Silent Echo

By then, Xavier was already standing at the window. Not the perfectly serviceable door, mind you, but the half-open window that was clearly being used as an entrance instead.

The curtain that had slipped down rippled quietly across his broad shoulders.

Few people would be out and about at this hour, but if anyone happened to see him standing at her window and reported it to her father, there would be hell to pay.

"Get over here this instant. Xavier."

"Lovely air out here. Not a cloud in the sky."

Dolores stormed over in furious strides and seized the curtain, snapping, "I have no intention of stirring up trouble because of you. Not again……"

"I made a promise. To everyone out there."

Dolores froze. Then she pulled the curtain open again. Sure enough, far beyond the fence, a black carriage stood waiting. It was almost certainly the one Xavier had arrived in—but the problem was the two people standing in front of it.

The man wearing a single-breasted coat that flared at the hem, an arrogant pipe clamped between his teeth, was Dorian. And the woman before him, in a party dress trimmed with delicate lace, was unmistakably Claudia.

"……You."

"What can I say? If the princess of the Artois family doesn't come, there's no party."

Xavier brushed a hand over the back of Dolores's head. At the sudden touch, her lower back went rigid.

"I tried to talk Claudia out of coming with me. Didn't work."

Dolores took half a step back and pressed a hand to her forehead. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"What exactly did I do?"

"Do you have no conscience at all?"

"I'd love to go looking for one, but there's no time. Claudia's schedule moved up, and we leave tomorrow afternoon. You can be as angry with me as you like—I'll have time to take it—but Claudia won't. If we don't give her a proper farewell, she'll hold it against you forever. After coming all this way, too."

Dolores found herself utterly at a loss for words.

"……You're despicable."

"Claudia and I are only doing this because we adore you."

"No, you're the despicable one. This is a lie, isn't it?"

Xavier flung the window wide open and waved the flame of an oil lamp toward the distance. From the shadow of the far-off carriage, Claudia raised a hand in return.

"Come outside. We'll talk it through, nice and slow."

When she had first met him, she never could have imagined that boy would grow into a young man like this.

The newly opened door knocked softly against Dolores's heart.

It was a tremor of a kind she had no name for.

'That was truly extraordinary.'

On the walk home with Madame Marguerite, Dolores asked the same questions over and over. About the Bransen family. About the boy who had first carved that name into her memory.

"He was impressive, wasn't he—the musical prodigy of the Bransens. Xavier, that boy, is already rather well known in music circles. It was my first time hearing him perform, though…… Apparently he's been under Madame Roux's care for some time now."

'Xavier.'

"That's right. The boy's name is Xavier."

'Xavier Bransen.'

Dolores kept walking, her gaze drifting down toward the ground.

Onto the freshly fallen white snow that no one bothered to trample, she traced the name Bransen in her mind. Bransen. Bransen again.

'Tell me—tell me more. Please.'

After relentless probing, Dolores finally learned that the Bransen family were capitalists who operated a massive textile manufactory under the name of Durand de Morton.

They had come to Aquigneux, Madame Marguerite explained, intending to expand their business into fabric processing and repair. They were prominent figures from a great city called Lange.

She also learned that Xavier Bransen was the second of three brothers, that he had already taken prizes at any number of competitions and contests, and that the Le Havre Higher Music and Dance Academy had extended invitations to him more than once.

'And yet he didn't go?'

"I imagine he has enrolled by now…… well…… It may simply be that it's the holiday season. I'm sure he has his reasons."

The moment Dolores heard that answer, a peculiar ambivalence stirred within her.

It was a strange experience.

It went without saying that such a boy would enter a great academy of music and dance early—and precisely because it went without saying, a vague melancholy settled over her, the kind born from knowing she never could.

The Le Havre Higher Music and Dance Academy wasn't even a possibility for her. Her father would sooner die than permit it, and the tuition alone was astronomical.

'The Le Havre Academy, at my age. I can hardly imagine it.'

Dolores forced the words out lightly, but her voice lost its strength and sank.

'……That's what talent is, isn't it?'

"It is."

'……Must be nice.'

"You never know—if you work a little harder, it could happen to you too. You have more than enough talent yourself. Of course, the real challenge would be convincing your father and mother first……"

In place of an answer, Dolores gave a small bow of her head. She stared down at her worn old shoes trudging through the snow.

With every new footprint she left behind, some nameless, restless feeling grew more distinct.

"If you keep working as hard as you are, and someday you do make it into Le Havre—well, you might just meet that boy there again."

In that instant, Dolores lifted her head half a beat too late, both hands flying to her cheeks.

'It's not like that!'

"Of course. Of course not."

'I mean it!'

Her teacher swallowed a low chuckle.

Dolores, still fidgeting, pressed on. "……How do you know so much about the Bransens, Madame?"

"……We have ties, you see. To Lange."

'Ties?'

"Among Lange's famous artistic salons, there is one called Saint-Germain. It belongs to the Bransen family—they run it themselves, in fact. I performed there several times, long ago. They were the sort of people who respected the souls of artists, much like the Carons did. Demanding, certainly—but being demanding is practically a virtue among patrons."

'Saint-Germain? I think I've heard of it.'

"I'm sure you have."

'Isn't it an enormous stage? You performed there? Madame, you're amazing!'

Madame Marguerite was silent for a moment. Then she looked straight ahead and continued.

"There's nothing amazing about it. Dolores, it's true that where we perform becomes our credentials—but life is not made up of that alone. You won't understand what I mean just yet……"

Just as her teacher had said, the rest of that conversation never really reached her.

The boy's violin filled the heart that walked through the snow so completely that she never even noticed how cold that winter was.

The memory of that day—the salon of Aquigneux's notables she had attended by pure chance—ended, quite literally, as nothing more than a keepsake.

On the surface, nothing seemed to change.

Dolores still attended the parish school by day, and on Mondays and Wednesdays she faithfully slipped away to Madame Marguerite's house behind her father's back, same as always.

It snowed several more times, and the wind grew steadily sharper, but even that remained bearable.

And yet, nothing had stayed quite the same after all.

Dolores had changed.

Her heart, when it came to dance, had grown a little more sincere.

She strove to hold her poses longer than before, repeated each movement one more time, and even after the music ended, she replayed the choreography in her mind, over and over.

She was certainly no genius like the boy from that day—but she wanted to work hard enough to move someone, anyone, all the same.

The third movement of Vagnière's Silent Echo—Écho silencieux—played in her head.

She surrendered her body to the distant music.

A plié, knees bending softly—an arm wave like a swan's, a port de bras. Rising to the tips of her toes, shifting her weight forward, forward. Two turns with her arms spread wide, then a light leap, eyes lifted.

When she danced until sweat soaked through her, Dolores would sometimes imagine the boy standing somewhere far away, at a distance she could never reach.

The boy playing the violin for her, without a word.

Repeating, and repeating, and repeating—like a silent echo.

The second stroke of chance arrived a month later, unannounced, like a devil at the crossroads.

Aquigneux was a town built where two small streams met.

The waterway cutting through the heart of the city was famous for its beauty, and at the fountain square where the two currents converged, a festival called the Singing Spring was held once every year.

It was the season when all of Beloff stirred with the Feast of Saint Philippe.

A small daytime festival honored the saint, and then, from early evening deep into the night, an open-air arts festival carried on until dawn.

The people of Aquigneux played music, recited poetry, and sometimes, for no reason at all, took one another's hands and danced.

Dolores had glimpsed that scene once before—the year she first came to Aquigneux. From far, far away, it must be said.

The reason was the usual tiresome one. Her father was a man who would never tolerate her mingling with commoners.