Little Dancer by Melanie Leschallas

Little Dancer by Melanie Leschallas

Author:Melanie Leschallas
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781800181212
Publisher: Unbound
Published: 2022-04-13T16:37:36+00:00


CHAPTER NINE

December 1879

The table in Degas’ studio is covered with beeswax candles. Some tall and thin, some short and squat. The flames are doing a mad dance in a draught from the open door and the sweet smell of beeswax makes Marie think she is in church. As if she should make the sign of the cross to Degas’ mother, there in the picture on the wall behind the table. Madame Degas seems to come alive in the flickering light. Her clasped hands loosen slightly, her dark eyes glow as if she wants to get up from her wrought iron bench at the edge of the tropical wood, step out of her frame and say something. Is she smiling? Marie finds herself smiling back.

She’s been waiting here for five minutes at least, and her hands are still numb. It was the housekeeper, Sabine, who opened the door to her and sent her up.

‘Monsieur Degas is expecting you, mademoiselle.’ Sabine put a strange squeeze on the ‘mademoiselle’ and gave her a knowing smile, as if she was hiding some secret knowledge in the deep crinkles of her kind old eyes.

The butter-coloured wax is oozing onto assorted saucers and plates. Some are almost overflowing. What on earth is Degas up to? Is it some kind of bizarre artist’s ritual? Nothing would surprise her anymore. But what a waste! All these candles burning at once when it’s not even dark yet, when at home they all have to share one measly stump, cradling it from room to room.

She sits down on the chaise longue by the fire to warm her hands and hopes Degas won’t make her pose nude. Paris has been under snow for two weeks and at night she shivers so much she hardly sleeps. She scrunches her toes in her wet boots. The chair is not quite as soft as Amélie’s chair, but if she leant back, she would probably doze off straight away.

The Creature at the other end of the room keeps grabbing her attention, even though she doesn’t want to look at it head on. It is unnerving, seeing a miniature version of herself in clay. The whole armature is covered now. Nobody but Marie and Degas will ever know what lies beneath the surface; it will be their secret. Forever. The thought warms her a little. She’s been coming to Degas’ studio for almost a year and a half now, though it feels like a lifetime and a single day all at the same time. She’s seen the Creature grow from a few rough sketches into a strange metallic monster, she’s watched Degas meticulously flesh out this skeleton and affix the arms so that they extend backwards at the correct angle – she had to hold her arms still for what felt like hours at a time while he fiddled with various sorts of wadding, including part of a mattress he’d found on the street somewhere to create the right impression of musculature at the shoulder. And



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