Work Text:
Veronique closed the door on a distraught René, then collapsed into Pierre's arms. Phryne was gone. René didn't know where she went, or why. He had come to the Sarcelles in the hopes that she would be there. But neither Veronique nor Pierre had seen her in days; not since he'd stormed in and demanded she stop modeling, and she'd left with him to keep the peace.
Veronique also didn't know where Phryne had gone, but she had a good idea why.
Phryne had come to them straight out of the war, her spirit somehow undiminished by what she had seen in the hospitals and medical tents. She had been homeless, penniless, and yet somehow still the brightest and most vivacious light in every room she entered.
Then she met René.
For a short while, she had seemed to shine all the brighter for being young and in love in a post-war world. But little by little, that larger-than-life elan started ebbing, replaced by meekness and complacency. It seemed to shrink even more in René’s presence, but when asked about it, Phryne would hear no word against him. “C’est moi, pas lui,” she’d say, and the discussion would be over. Pierre and Veronique could only watch helplessly as the lively young woman they had known and loved retreated further and further inward.
Now she was gone, and Veronique could only hope that it wasn't too late, that there was enough of that brilliance left to shine through once again. She understood intuitively that Phryne would never come back, not even to say goodbye. This was surgery, and sometimes you had to cut out some healthy tissue to get at the cancer.
"Bon courage, ma petit Phryne," she whispered out to the streets of Paris. "Fais de ton mieux et brille."