The next week flew by far quicker than she had expected. Monsieur Andreu was true to his word. They created an agreement—between M. Zidler, M. Andreu, and Mlle. Aria—for her to remain exclusive to M. Andreu. Anything given to Aria was hers to keep and do with as she saw fit, but she would also receive thirty percent of the total sum for her services. It was a small gesture, but she appreciated it. 

Word had already spread through much of the Moulin Rouge about the arrangement, and Aria had heard a lot of mixed feelings about it. Her own mother was proud since it could lead to her daughter becoming his Mistress—a fancy term that meant Aria would run M. Andreu’s household, so he could focus on business; she would likely bear his children, too.

That entire week, Aria had little time to herself, let alone time to speak with Philip. Their conversations had been nothing but unpleasant.

You know why.

Philip's words and the pained expression on his face haunted her. Aria was certain she knew what he meant, but it was something everyone within the Moulin Rouge knew too well: do not get attached and love only yourself. You can have friends, that's normal, but do not feel attached to anyone else. Not even your own family. They could be here one moment and gone the next. It was a lonely existence. And Aria hated it.

The third day of the week, Aria met with a seamstress, Madame Vallieur, to have dresses tailored to fit the young woman. Mme Vallieur was a wonderful woman, and Philip's grandmother. She was a wise woman and Aria trusted her.

“Grandmother Gigi,” Aria said when they were alone to recount what happened, “am I wrong? Would it have been better to just follow my mother's footsteps?”

"It's too early to tell. You've made your decision besides. It wouldn't do to dwell on it now."

“I suppose not.” Aria fell silent for a moment as Mme. Vallieur measured her back, shoulders, and waist. “Has Philip been to visit you? I know he doesn't like being too far from you.”

“Oh, he visited, but I had to kick him out. He's been sulking.” Mme. Vallieur finished taking measurements and smiled. “I’ll finish your dresses by weeks’ end. I'll arrange for someone to deliver them. Unless you wanted to drag Philip along and finally talk to him?” She had a knowing smile on her lips.

"I haven't been able to see him at all. I doubt he would want to help me."

"Stop it, Ariadne. He'll be there to help you. And on the walk home you two can talk about what you need to talk about. And if it comes to screaming, so be it. It needs to happen."

Aria smiled and nodded. "Thank you, Grandmother Gigi."

“You’re welcome. See you Sunday morning. Eight sharp.”

They kissed cheeks, and then Mme. Vallieur left her room. 

Little time passed before M. Andreu returned. His visits were daily, sometimes many times a day. Aria was becoming accustomed to his presence. "Good morning, M. Andreu," Aria greeted him. She gave a small curtsy to him though she knew he did not like it. Old habits are hard to break, they say.

"I know Mme. Vallieur won't have your dresses finished before Sunday, so Sunday night, I'd like to take you out into Paris. We'll have dinner and attend a play. You'll like it. It's Shakespearean."

"That sounds lovely."

"But, for today, I thought we could go for a walk in the park."

"I hope that's not too dull for you," Aria said.

In three days Aria had learned a great deal about Pierre Andreu. As a businessman, meeting many people and striking up a conversation wherever he went was common. He was charismatic, and some were just compelled to speak with him. But he also liked to go places, no matter the day, the weather, or the company. Aria did not yet have clothes befitting a large social event, so he suggested daylight hour things. 

The first day of their agreement—the day after Philip vanished from her life—he had taken her to the library to read to her hearts' content. It was very enjoyable. And he introduced her to a lot of new authors and genres she didn't know she would like. The second day was a day spent at the Moulin Rouge, in her room, as he seemed to want to inspect her personal things. She did not understand why, but she didn’t have privacy before, so one more person looking did not bother her. And the third day was a day full of fittings and a walk in the park.

"It will be wonderful, I'm sure. I'm afraid that tomorrow and the day after, I will be out of town. But I'm sure you'll keep yourself busy enough. Which reminds me," he presented a small parcel to her, "for you. But I want you to open it tomorrow."

Aria smiled and nodded, setting the parcel on top of her bookcase. "Thank you very much, Mr Andreu."

"Please, call me Pierre."

“Of course,” she hesitated, “Pierre. Let me dress and then we'll be off?”

"Yes, take your time."

Aria had only been wearing a nightgown while Mme. Vallieur measured her. It was the only way she could get accurate measurements. Aria disappeared behind the privacy shade and dressed herself in something suitable for walking around the park.

It took two occurrences for Aria to be even close to comfortable changing her clothes while he was in the room. He couldn't see her, but it was the principle of the thing. She wanted to keep as much modesty, and her sense of dignity, for as long as possible. And she realized after the second occurrence the day before that, perhaps, he was doing this on purpose. How much harder would it be to be naked with nothing shielding his gaze? She supposed it would be far easier in three months. A clever tactic.

"I heard Mme. Vallieur is the grandmother of a stagehand," Pierre said to fill in the silence. He hated long silences.

"She is."

“I did not realize that."

"Grandmot—Mme. Vallieur says he looks like his father, not his mother."

"Do you know her?"

Aria blushed, thankful for the partition so he couldn’t see. "Uh, yes. I'm friends with her grandson."

"Oh."

"I should say, rather, 'I was friends with her grandson.' We lost touch."

"How unfortunate. But you will make plenty friends in much better places than this."

When Aria finished dressing, she stood in front of a small mirror on the wall to put earrings and some small amount of makeup on. "I know the Moulin Rouge is not the most reputable place in Paris, but please remember this has always been my home." Her voice was soft and rather humble. She learned in their first encounter—well, the second—that he liked when she was meek and humble. Innocent.

"Mm." In the mirror she saw him nod in acknowledgment. "You look beautiful."

Aria spun around for him to see her entire attire. "Shall we?"

Aria led the way through the corridors from her room towards the city. It was becoming late morning, almost the early afternoon. Most of the denizens would sleep about now so she took care to keep her steps light so as not to disturb anyone.

A carriage awaited them on the street and took them to a different park where they could walk. It lacked a pond, but it made up for it by how much green there was. So many trees and shrubs and grass all manicured to please the eye. This was not a park for children. It seemed for couples to walk around with little distraction.

"When it nears the summer months, this whole garden is just full of colors as far as the eye can see. It is spectacular. Long ago, I learned to appreciate the blossoms when I came here first before all the flowers bloomed."

"I can imagine; I hope to come back to see it someday."

"Someday." Pierre offered his arm. "Shall we?"

Aria took his arm in her own and strolled with him as they had the first time they'd met. It was peaceful. And for the first time in her life, she felt like more than just a maid or a courtesan or the bastard child of one. She felt like a normal person. As they passed other couples, Aria noted the way the ladies acted. She would have to learn to be just like that, she supposed, if she were to meet other ladies. What if her manners gave herself away? Would M. Andreu—Pierre—want to cancel their arrangement early?

Pierre's hand sliding down to her own brought her back to the present. He didn't hold her hand long, just long enough to bring her focus back before he wrapped her arm around his again.

"May I ask a burning question that may seem improper?" Aria said.

“We're relatively alone. Go ahead.”

"How old are you?"

Pierre snickered. "It's not improper, Ariadne. I'm thirty-seven. And you?"

"Nineteen."

"Hm, younger than I thought," he said with a playful smile. Aria didn't know how to take the comment.

They chatted through the walk. Aria wanted to gain as much information as she could on her new companion. She had three months to decide how she felt about him before shedding her clothes. So far, she liked him.

M. Pierre Andreu, she learned, was a lonely man. His wife, Giselle, had passed away several years earlier trying to bring their child in the world. Days after he lost his wife, he lost his only child, too. So he threw himself into his business. It was a simple shipping business that ran small ships of cargo up and down the rivers, sometimes into London and other English towns. He was an only child and his parents had passed when he was younger, in his early twenties, but that was far longer than he ever expected them to live. His aunts and uncles lived in the south of France but he only visits once every few years. And he's still in contact with his late wife's family, too, since they're living in Paris.

"Her youngest brother, Gerald, has always been interested in the shipping business, so I've been teaching him how I run things. At the moment, he's the best option I have for passing the business down to someone. And I know Giselle would love that, too." 

"She sounds like a lovely woman."

"She really was," Pierre said with a solemn tone. "But no use thinking about that now, hm?"

"Do you—nevermind. I shouldn't ask that..."

"Thank you," he whispered.

The rest of the conversation was full of questions about the shipping business he ran. Why did he get into it? It was his father's business. How long had he been running it? Seven years next month. Was he involved in other businesses? Naturally: he had investments in printing, a sheep farm, and several wineries. By the time her interview had finished, they had made a full circle of the path and arrived back to where they started.

"You are just full of questions, aren't you?" He teased.

"I said I wanted to know you on a 'deep personal level'."

But their arrival back to the Moulin Rouge was a harsh reminder of her true place in life. She was not the wife of a businessman. She was an escort and informant now. Paid to go out and about with Pierre and, with any luck, charm those she meets for information that might be helpful to him, too.

Pierre did not escort her inside the Moulin Rouge. "I have matters that need tending to, but I will return Sunday for our outing then."

Aria nodded. "And I promise not to open the parcel until tomorrow."

"Good girl," he said. As was his custom, Pierre gave her lips a soft sweet kiss before he climbed back in the carriage and drove back to his own home. Aria would make the short walk back to her room and completely decompress from the day. And then around nine, when all the courtesans took their clients to their beds, she would spend an hour or two on the roof, hoping it was a night Philip would be there, too, though he hadn't in quite some time.

With the bitter wind biting at her cheeks, Aria waited until midnight before standing again. She had carried several blankets with her to stay warm and carrying them all downstairs would be far trickier than she thought. Before descending from the roof, she sighed and took a long-lasting look at the city of Paris before her.

"Sunday. We can talk Sunday. And if you don't want to talk, we don't have to. And then I'll know how you really feel. Maybe then, once I know that we're no longer friends, it'll be easier to be what I'm supposed to be? Maybe. Goodnight, Philip."

Aria's eyes glanced at the parcel on the top of the bookcase. She hadn't dressed though it was past the noon hour. She felt bored without a visit from Pierre, and hadn't yet saved up enough money to justify going out into town, not to mention she really had no one who could escort her to town. So she stayed in bed and stared at the ceiling, contemplating her life. But even that got boring after a while.

Sighing as she crossed the room, Aria held the parcel in both hands. It wasn't heavy, maybe just a few pounds. Pierre wrapped it in pretty paper. A shame she was about to destroy it. The small card attached brought a smile to her face.

To put you at ease about Sunday night.

Sincerely,

Pierre Andreu

Tearing the paper from the object in her hands, Aria discarded it on the small table she used for having tea. It was a small book about thirteen centimeters tall and eight or ten centimeters wide. It was at least three centimeters thick. A quick read for someone who had much time on her hands. The leather cover had the word, Etiquette etched into its face. Thumbing through the pages, Aria found chapters dedicated to social events, social outings and dinner parties, and even included proper dress and speech. She quickly concluded that a man like Pierre would not give a gift such as this without the expectation she studies from it. Their arrangement relied on her usefulness as an escort and an informant for his shipping business.