Chapter 4 : Family Opposition

## Paris, November 1935 - January 1936

The warning note under Éliane''s door was the first crack in the carefully constructed facade of her secret life. The second came two days later, when her brother Louis appeared unannounced at the Opera.

Louis Dubois was everything Éliane was not—practical, political, fiercely patriotic. At twenty-eight, he had already spent five years working with the nascent French Resistance, though he spoke of it only in vague terms to protect his family. He stood in her dressing room, still wearing his overcoat, his face grim.

"We need to talk," he said without preamble.

Éliane''s heart sank. She had been avoiding this conversation for weeks. "Louis. What a surprise. I didn''t know you were in Paris."

"I came specifically to see you." He closed the door, his movements tense. "There are rumors, Éliane. About you and a German journalist."

She forced a laugh, turning to her makeup table to avoid his eyes. "Rumors? In Paris? How shocking."

"Don''t play games with me." Louis''s voice was sharp. "Hans Schmidt. He''s being watched by French intelligence. Did you know that?"

Éliane''s hands stilled on her makeup brushes. "Watched? Why?"

"Because he''s German, and he writes articles critical of both governments. In times like these, that makes him dangerous." Louis came to stand behind her, his reflection appearing in the mirror beside hers. "And if you''re seen with him, that makes you dangerous too."

She met his eyes in the glass. "I''m a ballet dancer, Louis. Not a spy."

"That''s exactly my point." He placed his hands on her shoulders, his grip firm. "You have a career, a reputation. The Dubois name means something in this city. Don''t throw it away for a... a fling with a German."

Éliane stood abruptly, shaking off his hands. "It''s not a fling."

The words hung between them, a confession she hadn''t meant to make. Louis''s face hardened. "So it''s true. You''re involved with him."

"Yes." She faced him, her chin lifted in defiance. "And it''s none of your business."

"It is my business when it puts you in danger." Louis''s voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "Do you know what''s happening in Germany, Éliane? The Nuremberg Laws were passed in September. Jews are being stripped of their citizenship. Books are being burned. People are disappearing. And you''re sleeping with a German?"

"He''s not like that," Éliane protested, though even to her own ears the defense sounded weak. "He''s critical of the regime. He left Germany because he couldn''t stand what was happening."

"All Germans are like that now," Louis said bitterly. "If they''re not actively supporting Hitler, they''re complicit through their silence. There''s no middle ground anymore."

They were interrupted by a knock at the door. Pierre entered, carrying a stack of sheet music. He stopped short when he saw Louis, his expression wary.

"Louis. I didn''t know you were here."

"I was just leaving." Louis turned back to Éliane, his eyes pleading. "Think about what I''ve said. For your own sake. And for the family."

After he left, Pierre set down the music and studied Éliane''s face. "He knows about Schmidt."

It wasn''t a question. Éliane nodded, sinking into her chair. "He says Hans is being watched by French intelligence."

"He is." Pierre''s voice was matter-of-fact. "I told you he was trouble."

"Why didn''t you tell me he was being watched?" Éliane demanded.

"Because you wouldn''t have listened." Pierre''s expression was pained. "You''re in love with him. Or think you are. When people are in love, they don''t listen to reason."

Éliane opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. He was right. She was in love with Hans—or at least, with the idea of him. With the freedom he represented, the escape from the gilded cage of her life.

"Be careful, Éliane," Pierre said softly. "That''s all I ask."

The confrontation with her father came a week later, at the family''s townhouse on Rue de Rivoli. Charles Dubois had summoned Éliane for what he called "a family discussion," which she knew meant a lecture.

The Dubois townhouse was a monument to French art and culture, filled with paintings by Degas and Renoir, sculptures by Rodin, and a grand piano that no one played anymore. Charles Dubois sat in his study, a glass of cognac in hand, the portrait of his own father—a famous ballet impresario—glowering down from above the fireplace.

"Éliane." He didn''t rise to greet her. "Sit."

She obeyed, perching on the edge of the leather chair opposite his desk. "You wanted to see me, Father."

"I''ve heard disturbing rumors." Charles took a sip of cognac, his eyes never leaving her face. "About you and a German journalist."

Éliane felt a flash of anger. "Does everyone in Paris know my business?"

"When your business affects the family reputation, yes." Charles set down his glass with a sharp click. "The Dubois name has been associated with French art for three generations. We do not fraternize with Germans. Especially not now."

"Hans is a journalist, not a soldier," Éliane said, though she knew it was futile.

"All Germans are soldiers now," Charles said dismissively. "Hitler is rearming. War is coming. And when it does, where will your loyalties lie? With France? Or with your German lover?"

The question was so unfair that Éliane could only stare at him. "My loyalties are to art, Father. To beauty. That transcends nationality."

"Nothing transcends nationality in war," Charles said coldly. "I forbid you to see this man again."

For a moment, Éliane was transported back to childhood, to the little girl who obeyed her father without question. But she wasn''t that girl anymore. She was a woman, an artist, and she had tasted freedom.

"I''m twenty-three years old, Father. You can''t forbid me anything."

Charles''s face flushed with anger. "As long as you live under my roof, as long as you dance at my Opera, you will obey my rules."

"Then perhaps I won''t live under your roof anymore," Éliane said, the words leaving her lips before she could consider their consequences.

The silence that followed was thick with shock. Charles stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. "What did you say?"

Éliane stood, her legs trembling but her voice steady. "I said perhaps I won''t live under your roof anymore. Or dance at your Opera."

She turned and walked out of the study, out of the townhouse, into the cold Paris night. She didn''t know where she was going, only that she couldn''t stay there, couldn''t breathe in that house of rules and expectations.

She went to Hans''s apartment in Montmartre. He was working at his desk when she arrived, papers scattered around him, a cigarette burning in an ashtray. He looked up, surprised.

"Éliane? What''s wrong?"

She told him everything—Louis''s warning, her father''s ultimatum. When she finished, Hans was silent for a long moment, his face unreadable.

"So they know," he said finally.

"Yes." She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold. "They want me to stop seeing you."

"And what do you want?" His voice was gentle.

"I want..." She took a shaky breath. "I want to be free. To make my own choices. To love whom I choose."

Hans stood and came to her, taking her hands in his. "Then come away with me."

Éliane blinked. "What?"

"Vienna." His eyes were bright with sudden excitement. "I''ve been offered a position at the Wiener Zeitung. It''s a good paper, respectable. We could start fresh there. No one would know us. No one would judge us."

Vienna. The city of music, of Strauss and Mozart. A world away from Paris, from her family, from the Opera.

"But my career..." she began weakly.

"You could dance in Vienna," Hans said eagerly. "The Vienna State Opera has a ballet company. You''re Éliane Dubois—they''d be lucky to have you."

It was madness. To leave Paris, the Opera, her family, everything she had ever known. To follow a man she had known for only a few months to a foreign country.

But as she looked into Hans''s hopeful face, Éliane felt something shift inside her. This was her chance. Her escape. Her rebellion.

"Yes," she said, the word a whisper, a promise, a leap into the unknown. "Yes, I''ll come with you."

They planned their departure in secret, like criminals plotting a heist. Éliane gave her notice at the Opera, citing "personal reasons." Her father was furious, her brother despairing, but she was resolute.

The night before they were to leave, Hans took her to the banks of the Seine. It was late, the city quiet, the river dark and swift beneath the bridges. They stood on the Pont des Arts, looking out at the lights of Paris.

"Are you sure about this?" Hans asked, his arm around her shoulders.

"No," Éliane admitted. "But I''m sure about you."

He turned her to face him, his hands cupping her face. "I''ll make you happy, Éliane. I promise."

Then he kissed her, and in that kiss was all the passion, all the promise, all the danger of their choice. It was a kiss of goodbye to Paris, to her old life, to the girl she had been.

When they broke apart, both were breathing heavily. Hans''s hands slid down her back, pulling her against him. "Let''s go to my place," he murmured against her lips.

But Éliane shook her head. "Here."

He stared at her. "Here? On the bridge?"

"Yes." She was filled with a wild, reckless courage. "I want to remember this. This moment. This city. Before we leave it."

It was madness, but Hans didn''t argue. He led her to a shadowed alcove beneath the bridge, where the stone was cold and the sound of the river masked their whispers.

Their lovemaking was frantic, desperate, fueled by the knowledge that this might be their last night in Paris. Hans pressed her against the cold stone, his hands rough with urgency. Éliane clung to him, her nails digging into his back, her cries swallowed by the night.

Afterward, as they lay tangled together on the cold ground, Éliane felt a sudden, sharp pang of loss. She was leaving everything—her home, her family, her career. For what? For love? For freedom?

Hans sensed her shift in mood. "What''s wrong?"

"Nothing," she whispered, burying her face in his neck. "Everything."

He held her tighter. "It will be all right, Éliane. We''ll make a new life. A better one."

She wanted to believe him. But as they dressed in the cold dawn light, as they walked back through the sleeping city, Éliane couldn''t shake the feeling that she was making a terrible mistake.

Yet even that fear couldn''t stop her. She had made her choice. There was no going back now.