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John looked with some unease around the brightly lit, spacious room, which served as a kind of ballroom. The dancing had not yet begun, but the musicians were already tuning their instruments, the girls were unfolding their fans, their watchful eyes scanning the room, and the young men were tapping their feet; deprived of the salutary cover, they were, willingly or not, more open in their search for dance partners.
In short, there was an atmosphere of somewhat nervous but also hopeful anticipation all around.
John stood completely alone, which seldom happened to him at parties, and this only intensified the unpleasant feeling in his chest. He knew very well that it was rather childish, this desire for someone to take an interest in him, for God's sake, in a crowd of people, most of whom, to his amazement, he did not know. Earlier, for lack of anything better to do, he had watched Naville circulating among his guests; he knew his friend and his tricks well and quickly realised, without much surprise, that Naville himself did not know many of these people. The only question was where he got them from. But dear, splendid François, for all his many virtues, had one great weakness, which happened to be a certain Louis De Végobre: and since John's two wonderful friends were currently at war after a quarrel over some meaningless trifle, it was likely that this lavish party was just François's poorly conceived idea to make Louis jealous.
Laurens smiled slightly despite himself. Oh, what delightful fools he had for friends! François had asked him to invite Louis because, "you understand, John, if I approach him now, he'll bite me like some kind of vicious serpent". Louis, in turn, graciously declared that he intended to attend, then asked with an apologetic smile if he would be so kind as to convey this information to François, because "really, John, he would be happy to bite my head off when he sees me." And so it was that John became his friends' personal Mercury.
As he recounted this to Francis with amusement but also a hint of despair, his friend simply grinned:, flashing his white teeth, and said cheerfully:
"Well, good luck."
"Aren't you going to help me with this uncomfortable status quo?"
"No. I've already told Naville that, unfortunately, I won't be coming. I don't have time; but give my regards to both the host and his... guest of honour."
"Oh, but how can that be? Mr. Kinloch, you're dreadfully cruel!" John whined in a childish manner.
He spent the rest of the afternoon complaining and pleading, but Francis was unyielding; only a hint of a mysterious smile would occasionally cross his lips, as if he were plotting something.
And so it was that John now found himself at Naville's ill-fated party, more out of a sense of duty to his quarrelling friends than for his own pleasure.
Without Francis, with his mischievous smile, boyish pranks and natural charm, everything he did seemed to lose its flavour. His dearest friend (for Kinloch fully deserved that title) was like refreshing water to a man in the desert, like the sun peeking out from behind the clouds on a cold autumn day. Sometimes John wondered how he had lived before Francis burst into his life with his characteristic vigour - and he couldn't find an answer.
It frightened him a little, this desperate dependence; what would he do with his life if Francis were suddenly gone?
A cold shiver ran through him when the thought occurred to him. Why would he be gone? They were both young, healthy, with their whole lives ahead of them.
Yes, said a quiet voice in his head. But the paths of friends often diverge when philia love humbly bows its head and gives way to the fiery passion of eros. John caught himself frowning angrily; he already resented this insidious emissary of Venus, who would one day come between him and Francis and separate them.
He remembered with a painful sting in his chest their conversation about women, from a time when they did not know each other very well. They were alone, completely alone after an exhausting series of exams, and both too drunk for their own good; perhaps that was why Francis began the conversation with a bravado that was completely fake.
"She must be of a bright beauty," Francis confessed with drunken solemnity, as if he were telling John his most sacred secret. "You know, golden hair like... like rays of sunshine, eyes like the boundless sky on a hot summer day, a straight nose, small, charming lips that beg to be kissed... For God's sake, I'm hardly a poet, Jack, but you understand, don't you?"
Francis said no more and just swallowed quickly. John was silent too, with an unpleasant feeling clutching at his heart. Now, in the ballroom full of laughing guests, that feeling returned. Melancholy, bitterness and something stronger - not dislike, but hatred for this hypothetical woman.
"Jack, good to see you!" Taken out of his dark thoughts, John turned towards the voice; François Naville, out of breath and frantic, was smiling at him. "I thought you weren't coming!"
"Why wouldn't I come?" John took his first sip from the glass, which he had until that moment only been idly playing with.
"Francis," Naville replied briefly but playfully. "It's such a shame he couldn't come. Really, such an infernal luck!"
John frowned. There was something strange about François' tone.
"Naville, are you up to something?"
"What?" asked Naville, the picture of innocence.
"Oh, never mind," sighed John, then changed the subject. "How's Louis?"
François beamed.
"We've reconciled, " he said cheerfully. "We were terribly stupid, that's true, but we're learning from our mistakes."
Laurens just smiled condescendingly at this naive statement, well aware that soon the two would be squabbling once again. It was simply the natural course of things, like the tides.
"I hope you'll have fun even without Francis," Naville said with a wink, then kissed John playfully on the cheek. Before John could ask where this sudden burst of cheerfulness had come from, the host turned to leave and entertain his guests — but stopped in his tracks with a very mysterious look on his face.
"Oh, and John? I'll want to introduce you to someone later. I'm sure you'll be delighted."
Laurens watched him with some amusement, and then François was swallowed up by a sea of guests buzzing with anticipation, and John was alone again.
He realised that he should withdraw if he wanted to avoid dancing—and he most certainly did. Entertaining giggling, giddy girls was not high on his list of things he wanted to do that evening. Once again, his chest burned with a childish ache of longing. Together with Francis, they would have withdrawn à l'anglaise from the room, away from people, and talked and joked together, or simply sat in friendly silence until the end of the ball. And even if there was no secluded place, they would have found a way to have fun together anyway.
He finished the rest of his wine and leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. Perhaps his dearest friend would emerge from the darkness behind his eyelids.
A sudden rustle of heavy dress sounded surprisingly close to him. John desperately begged mentally the lady, whoever she was, to leave and not stand suggestively next to him, waiting for him to ask her to dance. He simply did not have the strength for this kind of charade.
"Good evening, Mr. Laurens," said a quiet but unmistakable voice almost at his ear, and John almost jumped. How vivid his imagination was!
He opened his eyes.
It took him a moment to be sure that the face before him, covered in paint and blush, really belonged to that person, but once he realised, he felt a cold sweat on his brow.
"F-Francis?" he whispered in horror and shock. "What are you... What...?"
"Oh, Mr. Laurens, you must have mistaken me for someone else!" said the person who was undeniably Francis, cheekily, with a playful sparkle in those beautiful green eyes. "I am Miss Frances Kinloch."
"You madcap!" John's panic did not ease. "This is madness!"
"Oh, don't worry. No one even looked at me."
"Maybe no one looked, but someone will soon, and then..."
"Indecent Mr. Laurens, are you trying to tell me that I am a pleasant sight for the eyes?"
"No, for God's sake!"
Behind them, they heard the quick footsteps of feet clad in high-heeled shoes with fancy buckles polished to a shine; the happy owner of said footwear grinned at John a little too cheerfully.
"I see you've already met the lovely Miss Kinloch," he chuckled, and John suddenly understood.
"Is this the person you wanted to introduce me to?" he said in a feverish, wheezing whisper. "You planned all this!"
"Well, to be honest, yes. We were sure you would have a most enjoyable time with Miss Kinloch."
"Mr. Naville," smiled 'Miss Kinloch', covering his lips coyly with the fan. "You flatter me!"
"Oh, I am only speaking the truth. Your company brightens any room, even one as humble as mine.”
While those two were assuring each other of their greatness with feigned seriousness, trying to stifle the Homeric laughter, John nervously wrung his hands.
"You're beefheads, the two of you"
"The three of us, to be precise. Louis was a bit involved too."
"I thought you were at odds?" John asked with acerbity.
"We were," François's carefree cheerfulness seemed absolutely appalling to Laurens, given the circumstances. "But there are matters of lesser and greater importance. Lou helped us find the fan and necklace right before the ball. But," here Naville clapped his hands eagerly, "my good sir, you are neglecting your duties as a gentleman! Here is a lovely lady waiting for her first dance, and you stand there with an expression so gloomy that she might be frightened and run away!"
Francis couldn't contain himself; he almost doubled over with laughter. A passing man gave him a concerned look, and John felt himself sweating, praying that the gentleman wasn't looking too closely.
"I'm sorry, sir... my, ahem, my partner is feeling a little unwell," he mumbled a hasty excuse, putting his hand on Francis's back as he would have done if his friend weren't pretending to be a woman, then realised how it must look in the current situation and jumped back as if scorched, overcome with even greater embarrassment.
"'Your partner', huh?" Francis looked disgustingly pleased. "Come on, Jack, let's keep up appearances!"
"I don't like the minuet," John complained to no one in particular and, of course, was ignored. Suddenly, he realised that the whole thing wasn't as unpleasant to him as he was making it out to be. The thought struck him like lightning, and all he could do was lead Francis by the hand onto the dance floor. Their fingers brushed each other ever so gently; a completely different kind of touch than a friendly handshake, strong and matter-of-fact. John had to reluctantly admit that Francis was good at playing the role of his partner.
They stood facing each other. A quick glance at the couple next to them reassured John; the pair seemed completely absorbed in one another, their cheeks flushed and their eyes like stars.
They maintained a solemn silence during the first steps of the dance. It always took John a moment or two to relax and allow his limbs to move to the music. Besides, he had no intention of showing that idiot that he was no longer angry with him for his crazy feat.
But when he looked up, Francis (Miss Frances, Miss Frances, remember!) was looking at him so tenderly — a little mockingly, a little fondly — that it took his breath away. He couldn't pretend anymore.
"Miss Kinloch, I am most impressed by your dancing skills," he whispered as they drew closer and he took the dear hand that had wielded a rapier just the day before. "Such grace!"
"Are you mocking me, sir?" Francis asked sweetly, glancing at him from under his eyelashes (Laurens told himself that his faster heartbeat at that moment was due to the fact that they were walking a little too slowly and had to speed up in a less than dignified manner to get into their place among the other pairs)
"Not at all, my lady. You are..." but at that moment they parted again and he did not have time to finish.
He smiled with a hint of malice as he watched Kinloch try to maintain his grace while hopping in his voluminous skirt. He had made his bed, now he had to lie in it.
They bowed to each other (Kinloch nearly forgot and made a sweeping masculine bow, but stopped just in time). As they slowly approached each other, lightly, on their toes, John noticed that Francis was biting his lips, red from the vermilion, in concentration.
"What were you planning to say?" Francis asked, his voice slightly breathless. The skirt swirled around him with a rustle, the sounds of Handel's music seemed to fade, and Laurens felt himself losing his breath too, even though he was capable of dancing faster and more demanding dances than the minuet. Truly, something strange was happening to his chest that evening!
"Do you really need to know, mademoiselle?"
"Indeed I do!"
"Then I will say it boldly: you are like the rose-fingered Aurora, as bright as she."
Francis snorted quietly. John wondered if it was just the play of light that made it look like...
"Or perhaps," John pondered aloud, and suddenly his thoughts were miles away from Naville's ball - in the inky darkness and silence, at a table strewn with books, staring at the profile of the pensive Francis. Funny thing, he missed Francis a little, even though he was right in front of him. "Perhaps you resemble the proud Minerva, with a spear in your hand, a helmet on your head, and the fire of wisdom in your eyes?"
No, John concluded. It wasn't just a play of light - Francis really was blushing. What an astounding feeling came over him at that moment! A peculiar triumph and happiness that made his legs suddenly wonderfully light. Part of him felt that this was no longer a foolish joke, but had become - he wasn't quite sure - some kind of task.
"Dear sir, you are choosing an unusual path to my heart. Wouldn't it be easier to call me Venus and enjoy a simple victory over a conquered heart?"
"Where is the pleasure in a simple victory? Oh, well, my point is - you are Venus, Minerva, and Aurora, but I don't really care about those parts of you, because above all else, you are yourself, Francis."
And so it happened; the real name slipped out of his mouth, a crushing finale of their playful game.
"Frances," Kinloch corrected him gently and without much conviction. John clenched his teeth. Their hands were now brushing against each other, their gazes intertwining, but he knew that soon they would have to separate, prisoners of the music being played for them. "I am Frances."
Is that what you want?, John dared to think, but immediately another thought came to him. Is that what I want? Do I need the charming Miss Kinloch in rustling silks, the one I could love?
And suddenly it struck him, in the brief silence between one note and the next, when he had to let go of fingers held in his tight grip: it was too late for deliberation. He already loved Miss-
No. He had not loved Miss Kinloch.
He felt cold. He had been sinning for a long time, so carefree in blissful ignorance, and now that sin had found him like a thief in a dark alley with a knife to his throat.
What if Francis knew? John glanced quickly in his direction, but the white paint and blush made Kinloch's face inscrutable. John suddenly hated Miss Kinloch as much as he hated himself.
They drew closer again, and again their fingers had to touch. John swallowed hard.
"Jack, what are you afraid of?" Francis' voice was so soft that John dared to look into his eyes. God himself must have painted them with the colour of compassion, and Laurens realised that he had to be honest. He owed that much to Francis, his bosom friend. 'Bosom friend'—how bitter those words tasted now!
"You. Myself. Us," he whispered hoarsely, begging God not to make him say anything more, though he knew God had no reason to listen to him, especially now that John had realised the depth of his sin and yet still couldn't stop.
"I'm scared too" - these words should have been comforting - they were alike, Francis felt the same way, he wouldn't turn John in - but they weren't. John wished he could cry, but he wasn't allowed to, not here. If only he could rest his head on Francis's lap! No. His head should rather be put through the noose.
"I wish... I could rip my heart out of my chest and throw it into the fire."
"But you won't do that, my Jack, and you can't change. There's simply no way."
John knew; it wasn't the first time his soul had tasted the hemlock of sin - the miller's charming son, the nameless boy in the church, seen only for a fraction of a second, perhaps even De Végobre with his ash-blond curls and mischievous, wide smile - but this was different. New. Back then, he could pretend he had just imagined it, but now?
Their dance ended abruptly, like a conversation that was both too long and too brief, and they bowed to each other once again. John was engulfed by a sense of relief that he no longer had to look into those sorrowful green eyes; in those very eyes he found the whole world, his whole world.
For a fleeting moment, everything stood still, as if in a dream, and then John fled the dance floor like a battlefield, his hands trembling, his chest pierced by a spear of pain.
It was not Miss Kinloch who followed him.
It was Francis, dearest Francis, the one John loved with all the strength of his desperate affection.