankers. Mon Dieu, if she had heard this lineup before, she would have always considered banking the most plain occupation—something that would always remain devoid of her interest. Financiers and bankers, she could have never imagined herself falling for a gentleman who qualified for these occupations. Not that she had ever imagined what the occupation of her husband would someday be, but in a way she had always just thought that he would have something to do with music. A music teacher perhaps, or a composer, or even a opera singer. 

"And we're letting men like these make political decisions for women," Adelaide groaned, covering her eyes with her palms, her elbows in  the air. 

"Mon Dieu, sister, each day I realize exactly the importance of the movement in England," She let out. "If English women win the vote, I'm sure French women will come to their senses too." 

Laurentine exhaled softly, wondering if her sister assumed her too to be one of the French women who she believed needed to come to their senses. Laur hadn't—truth be told—at any point in her life felt adamantly about women being able to make political decisions. There was a certain twenty three year old rising English political activist—Emmeline Pankhurst—who was gaining voices to the cause that she had built up, of English women being able to vote. Adelaide was desirous of following in Pankhurst's lead since that girl had gone quite viral after responding blatantly to a misogynistic English politician in a rally. 

It was Pankhurst who was making the movement in England, but Laur hadn't—or couldn't have ever, by her own self—thought of women in the political wing of the world. 

The idea was intriguing, to say the least, and though Laurentine could only wish all the women involved in the cause—as well as her own sister—well, she could still admit to her curiosity on the state of the world if only the politics had the flair of a feminine touch. 

Adelaide knew Laur's own stand upon the matter, she knew of her elder sister's intrigue and affirmation upon the subject of votes for women, but the girl also knew that there would only ever be one of them with the capacity to be the radical in the family, and Laurentine—with her own heart set on traditional and social values of 1881 France and the present state of the patriarchy—was not going to be one. 

It was then, interrupting her train of thoughts, that the butler of the Bonfamille manor knocked at the door of Laurentine's bedroom, and then sauntered in struggling as he carried a large golden packaged box. Manon, the maid, followed in after him, holding the silver tray upon which Laur received her calling cards. 

Laurentine's heart fluttered in her chest. What if this time, it was truly him? She swallowed, managing a cordial smile on her face as Benoit set the giant box down by Laur's feet on the carpet, in front of the loveseat. Adelaide sat up to eye the box with slight distaste, folding her arms across her chest as she pretended to appear uninterested. 

"Was it heavy?" Laur asked, watching Benoit straighten himself, his round stout form bulging with the effort as he brought out a napkin to wipe at the perspiration on his dark forehead. 

Manon brought the silver tray to her and Laurentine reached for the singular white card, her eyes on Benoit. 

"No, my lady," The man spoke. "Only a little, I suppose." 

Laur smiled, shaking her head slightly at the butler before she looked at the card, her heart stilling in her chest as her blue eyes followed the cursive ink on the middle of the white. 

Édouard Arsenault.

She swallowed, her heart tightening in her chest. It was him. She had hoped this to be him and it was. 

She was conscious of everyone's eyes on her. Benoit wasn't a concern, regardless of how she was to react, but Adelaide and Manon possessed a harder feat to deal with if they suspected anything remotely different in her expressions than when she usually opened gifts and cards from her gentlemen callers. 

With her thumb, Laur opened the card, her gaze devouring the few lines inked inside with a easy hand. 

I sincerely apologize for keeping you wondering for so long, there was some business I needed to tend to first, but rest assured that you haven't left my mind for a second. I will pick you up at 6pm tomorrow for our first dinner. I hope you forgive my behavior, and our plans still stand. If need be, I will apologize to you all the way to the dinner as well. 

Laurentine couldn't help the smile that spread across her lips like magic, a blush cascading over her cheekbones and warming her neck instantly as she desperately tried to control it all by biting the inside of her cheek. 

To her relief, Adelaide merely scoffed at her reaction, her underlying interest diffusing away.  

"Alright," The girl got up, running her hands through her open brown hair. "I shall go to bed and pretend that I did not just see my only, dearest, and most sensible elder sister impressed by whatever hasty sonnet a man just conjured up at this hour in the night." 

Laurentine bit her bottom lip, the flush on her face completely out of control as she managed a small laugh her sister's statement. 

"Don't you want to see what is in the box?" Laur asked cheekily, handing the card to Manon and gesturing for the maid to put it on her vanity. 

Adelaide stopped in her steps towards the door at her sister's words, halting and turning to shoot Laur a look. 

"Alright then," The girl huffed, her curiosity getting the better of her. "I suppose if it's anything traumatizing than you shall only have yourself to blame." 

Instead of seating herself back on the loveseat, the girl approached with her hands on her hips, looking semi-annoyed and content to stand, as she settled her eyes on the box in inspection. 

Benoit looked at Laur for permission, which she granted with a nod. He bent down then, and started undoing the thick black ribbon tying the golden box. He pulled at it, managing to separate the ribbon and starting to tear through the golden wrapping as cleanly as he could. 

The box itself was a luxurious striped hatbox, and Benoit lifted the lid for Laur. 

Instantly, her eyes met with a rapid fluttering against a backdrop of pure white swirls as Benoit stumbled back in shock, and she gasped. A handful of small butterflies, their wings a blur of blue and brown and golden, gently floated upwards as they were released from the box, spreading out into Laur's bedroom—their presence like glitter in the perfumed air of her room. 

Adelaide gasped, her brown eyes wide with pleasure and shock as she reached a hand forward towards an approaching butterfly, and the creature gently settled itself on the knuckle of the girl's forefinger. 

"Laur," The girl whispered in awe—her previous annoyance all forgotten, her eyes on the butterfly on her finger before she lifted her gaze to look at the other butterflies in the room.

"This is so beautiful!" 

Laurentine's own eyes too were on the beautiful creatures fluttering about in her chambers, before she returned her eyes back onto the contents of the giant box, staring at the beautiful bed of dozens of snow white roses, so pure that she was mesmerized by the sight of them. 

Benoit picked up the box of white roses and sat them down on the edge of the loveseat so that Laur could observe them closely, her heart battering in her chest as she laughed a small laugh in the complete awe that had overtaken her. She leaned over to the flowers, her fingers touching the lacy petals. 

"It is," She managed, extracting her hand back as she watched a butterfly returning to sit back onto the white roses, too attached to the florals to leave. 

"You must be set free, dear creatures," Adelaide gushed, gripping her nightgown in her fists as she hurried over excitedly to the window in her elder sister's room, laughing as she opened the glass. 

"Go be free!" The girl giggled, gesturing the butterflies to the night encased city of Paris outside.