#pierrette costume

[hauntedbystorytelling]

Madame d'Ora ~ A study of Mme. Ellen Fels (sic) in a Pierrette costume designed by Poiret.

Ellen Tels ~ The Spirit of the Dance ~ photos: Madame d'Ora

Shadowland Magazine, January 1922 | src internet archive

related post

[chic-a-gigot]

Le Petit écho de la mode, no. 4, vol. 19, 24 janvier 1897, Paris. 6. Travestissements. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney

1. Fée du houx. Robe en gaze vert tendre semée de haies de houx. Guirlandes de houx posées au corsage et sur la jupe. Touffe de houx dans les cheveux. Baguette dorée avec piquets de houx.

2. Costume de dame anglaise au XVIe siècle. Robe de dessous en satin bleu pâle quadrillé de galons d’or avec cabochons de turquoise au milieu des carrés. Manteau en soie ou velours vieux rouge orné de galon d’or. Manches en satin blanc. Bande de fourrure dans le bas de la jupe. Coiffure en satin blanc avec pierres de couleur autour du fond et une grosse pierre turquoise ou brillant sur le front.

3. Costume de dame italienne, fin du XVe siècle. Jupe en satin rose broché. Corselet velours grenat, manches et robe de dessus en velours mousse bordés galon or. Draperies du corsage et crevés en satin blanc ou rose. Collier perles fines. Petite couronne or et perles au-dessus du chignon.

4. Costume de Pierrette. En satin jaune avec boutons bleu ciel.

5. Costume de clownesse. Robe en satin rose recouverte de gaze verte. Manches gaze verte et rose alternées. Papillons de paillettes brodés sur le corsage et sur la jupe. Gants et bas noirs. Papillons sur les souliers en satin rose. Papillon voltigeant au-dessus de la tête au moyen d’un fil de laiton léger.

6. Costume de Suissesse, fin du XVe siècle. Corsage velours noir à chemisette satin jaune. Jupe soie bleu paon avec bande satin jaune bordée galon argent. Chapeau feutre gris avec plumes bleues et jaunes. Las noirs, souliers cuir bleu.

—

1. Holly Fairy. Soft green gauze dress strewn with holly hedges. Garlands of holly placed on the bodice and on the skirt. Tuft of holly in the hair. Gold wand with holly stakes.

2. Costume of an English lady in the 16th century. Underdress in pale blue satin squared with gold stripes with turquoise cabochons in the middle of the squares. Old red silk or velvet coat adorned with gold braid. White satin sleeves. Strip of fur at the bottom of the skirt. White satin headdress with colored stones around the bottom and a large turquoise or sparkly stone on the forehead.

3. Italian lady's costume, late 15th century. Brocaded pink satin skirt. Garnet velvet bodice, sleeves and top dress in foam velvet edged with gold braid. Draperies of the bodice and crevés in white or pink satin. Fine pearl necklace. Small gold crown and pearls above the bun.

4. Pierrette's costume. In yellow satin with sky blue buttons.

5. Clown costume. Pink satin dress covered with green gauze. Alternating green and pink gauze sleeves. Sequin butterflies embroidered on the bodice and on the skirt. Black gloves and stockings. Butterflies on pink satin shoes. Butterfly fluttering above the head by means of a light brass wire.

6. Swiss costume, late 15th century. Black velvet bodice with yellow satin blouse. Peacock blue silk skirt with yellow satin band bordered with silver braid. Gray felt hat with blue and yellow feathers. Black wearers, blue leather shoes.

[frogteethblogteeth]

Pierrette, by Madame Elizabeth Handley-Seymour, London, England, late 1910s

[princessofclowns]

Hollywood 1242; ca. 1930s; Ballet Costume for Misses & Girls. Pierrette, Fairy and Columbine costumes have full circular skirt joining a fitted bodice with camisole top. Skirt is either 3 layer or 6 layer. Hat, cap, wings and ruff included. 10 pieces. Unprinted pattern.

Still featured in Hollywood Patterns, November 1940

(Source)

[askthecircusclown]

Day one and day two!

Clownsona and nostalgia!

[eyenaku]

please tell about pierrot

holy shit this is gonna be maaaaddddd long i love you bryt

oh kay so. if u want easy to digest ver see my pierrot posters but ill go. bonkers and be abnormal and give u so much info under cut except i physically cant write serious tone rn so srry

picture this. it's the 16th century and commedia dell'arte is going nuts in italy everybody loves to watch silly little guys- one of which is the stock character pedrolino!! he doesn't wear a mask (unlinke many commedia characters) and has a loose white outfit, with ruff, cap, and large buttons down the centre of his shirt. he's a naive little guy- he's unlucky in love but it's endearing!! jovial! the youngest character!! pedrolino specifically is comedic and silly and happy!

ok now it's the 18th century and commedia dell'arte starts spreading across western europe. when it hits france, pedrolino becomes pierrot. pierrot being a diminutive of pierre, with -ot acting similarly to the spanish -ito which makes words smaller, often in the context of youth and endearment. in english, his name would be something like "petey" or "little pete". pierrot stays as a silly little guy, still the youngest role and a sideshow comedian, but don't you worry because he quickly becomes the sopping wet sad clown you know and love.

19th century comes along and BOOM. pantomine goes crazy in france and england. ppl cant get enough of watching these silly guys interact. jean-gaspard deburau, a famous mime, creates a rendition of pierrot during his time at the theatre des funambules, which becomes the stereotypical one everyone thinks of when they hear the name. he's pathetic, he's hopefully in love with columbine.

wait what? he's pining?? he's not being silly doing gags anymore? u heard that right folks there's a new storyline and it's a weird love triangle thing sorta kinda?? the melancholy recharacterization came with a new typical storyline of unrequited love between pierrot and columbine (columbine being his wife who is cheating on him with harlequin), though the story varies (sometimes they are not married, sometimes she is married to harlequin, etc). n e ways da general premise is that pierrot loves columbine, columbine loves harlequin, and harlequin loves columbine, so they both long for her affections and pierrot is a sad sopping wet lil bitch boy about it. very silly im love him anyways

oh yea deburau's super duper famous pierrot also switched up his costume- he got rid of the frilly collar/ruff (booooo tomato), gave him a skullcap instead of a hat, and made his blouse n trousers really big n wide-cut. he was no longer crude, timid, lazy, greedy, etc. etc. but rather a POET. a theatre kid. a melodramatic thing.

with pierrot being so intertwined to harlequin, naturally he was a pivotal character in the harlequin-centric "harlequinades", plays popular in england. however pierrot got displaced by the english clown :( dw tho he stayed popular in france

ok late 19th early 20th century. pantomime/commedia dell'arte makes a comeback????! oh em gee. new plays. many books of poems. 1884's pierrot lunaire saga was particularly famous, and was used as lyrics to a full orchestra composition. these poems are generally regarded as the first strong association between pierrot and moon motifs but they were seen before (supposedly around the deburau period) as a way to show he was "over the moon" in love with columbine.

oh yea pierrette also starts to exist during this time period. literally just female pierrot, who's sorta a rival for columbine but sorta not really? she's like. in love with pierrot, who's in love with columbine, who's in love with harlequin. they're all rlly dramatic about it. nobody wins (except columbine and harlequin lmaooo). they're both sad face emoji all the time and super melodramatic real for real.

ok now it's the 1920s. MORE PIERROT RESURGENCE. ppl in the 20s LOOOVEEED pierrot and pierrette. bibleots- french trinkets were super popular and were often pierrot/pierrette motofed, usually with moons. they were figurines, boxes, decanters, bookened, lamps, all sortsa stuff. their designs are a mash-up of all the previous iterations, typicalls looking very much like deburau's version but with a very prominent ruff added (WOOOOOOOO RUFF YAY) the modernism movement (art) has him as a reoccurring subject (picasso and dalí r some famous modernist artist who painted/drew him).

even charlie chaplin was a pierrot- little tramp, his most famous character and what u think of when u think of him was described in his biography as a type of pierrot.

david bowie described himself as a pierrot ! ! ! ! ! TWIGGY PLAYED A PIERRETTE IN HER FIRST MOVIE!! ggrarhhh

21st CENTURY HATSUNE MIKU PIERROT SONG. PIERROT IN FASHION.... pierrot was called a symbol for th epresent during covid...

anyways y yea im a huge fan. im abnormal about pierrot. thas a brief history. mwah kisses xoxo

oh also im making a game rn. commedia inspired. pierrot is in it. hoo ray

[naezhaze]

Clowns (ref at the bottom) 11/21/2022

[signedjehanne]

FULL DOLL COLLECTION TOUR TIME!!!

(ID at the end)

names of the dolls, in order of appearance:

1. victoria

2. sapphire

3. gloria

4. melora

5. manon

6. pierrette

7. julia

8 and 9 are unnamed

i have personalities and backstories for each of them but i’m too tired to explain rn, i will in a later post

[image description: eight images of various dolls. the first doll is pale skinned, medium sized, with historically styled ringlets in her hair and a lavender dress. the second doll is small, pale-skinned, with brown puffy hair and a white lace dress that has a blue-green sash. the third doll has pale skin, has her hair covered by a brown bonnet and is wearing a mint green dress with brown accents. the fourth doll has pale skin, puffy 1950s styled brown hair, with a white satin bow in her hair, wearing a white tulle dress with a white satin cape. the fifth doll has pale skin, is dressed in a shiny purple and gold jester outfit, has a sly smirk on their face and is wearing heavy makeup. the sixth doll has pale skin, is wearing a light pink shimmery clown costume with a white tulle collar, has no hair and is wearing heavy mime-style makeup. the seventh doll is a pale skinned pierrot, wearing a white satin clown outfit that has red accents, and is wearing heavy makeup with black eye paint, bright red blush, and red lipstick. the eighth doll is a russian nesting doll, with pale skin, brown hair, wearing a pink dress with small blue dots, a blue apron, and a blue bow in her hair. the final doll is also a russian nesting doll, with pale skin and black hair, wearing a yellow headscarf and a yellow dress with watercolor orange flowers that have green leaves on it, the base of the doll is red. end ID]

[aqueervenus]

The Boy Friend (Directed by Ken Russell, 1971)

[hauntedbystorytelling]

Giannina Censi in costume da Pierrot in "Il Carillon Magico" di Pick Mangiagalli al teatro San Carlo di Napoli, febbraio 1933 | src MART · Fondo Giannina Censi · Archivio del '900

view more on wordPress

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode illustrée, no. 4, 27 janvier 1884, Paris. Pierrette (coiffure de déguisement). Modèle de chez M. Camille, rue du Quatre-Septembre, 6. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney

[fawnvelveteen]

Pierrette in Black, Lovely RPPC dated 1921, probably from Croatia

[shewhoworshipscarlin]

Pierrot and Pierrette fancy dress costumes, early 1920s.

[cashewally-sarcastic]

The Commedia Dell’Arte infodump

So there were a lot of characters in Commedia Dell’Arte, but they had four stock character groups. These groups were Zanni, Vecchi, Innamorati, and Il Capitano. 

Zanni was for servants and clowns. Some of the characters in this group are Arlecchino (aka Harlequin), Brighella, Scapino, Pulcinella, and Pedrolino!

Vecchi were wealthy old men or the “masters” group, and some characters in this group were Pantalone and Il Dottore.

Innamorati were young upper-class lovers, with names like Flavio and Isabella, very fancy names.

Il Capitano were self-styled captains or braggarts, and if female they could be like La Signora.

Certain characters also had certain masks with their costumes, but women were never masked. Instead the women would have powdered faces or wear a lot of makeup. But besides masks, every character had a distinct costume to tell the audience who they were. Some of them had tight-fitting jacket, others had whole military uniforms. Also characters all had different regional dialects to give a bit of variety to the play.

A list of well-known characters, or at least characters you may have heard the names of are: Pierrot and Pierrette, Pantalone, Il Dottore, the Innamorati, Colombina, Pedrolino, Pulcinella, Sandrone, Scaramuccia/Scharamouche, La Signora, Tartaglia, and Arlecchino/Harlequin.

So now I’m gonna talk about two of the well known characters from above, but if you want to know about others let me know :)

Two characters I want to talk about:

First up is Arlecchino, or Harlequin. Same person, don’t worry. Arlecchino did wear a mask, and his status was a servant, sometimes to two different masters. Their costumes was usually a colorful jacket and pants that were...very tight. Arlecchino was known for his physical agility, and would spice up movement. He didn’t have much of a solid character, either being an idiot or a smart trickster, though sometimes it’s said that he acts dumb on purpose. Arlecchino originally spoke in a Bergamo dialect, but eventually got a mixture of french and italian when the character itself became a fixture in france. As for what role Harlequin played, he was altered a lot to be in many roles. Sometimes he was the love interest of Columbina, or sometimes pursue the innamorata, with almost no success. He’s known to try to win any given lady for himself, and is very...well, he really wants to adult cuddle with any lady he sees.

The other character I’ll talk about is La Signora, which means “the lady”. She didn’t wear a mask, but would wear a LOT of makeup. She wore a lot of jewels, too much hair and too many flowers, she was very fashionable and over the top. La Signora was the wife of Pantalone, but was also involved with Pedrolino. She was known to be calculating and beautiful. But considering she was a woman in the 16-18th century, she would sometimes be a “courtesan” (read: high-class prostitute), and could get her way into the house of any man, usually Pedrolino or Pantalone, and Pantalone would usually be cucked. But unlike Harlequin, La Signora usually has an aim for her character, and it’s mostly material wealth. More jewels, dresses, all of that. She would scheme to get these things, giving her that “calculated” trait. She would also be attracted to Il Capitano, her male counterpart, and they want to be together. But she’s always married to Pantalone, and she cheats on him a lot. She’s also known to have a fight with another woman, she’s not afraid to ridicule others.

[askthecircusclown]

There she is pierrette Halloween costume

[queerchoicesblog]

La Vie Bohème

Hiya, folks! So, as previously announced, the wlw writing project continues after a break with a miniseries set back in the City of Lights - & Love - at the time of the Belle Epoque, at the turn of the century.

The story of Élodie and Léa continues: what’s next?

Next chapter out on Monday, I think!

TRIGGER WARNING: mentions to homophobia, reference to sexual activity (if you are a minor or it bothers you in any way, you have been warned)

Tagging: @scottishqueer​

Previous chapters: Paris, Paris ; One Night At The Moulin Rouge , The Handkerchief, The Cage of Fools

Hope you enjoy it: if you do, please consider spreading the word!

_______________________________

The following day I wake up late, around lunchtime. My roommates are all out: Marie left me a note saying she's out for a walk with Alain. Poor Marie, what a concerned look she gave me last night when she saw me sneaking inside our room without my coat! I had to craft a wild story to justify my attire and being so late. I can only hope she believed me...at least, she didn't ask too many questions. I head to the kitchen and warm up the stew leftover my friend saved for me. The events of the night are blurred, they waltz together in a haze: the Moulin Rouge, the Cage of Fools and the jigs I danced with Élodie, her perfume, her laughter, the violet a gallant admirer sent me, then the gendarmes, the clash of their batons, our mad run. The sad look on Élodie's face, the little kiss she pressed on my knuckles parting.

I wash myself and head out for a walk too, wrapping myself in the only other coat I have, much lighter than the lost one. My neighbourhood is certainly not renewed for attractions but it's Sunday and everyone is out to enjoy their day off. Some kids almost collide with me while chasing each other while an old lady nearby invites every passerby to try her apple tart, cheap and decadent, she repeats. Last night was the wildest night I've ever had in my whole life. After the initial embarrassment, I felt incredidibly...happy. I felt like floating on air when Élodie spun me in her arms or when we had a toast at our new friendship. Why did it end so soon? Who called the gendarmes and why they wanted to arrest those people who were just having fun? I don't get it...people crossdress every day now on the stages of cabaret theatres and no one ever complains. Their acts receive thunderous applauses and some artists have adoring fans every night. Why is it so different to call for a mass arrest? The men and women at the Cage of Fools were just doing what popular crossdress artists do: singing, dancing, making sure everybody was merry and bright. Was it because of the two men kissing a few tables away from where we sat? Nobody cared there, I didn't care, honestly. But now that I think of it, that might be the cause. Crossdressing performers never kiss each other on stage. I walk up to a hill into a second hand marketplace, hoping to find a replacement for my old coat I can afford. Could it be that my friend Élodie is a...how do they call them? A sapphic? I heard the word for the first time when I worked as a maid at the uncle Yves' client house. Madame pronounced it with ill grace, speaking of one of their acquaintances while I served breakfast. When I went back to the kitchen, I asked the cook the meaning of the unknown word, that I assumed a fancy insult: my masters wanted to play the role of the rich and the rich don't share the same language with us commoners. They invent new words, more fitted to their uptown world, not tainted with the smell of the street. The lady got all red and threw me a cloth, scolding me for eavesdropping a conversation and warning me to mind my own business. Needless to say my curiosity ran wild and I finally got an answer a few days later when I asked to the maid of a visiting guest. Could it be? The following week is pretty eventful: an important commission and Marie receiving a letter from home, urging her to go back to Aergenteuil to help assisting a sick relative. They would have never asked, knowing all the trouble that would cause her, if they could have done otherwise, her parents wrote. Marie is very close to that aunt and she sobbed in my arms at the thought of losing her and the job all at once. It took time to me and our roommates to comfort her. I told her that she didn't have to worry about the job: we will talk to the girls tomorrow and we will cover for her during her absence. If most agree to help, it will only mean a few extra hours each. Luckily, Marie is well loved at work so things run relatively smoothly, despite the boss' evident contempt. She profuses in an endless series of thank you and praises when I walk her to the carriage station at dawn before heading straight to work. We hug and I give her a tiny slice of that cheap and decadent apple tart the old lady sells at the crossroad. A little treat for the journey home, the only one I can afford. "You're a true friend, Léa. I will never forget this" she says, eyes veiled with tears before taking her seat on board. As the carriage disappears from view, I realise it's the first time we are separated from each other since we first met. Predictably, I end up missing her: we've been around each other for so long that now not walking back home with her, working side by side and sharing lunch on the staircase makes me feel a bit empty, as if a part was missing. Marcel and Alain are busy with work too as festivities approach fast and I have my fair share of Marie's work to worry about. However, from time to time, when I'm not so tired I only want to touch the bed, I pay a visit to the Moulin Rouge. The first time Élodie spots me, she runs straight into my arms, hugging me tightly: she must have thought she would never see me again after our misadventure with the gendarmes. She lets me assist to the acts backstage and I get to befriend other dancers, now used to see me around. I even fix their costumes if they get damaged during the performance. I do it gladly, even if it adds up to my daily amount of work. I usually gets cheek kisses or champagne as payment but sometimes, despite my deflections, they drop some coins into my hand, arguing that the Moulin Rouge tailor is half as good as me. When it happens, instead of saving them, I go buy a dinner at a bistro nearby with Élodie. I'm always starving but she never makes jokes of me for that. I tell her about Marie and the extra hours and, in return, she pretends not to be so hungry and offers me her slices of bread or some mashed potatoes "she won't eat anyway". We talk for hours, until I can keep my eyelids open. We start seeing each other more often. I must admit it's relatively easier now that I don't have to worry about bothering Marie and my friends are busy. Only my roommates look at me differently: I'm positive they suspect I have a secret lover. Now my day off is split between a little work at home in the morning and Élodie. We stroll down the Tuileries Gardens, arm in arm to protect each other against the cold. Élodie loves this place: she doesn't care it's overly popular, to her it's a testament to the the beautiful things people can create, an urban Eden. Who am I to contradict her? The Palace in the distance, the trees, the quiet murmur of the Seine nearby...it's rather gorgeous. One day we bump into a couple of her friends of the Cage of Fools. I could barely recognise gracious Pierrette in her male clothes. She goes by Pierre during the day. "Amélie" the other woman says, offering a hand to shake and I recognise one of Élodie's friends who were playing cards. "We've already met but I don't think I properly introduced myself". I assure her that I remember her. Then, lowering my voice as if I don't know if I can speak freely about it, I ask them about the fate of the Cage. Pierre/Pierrette frowns, she's one of the owners and had a hard time being released by the gendarmes after the arrest. The bar and ballroom is still closed, the authorities denies a reopening. They're planning a night incursion to retrieve all the lost goods, if there's any left. But so far it's hard to tell what will be of the Cage. Then, noticing my sullen expression, she adds: "It will open up again, darling. It's Paris, Pigalle: places like this always rise from their own ashes. We just don't know when and how" We all share a weak smile. The silence is broken by Élodie. "I was thinking of throwing a little party at my place to cheer up the mood" "At your place? But how?" Amélie inquiries, skeptic but intrigued. "A roof party, so there will be space for anyone. We can lit some fires to keep warm. You're all invited and I will ask some girls at the Moulin. A little feast to forget about our sorrows" True to her word, the next week, when I receive a letter from Marie informing me of her upcoming return, she proudly announces me that the party is happening: it's on Saturday night after the act at the Moulin. "Will you be there?" she asks, taking my hand into hers. The sudden gesture draws a smile on my face. We now seat together in bars and bistros very different from the Cage of Fools and I've come to miss casual touches like this. We've been very careful since that raid, especially Élodie. "Of course, I will" I nod over a steamy bowl of soup. She claps her hands excitedly, flashing me a bright smile before scribbling down an address on a scrap of paper she retrieved God knows where. Then she hands it to me. "Don't be late, I'll be waiting for you" Her words colour my cheeks rosy, the warmth in her voice unmistakable. Unsurprisingly, she lives in Monmarte, the artist neighbourhood. I arrive early, afraid to be late. I ate my dinner with great haste once back from work and spent a whole hour getting ready, a detail that -I do not doubt it- cemented my roommates' theory of the secret affair. I washed myself, did my hair up just like Marie taught me, and put on my best dress, which is nothing fancy but I am quite fond of the colour and its lacy sleeves. Once I put kohl on my eyes and some rouge on my lips, I head off into the night. When I finally arrive, I spot some familiar faces in front of the building: Léa's friends. I wave at them and they greet me with affability as if we've known each other for a while. "Good evening, Léa. You're radiant tonight" Pierrette says, kissing both my cheeks. I'm glad to see her back in her female clothes, she even placed a flower in her hair for the occasion. "Élodie hasn't arrived yet, she and the girls must be on their way" Amélie informs me, rubbing her hands. I say that it's fine especially if you're in good company. We chat, hugging ourselves and I discover that they all works as secretaries, bar Pierrette who is "an unsuspecting accountant by day, the best bartender in town by night". Just then, a cheerful choir of voices resounds in the street, approaching. We turn and it's the dancers of the Moulin Rouge. They cheer and wave at us, swaying bottles of wine and champagne raided from the theatre. After a quick round of kisses and loud greetings, we all run up the stairs before catching a cold. Élodie's apartment is messy and rather small for the number of guests attending the party so we quickly take the stairs and head to the roof. The sight is gorgeous: as the others light a couple of fires and one of the dancers harmonises an accordion, I take a moment to admire it. From the top of the hill, Paris lays beneath us like an ocean of light and chimney smoke. An intoxicating combination of misery and beauty I have never seen before. Someone taps my shoulder and I turn to see Carmine, one of Élodie's colleagues, handing me a glass of wine. It's stronger than I expect but I keep sipping it as we chat, grateful to have something to kindle my bones in the cold. A lively tune starts playing and we all share a toast to our host, who performs an exaggerated reverie in full response. The atmosphere is bubbly: some dance, others chat and crack jokes with each other...everyone is in good spirits. I wonder if this is the life my new friend is used to, so careless and free. So different from the one I know. What does she see in me? My ordinary seamstress routine, my life....is a stale dry biscuit in comparison to what she does. I'm saved by the male dance, Laurent, who asks me to dance. I accept: after all, I am here to enjoy myself and he will lead, I only have to follow his moves. As we sway I catch Élodie looking in my direction while chatting with the girls and drinking wine. I have no recollection of how much time we spent there, I remember walking down the stairs arm in arm with Amélie. As some guests take their leave, we gather in the living room and the the tiny kitchen downstairs to keep warm. Laurent produces himself in an impression of Monsieur Ziegler that elicits a general round of laughters. Pierrette and one of the girls sing one last song, a popular duet for the "last ones standing" then say goodbye. When the last guest walks out of the door, Élodie turns towards me. "Stay and help me sinking that?" she asks, nodding at a half empty bottle of champagne. Before I can answer, she's already looking for two glasses. She returns with just one. "You have the glass, I take the bottle" she announces. I laugh at the tipsy note in her voice as she pours liquid ambrosia in my glass. "What?" she chuckles. "Just saying that maybe you should take a seat, mademoiselle" I tease her, guiding her to the sofa. She rolls her eyes and obliges...then at last minute, she pulls me down too. Some champagne sloshes over the rim of my glass but I find a seat beside her. We both giggle. "To the best party host in Paris" I raise my glass. She smiles and mirrors my gesture. "To the most gracious guest, the pearl of Roscoff" We cling our glasses and I blush a little, diverting my eyes. When I look back at here, her eyes rests dreamy on a painting laid nearby on the floor. One of her roommates is a painter, she explains absentmindedly, he finished it yesterday. I tell her she's a real bohemienne, living in the artist quarter with a painter.... "An actress and a music-hall trumpet player. And I'm a dancer myself!" she adds. Then she falls quiet. She smiles to herself, a rather melancholic smile, as if she's contemplating her whole life. "La vie bohème...that's the life I chose" she says after a while. "I've never thought I would achieve that though. I've never thought I would get this far" "How come?" I sit more comfortably and she takes a gulp of champagne before speaking again. She was born in Bordeaux, a place now filled with memories of a lonely grim childhood. Her mother was, is -since she's still alive as far as she knows- a prostitute, who spent more time walking the streets than cuddling her little girl. Sometimes she received clients at home and Élodie ran hiding in the filthy toilet in the garden until they were gone. She never knew who her father was but she likes to think it was a tormented poet or a travelling artist...more likely and ironically, he could have been a gendarme off duty or the spoilt heir of a local noble with a taste for the sordid cheap pleasures the streets of the suburbs offer after dark. Her mother wasn't kind to her -one day when she had a bit too much, she admitted she never wanted a child- but provided for her. She was the one teaching her the can-can. "Decades ago only prostitutes danced like this, now it's different...but I guess it's part of the profession lore, so to speak" she laughs sombrely. "I mean, some girls at the Moulin still do that, dancing and selling their graces to paying admirers. I suppose it's easy to cross the line if you always want more and more and adulation is a weird poison. I don't judge them, if no one is forcing them to do so, they can do what they want...." She turns towards me, placing her hand over mine. I give it a squeeze. "I don't do that, Léa. I don't do that...I saw what that life did to my mother, what it turned her into and when one morning I packed my things and left, I swore to myself to ever do that, even if money was running low, if I could avoid it. I was barely sixteen when I arrived here, alone, in Paris. I was lucky enough to find kind people who didn't take advantage of me...and I...and I started to dance. Dancing gave me freedom" I don't know what made her so suddenly nostalgic, maybe it's the alcohol we had tonight. But her story makes me appreciate her even more: the world has been unkind to her at first, filling her childhood with hardships, but she fought back. She danced away from her misery with ineffable grace and dignity like a brave butterfly. "And now look at you: you're Lila, star of la quadrille" I flash her a bright smile. "I'm proud of you" She laughs softly. "Are you?" "Yes, of course!" I sit a bit straighter, as if it could give my word more authority. "You've faced adversities and you went so far. Only the most talented dancers are allowed to perform in la quadrille!" "You read it somewhere?" "Everybody knows that!" I exclaim, amused and surprised by her skepticism. Then, to prove my point, I hand her my glass and stand. I find a spot clear enough and declare astonished: "Like, I could never dance like you do every night!" And I start mimic the can-can routine at my best, that I'm pretty sure turns out to be a grotesque parody of the real dance. I do it to amuse her and I smile when I finally hear her laughing. She places the bottle and the glass back on the floor and claps her hands, whistling like some spectators do at the Moulin. "What? No, don't clap, that was just silly!" I dismiss her, chuckling. "Well, whatever that was it was...something" she shrugs before bursting into another laughter, softer this time. "Whatever it was? Hear hear, a can-can dancer who doesn't even recognise it!" I make a scene to be offended and throw her a cushion from the nearest armchair. She ducks just in time to avoid it. We both giggle then she stroke her chin and regards me more carefully, pensive. "You have enthusiasm but you lack technique" "Told you I'm a bad dancer" I shrug. The memory of the two of us dancing at the Cage of Fools crosses my mind like a meteor and my heart starts racing again in my chest. "May I?" she says, standing. I nod even if I don't know what she means exactly. I get it when she saunters closer and positions herself behind me. When she gently places her hands on my hips, I inhale sharply. "First of all, you need to loosen up a bit. You're too wooden...sway your hips, like this" She hums the melody of Offenbach and guides my movements so that they match the rhythm. Again, it doesn't take long before I surrender and follow her lead. I don't know how long we sway like this, I must have closed my eyes. I only hear her voice behind me. "See, definite improvement! Now rise your skirt up a little" I freeze and turn towards her. My cheeks warm up and I try to blame the wine I had. "You don't want to trip over your skirt while dancing this, you can hurt yourself" she smiles encouragely. "That's why you do that then...I would have thought..." I shake my head but do as she says. I bend down and reach for the hem of my long skirt then I grab it as I saw the dancers do and lift it up till my the height of my knees. "Well, that's one reason" "I knew there were ulterior motives" I laugh. "The Moulin is not exactly a convent, right? You have to show your legs to the paying audience" she explains, mocking Monsieur Ziedler's voice. "They pay good money for them" "I see no paying audience though" I chuckle, turning my head slightly. "Because you have little imagination, mademoiselle Pearl" she whispers into my ear. Her breath hot on my skin sends a shiver down my spine and my heart pounding against my ribs. "Ready for the gallop? Three, two, one-" "Wait, wait-" Before I can process what's happening, under the lead of Élodie, we gallop from one side of the room to the other, moving laterally like crabs. I understand now: I saw this move over and over during the acts. Élodie gives directions and tells me to sway the skirt as we move. We soon end up laughing again when we almost trip over a tin box on the floor. When we stop, I feel dizzy and lean back against her for sustain. "Enough of that" she announces between laughters. "Now, knee up, girl!" I oblige and start jumping on my other feet. My balance becomes way more precarious. To think that dancers like Élodie make this look so easy...I let out a shriek as I fear of tripping. She encourages me to rise my knee even higher up to my chest. "But I will fall!" "I'll catch you" she reassures me, holding my hips a bit tighter. "C'mon, Léa, a bit higher...higher...yes, like this! You're a natural...and now kick!" I follow her instructions and my kick sends the books on top of a pile nearby flying across the room. It's a miracle they don't land over the painting. "Well, that's one hell of a kick, darling!" Élodie cheers as I lower my leg. Her laughter is contagious, I soon join and we don't stop until we're out of breath. Then I throw my head back and it finds her shoulder. We're still in the same position. I can feel her chest rising and falling against my back and her hands on me. I slowly turn my face towards her and find her looking back at me. We go quiet, trying to catch our breaths. Has she always been so beautiful? This whole time? I remember her cheerfulness, the way she let me spin into her arms and listened to me, resting her chin on her hand at the Cage. How she immediately grabbed my hand at first sign of danger, the tender light in her eyes when our faces were inches apart in that back alley. I decide to do what probably she failed to do that night: I follow my instinct, without thinking twice. I lean forward and brush my lips over hers. A tentative kiss, the lazy stroke of a shy lover. She mirrors my move and our hands move almost at unison: hers around my waist, resting on my stomach; mine over hers, stroking her wrists and intertwining our fingers. The kiss that follows makes me tingle in her arms as a fire erupts underneath my skin. She kisses me again on her own accord this time: it's surprisingly tender and it tastes of rouge, champagne and a refrained passion that finally finds its way. My knees go suddenly weak and I feel dizzy again, lost in our embrace, lost in her. She whispers my name like a prayer and I spin to wrap my arms around her neck and kiss her again. Her hands run up my back, holding me close as if I could run away any minute but there is nowhere else I would like to be now. I cannot refrain a moan when her lips find my jaw and brush over my neck: they burn on my skin and I wish she would never stop. Our kisses become more fervent and fierce as we backpedal down the corridor, bumping into the walls yet uncaring of anything else than the sudden fire consuming us. Élodie pulls me into what must be her room because she kicks the door shut and we soon tumble over a mattress. I fall on top of her, letting out a giggle. I go quiet when I meet her eyes. Illuminated only be the moon light she's the most enchanting vision I've ever seen. Her hair messy and sprawled beneath her, the ruby red of her lips so close I barely refrain myself from running a finger over them. She looks up at me, her eyes gleaming like stars. She reaches out and touches my cheek. She strokes it gently, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. She looks...in awe, vulnerable, adoring. For a moment I wonder if that's what lovers feel when they look at each other, when they lay in each other arms: a sweet ache of the heart, the purest amazement. "Kiss me again" I whisper, begging as a mendicant even if I don't need to. She finds my mouth again and again and runs her fingers through my hair. I place one hand on her chest and I feel her tremble imperceptibly at my touch. She suffocates a gasp against my lips while her heart hammers underneath my fingertips. I whisper her name this time and I kiss her jaw just like she did earlier, mirroring her moves. My hand runs down her side: I'm too lost in her to know what I'm doing. When I feel her knee beneath the fabric, I caress backwards up her tight, rising her skirt. That's when it happens. Élodie squirms and grabs my hand. She breaks the kiss and asks me to stop. Suddenly ashamed of my hunger, I retrieve my hand and prop myself up. My cheeks must turn crimson when I mutter my apologies. "I'm- I'm sorry, I thought you wanted it too" I let her space to move freely. Hiding her face from me, she sits on the edge of the bed for a moment, breathing hard. Then she stands. I sit and try to compose myself. "What I want....that's not the point" she sighs. "What do you mean?" I ask, confused. "Did I do something wrong?" She still gives me her shoulder. When she speaks again, she hangs her head, defeated. "This has nothing to do with you, Léa. God, no, if you only knew..." She sounds on the verge of tears but she must swallow them back because when she turns to face me her voice is less cracked even if she looks in pain. "Léa, I like you. Way more than I should and since the moment I bumped into you and you talked of fireworks. I gave you my handkerchief only as a mere expedient to see you again and you what you did? You turned it into a little work of art for me and you barely knew me back then. You have a kind word for everyone, you're helping your roommate in a moment of need without asking for anything in return. You're a good girl, one of the most honest girl I know and I..." She takes a deep breath before shaking her head forlornly. "You didn't even fully realise what happened at the Cage" I keep quiet for a moment then I speak, keeping my voice low and fiddling with the hem of a sleeve as a kid being scolded: "The gendarmes wanted to arrest everyone because there were...sapphics and men kissing other men. And people like Pierrette there" I say because I don't know if there are words for them that aren't insults. "...Yes" she confirms, meeting my gaze again. Seeing her now, one could doubt the very same girl was laughing and having a blast one hour ago or so. She looks so troubled, her eyes a mix of tenderness and sorrow. Guilt, maybe. "Léa, I...I would spend the night with you. You wouldn't even have to ask me. But-" she grimaces and my heart skips a beat, bracing for the worst. "What will happen when you hear that this is illegal, that people get sent to jail or the asylum -you remember? We joked about the asylum- for things like this? Because the authorities say it's like an...an illness, a taint-" "Why are you telling me all this?" I protest, standing too. "Because that's what happens out there! It took days to get Pierrette out of jail" she exclaims. "I should have never taken you there, I've been such a fool-" "You're a good girl too, Élodie" I interrupts her, reaching for her hand. "Don't tell me you doubt that" She looks down at our hands then meets my eyes, forlorn. "Am I though?" her sad smile pierces through my heart. "I almost got you arrested that night, little pearl. What would have your boss or your friends said if we hadn't been fast enough and those gendarmes had locked us in together with the others? You barely knew me back then, you would have hated me and I couldn't have blamed you" "But I don't hate you!" Now I am the one on the verge of crying. "We...we would have found a way out, I'm sure of that!" Élodie smiles at me, a weak pained smile. She retrieves her hand and caresses my cheek. "Maybe we would have, just like in one of those ballads chanteuses sing" she sighs. "But the truth is I care too much for you and so far I've only been a reckless fool, a selfish reckless fool. I could never forgive myself if you-" Words got stuck in her throat and she lowers her eyes for a moment. Then she presses a soft kiss on my forehead. "It's too late to walk the street alone at night. You can stay here tonight and...you can take the bed, I'll take the sofa" Having said that, she walks away. "Élodie, you don't have to...please, stay" I beg, hoping to stop her but when I turn she's already closing the door behind her. I consider the idea of running after her but I soon realise it would be absolutely pointless and I don’t want to make things worse. I stand for a moment, shaken. Then I lay down on the bed still warm of our embrace and look out into the night. The moon that made Élodie look even more beautiful and ethereal is still up there in the sky but now I'm alone. Silent tears rim my cheeks. I lay awake for hours, unable to sleep. For some reason I know that Élodie is doing the same.