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It was then that I saw her. She was dressed head to toe in clothes designed to please the observer, midnight blue velvet and delicate lace, everything about her was beautiful apart from the solemn expression depicted on her face, as if she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. She was a barmaid at the Folies-Bergère, but yet she appeared to be completely oblivious to me. As I ordered a Bass Pale Ale, her eyes gazed through me, detached and distracted, a look that continued regardless of my questioning.
“Parlez-vous anglais?” To which her response was one that I fully expected: she simply looked at me blankly and said nothing. I couldn’t blame her; I was a wealthy Englishman journeying overseas in hope of experiencing new cultures and she would have merely seen me as just another customer.

*

I stood alone behind the bar, unaware of the people around me socializing. Nothing could divert my attention as I watched the graceful trapeze artist, twirling and soaring through the air, like a butterfly fluttering freely in a summer meadow. I couldn’t comprehend how I could feel so isolated and trapped, like a bird in a cage, compared to this amazing unfettered creature, suspended in mid-air before my eyes. It wasn’t until a tall, sophisticated gentleman, much like the thousands I had served before him, attempted conversation with me, in diabolical French, that I began to readjust to my surroundings.
The Folies-Bergère was lit by over a dozen magnificent chandeliers, all of which were glistening like icicles. Smoke seemed to consume every inch of the room, creating an enigmatic and exotic ambience that mimicked that of a distant world. The majesty of the Folies-Bergère was presented in such a way that every aspect complimented the next, a technique that tantalized the senses and left the beholder wanting more.
And then there was the man in front of me, his presence mirrored the mystery of the room. Every inch of his being, reminded me of my past, the life that I had left behind. I had been in search of a sanctuary away from the heart break that I experienced all those years ago.

*

The pitiable girl gazed at me with her saddened eyes as she poured my drink. It hadn’t yet occurred to me to ask her name and in doing so she was taken aback. Her English was just as atrocious as my French and, with some over-exaggerated hand gestures, I learnt her name was Suzon.
I had travelled to France on a whim and fate had brought me to this unfortunate girl, in the hope that I would be able to comfort her; and yet I didn’t know what problems troubled her soul.
As I contemplated her predicaments, it occurred to me that it may be her financial situation that bothered her so much. Her clothes indicated that she was wealthy however that was an invalid assumption, as the garment was most likely provided by her employer. Even the small gold pendant around her neck, much like the kind my mother used to wear, was probably supplied to add to her undeniable allurement.

*

The more this desperate man tried to communicate with me, the more the sadness within me increased. It had been over a decade since I last saw my husband to be; we first met in Paris, he was British, but had been sent to France by his parents, in hope of presenting him with a vast array of opportunities.
We first met by pure chance. I was sat alone in a quaint French cafe, with the faint sound of music dancing around me and the stars up above delicately lighting my surroundings. It wasn’t until I followed the light of the moon that a man with chiselled features and skin as pale as the moonlight entered my vision. The man was British, but spoke French fairly fluently, so conversation wasn’t completely impossible. Eventually the café closed. However, neither of us went home, we simply remained, talking, until the first rays of the morning sun peeked over the rooftops of the neighbouring buildings.
As the days passed, we grew closer and after just three months of knowing each other, he proposed. Knowing that he was to depart shortly to fight in the Franco Prussian War, marrying me gave him something worth returning for.
He never came returned.

*

The pendant that hung from her neck drew me in, it had such a familiarity to it but yet it filled me with remorse. It reminded me of my younger brother who had been sent away by my parents and upon leaving had been handed a similar necklace as a family heirloom.
He left at sixteen and after a while he was writing to us weekly, telling us of his travels around Europe. Before long he had settled in the beautiful city of Paris. I didn’t hear from him again until he wrote to inform the family that he had joined the French Foreign Legion. Unfortunately that was the last time we heard from him as a year later we received a formal letter notifying us of the loss of my brother after he was killed in action at the battle of Le Mans.

*

My mind slowly readjusted to reality, only to realise that the wealthy man in front of me was as vacant as a rock. He seemed unfathomably fixated on my necklace, a sentimental piece of jewellery given to me by my fiancé before he went to war.
The gentleman stood there for a further two minutes, his eyes were filled with remorse and grief. He was ruggedly handsome, and I felt an odd, implacable connection with him. However, before I could even open my mouth to console him, he had turned and walked away leaving his Bass Pale Ale standing alone at the bar.

*

I couldn’t bare the strenuous emotional effect the girl and her necklace had on me. The antique piece of jewellery was almost identical to the piece that I remember seeing my mother wear, when I was a child. It seemed too much of a coincidence to see an exact replica of the family heirloom that was handed down to my brother all those years ago. The very possibility that the girl had been such an influential part of my brother’s life: to such an extent that she had gained possession of the heirloom which was a clear indication of my brother’s love for her, was a notion I just couldn’t take it. I had to get away.