Renee sits in her brightly lit sitting room engrossed in a leather-bound edition of La Dame aux Camélias. A glass vase with long stemmed Cala Lillies and fragrant wildflowers sits upon a hutch below the picture window. She is ensconced in her deep sofa overlooking the elms that line the street below. Discordant patterns are cut in shadow from the tight and jumbled rows of the cemetery beyond. With each page turn she considers and seethes at the subtle portrait of a desirable courtesan. It hits too close to home. Marcus, unaware of the storm he is about to walk into, peers into the sitting room as he passes.
“Ma Cher, shall we plan to attend the ballet at Palais Garnier on Thursday? “
The question coupled with the emphasis on ‘we’ piques Renee’s curiosity.
“Who will be in the entourage attending the ballet?”
“Members of the club, the Brazilian, Santos-Dumont will be there, visitors and dignitaries from the Exposition.
The Paris Company is performing and the program director is a friend. Oh, André and Emilia as well.”
“So, wives not mistresses?”
“Ma Cher, I know not who shall be invited beyond what I have shared.”
“Marcus, I tease, of course I will go.”
“And Bastille Day, the Exposition?”
“I would not miss it.
Oh, Marcus dear, maybe Monsieur Dumont can invite that spritely dancer from the Theroux reception?”
“Maybe.” Marcus says through a thin-lipped smile.
Invitation