Reserved for the Cat

But the critic in Le Figaro would probably never have to face the wrath of La Augustine himself. He probably submitted his work under a nom de plume, and thus was secure from retribution by means of the blanket of anonymity. The only one who was going to suffer in this instance was Ninette, and she had known from the moment when La Augustine began her rampage through the studios and classrooms that if a head had to go beneath the guillotine, that head would not belong to the managers or the ballet master.

As she huddled in the small, stuffy black closet among old rehearsal costumes, brooms, a mop and a bucket, she tried to plan how she should deal with the managers. Should she weep? That might be good. After all, she had done nothing wrong and none of this was her fault! She expected to be demoted to the coryphées again. And that would be hard. She did not know how she could keep the little garret apartment on the salary of a coryphée without augmenting it somehow. She might have to call upon her mother’s artist friends and model for them. And somehow manage to stay out of their beds. If she could keep her head, perhaps she could somehow fit in dancing elsewhere. Perhaps—perhaps she should find another place to live; a smaller room, a cellar instead of a garret, although the idea of the mice and rats and black beetles gave her horrors. Maybe she should . . .

But all these plans came crashing down when Madame Rota came for her. Ninette emerged, blinking in the light, from the closet. The old woman’s face told her that it was worse than she had dreamed. But even she could not have guessed what she had done—until Madame Rota told her.

“Oh, petite, you have done the unthinkable,” Madame Rota said sadly, patting her hand. “La Augustine’s patron was in the boxes, for he was entertaining friends and, once his paramour was safely bestowed on her maids, saw no reason why he should not continue to do so.” She shook her white head in its little black lace cap. “You smiled at him, cherie. And worse, he was taken with you. And worse still—he said as much to La Augustine.” Madame Rota let go of her hand and sighed. “I am sorry, little one,” was all she said. “In the managers’ eyes, the good review would balance La Augustine’s anger at the insults to her in that same review. After all, you scarcely put the critic up to it, and not even she could claim that. But when her patron expresses his admiration—that is never to be forgiven, and not even the director of the company can save you.”

Numb now, Ninette followed the old woman to the office of the director of the company. It was the first time she had entered those august precincts; the office was a jewel box of red velvet and gilt, much like the expensive private boxes in the theater itself. It was as well that she was numb, for the blow was a cruel one, and a final one.

She was fired. Turned out. Ordered to collect her belongings and go.

Not quite thrown out on her ear . . . but the whispers followed her as she changed out of her rehearsal dress and into her street clothes, and the looks followed her too, some pitying, some smug. And at three o’clock in the afternoon she found herself outside the building, as the music from the rehearsal rooms rang out over the street, a mishmash of five or six pianos all playing different pieces at once.

And she hadn’t the least idea of what to do.

Despair gave way to tears; she hung her head to hide them and slowly made her way through the narrow streets to her building, then up the three flights of stairs to her little apartment. Very soon not to be hers at all, for the rent was due and she had no salary to pay it with. Three days was all she had, three days in which to find work. If she could.

A good review of a ballet matinee performance, it seemed, meant nothing whatsoever to the managers of the Folies Bergere, the Moulin Rouge, the Comedie Francais. Patiently or impatiently, the company managers gave her the cold facts; she learned that such a thing could have been a fluke, her one good performance of a lifetime. Or it could merely have been spite on the part of the critic, who used her as a vehicle to lambaste La Augustine. Oh, she could audition—but there were no openings. Not for a mere chorus dancer. And at any rate, this was not ballet, it was a very different style of dance. Had she danced in such performances before? No? Thank you, mademoiselle, but your services will not be required.

The artists were sympathetic, but penniless. No one was buying paintings. The Philistines were on the ascendant. They could not pay her to sit.

At the end of the third day of fruitlessly hunting for a position, she returned to the garret knowing there was only one course left to her . . .