Diana Biller’s The Brightest Star in Paris is a novel about first loves...and second chances.
Amelie St. James, prima ballerina of the Paris Opera Ballet and sweetheart of Paris, is a fraud. Seven years ago, in the devastating aftermath of the Siege of Paris, she made a decision to protect her sister: she became the bland, sweet, pious “St. Amie” the ballet needed to restore its scandalous reputation. But when her first love reappears and the ghosts of her past come back to haunt her, all her hard-fought safety is threatened.
Dr. Benedict Moore has never forgotten the girl who helped him embrace life again after he almost lost his. Now, years later, he’s back in Paris. His goals are to recruit promising new scientists, and maybe to see Amelie again. When he discovers she’s in trouble, he’s desperate to help her—after all, he owes her.
When she finally agrees to let him help, they disguise their time together with a fake courtship. But reigniting old feelings is dangerous, especially when their lives are an ocean apart. Will they be able to make it out with their hearts intact?
Release date:
October 12, 2021
Publisher:
St. Martin's Publishing Group
Print pages:
368
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The Palais Garnier was three days away from dress rehearsals.
Magnificent and vast, built of gold and marble atop a dead arm of the river Seine, the theater was the most celebrated and reviled building in all of France before its first stone was even laid. To the pious folk of the countryside, it was a symbol of the opulence and sin that had plunged France into years of war and civil strife, surely a punishment from God for the decadence of Paris during the Second Empire. To the rich and fashionable of Paris, it was also a symbol of opulence and sin—which, as every aspiring sophisticate knows, are the crucial ingredients of a good time.
No one asked what the poor of Paris thought. They had caused rather enough trouble over the last decade, after all.
While the ornate marble rooms and plush red velvet seats stood empty, backstage was a hive of activity. The smell of fresh paint and turpentine mingled with the sounds of workers pounding away with hammers and the string section warming up for rehearsal. Young girls, the petits rats pulled from the hills of Montmartre to be background dancers, ran through the halls laughing, the excitement of an upcoming performance suffusing their thin faces with pleasure. Opera singers ran through their scales; seamstresses hemmed costumes until their hands ached and their fingers were red; even the horses in the underground stables stomped their hooves in excitement.
Amidst all the noise and joy and life, Amelie St. James, étoile—prima ballerina—of the Paris Opera Ballet, sat still and silent, thinking about how hungry she was, and how much her hip ached.
“Just one more pose,” the photographer said, his assistant hurriedly moving the equipment. “Hold the bouquet like that—yes. Stay perfectly still—” Click, flash. Amelie blinked the stars from her eyes as the photographer nodded in satisfaction.
“Now, Mademoiselle St. James has time to answer a few more questions,” the Director of the Opera Ballet said to the dozen or so journalists gathered in the small room. He had chosen the Salon de la Lune for the meeting with the press, just one of the many jewel-like magnificences of the Palais Garnier. Dark, ominous birds and bats soared across the ceiling, surrounded by sharp rays of silver paint and glowing golden constellations. Platinum leaf lent the room a feeling of being surrounded by actual moonlight, the mirrors lining the walls magnifying the effect. Amelie caught her reflection through the dark-suited men. She looked too pale—the hours of sitting and answering questions had taken a toll.
“Mademoiselle St. James,” one of the reporters began. “You’ll be dancing the title role in the upcoming revival of Giselle, but your piety is well-known. Giselle, of course, disobeys her mother and falls in love with a man far above her station. What would you say to young, impressionable girls who might find Giselle’s decisions romantic?”
Considering she goes mad and dies before the second act, I’d suggest they avoid princes. In disguise or otherwise.
Amelie’s slow smile had its own reviews—“St. Amie’s melancholic, graceful expression of goodwill elevates all who are privileged to see it”—and she deployed it now. “I consider Giselle to be very proper viewing for young women,” she said. “Giselle makes a grave mistake and pays an enormous price for it.” Again, madness and death. “But it is ultimately a story of redemption, sacrifice, and the purity of love. Given the chance to take revenge on the lover who betrayed her, she protects him instead. She puts his needs before her own, and in that way, I believe, attains salvation.”
The journalists diligently dashed her answer down in their notebooks. The Director nodded, pleased with her performance. St. Amie, the people of Paris called her: beloved, pious, and kind.
For years, the Paris Opera Ballet had faced scandal after scandal. Most sprang from its association with members of the notorious Jockey Club, who treated the company like their own personal high-end brothel. Since the Club was made up entirely of the wealthy and powerful, those in charge of the Opera Ballet had no desire to actually sever ties with it—rather, they preferred to roll out half-hearted “morality” measures every few years, hold regular press conferences with the company’s resident saint, and leave the men of the Jockey Club free to raid the company for as many mistresses as they liked.
So long as they maintained a few scraps of propriety, the public turned a blind eye. Amelie was the scraps.
Seven years ago, she made a decision out of hunger and fear. That decision had changed everything. Now, she lied every day of her life, but she wasn’t hungry. She only danced with propriety, her heart not quite in it, but her sister never had to worry about where she would sleep that night.
This was how she earned her safety. This was how she protected her sister. And even if every last one of these interviews chipped away at something inside of her, it was not too high a price to pay.
“One more question, gentlemen,” the Director said genially. “Mademoiselle St. James is preparing for a very difficult role. We mustn’t keep her too long.”
Would that you had said that three hours ago, before I missed rehearsal. She would need to hurry to fit in enough practice before Honorine’s bedtime.
“Monsieur Charpentier, go ahead.”
A thin young man near the back leaned forward. “Mademoiselle St. James, you’re well known for your charitable works. Is there a project you’d like the public to know more about?”
Irritated mutterings met her ears from the other journalists, who obviously considered it a wasted question.
“I’m currently working with a foundling hospital in Montmartre,” Amelie said. “They’re in desperate need of donations—clothing, food, money, really anything would help—”
“She lives up to her nickname, doesn’t she, gentlemen? I’m afraid that’s all we have time for.” The Director stepped neatly in front of her. “A pleasure to see the press, as always.”
She hadn’t given the name of the hospital yet. She stood, a stab of pain racing from her hip down her thigh, and tried to catch the young journalist who’d asked the question, but the Director grabbed her arm.
“Must it always be Montmartre?” he murmured. “Couldn’t we help the less fortunate somewhere more fashionable?”
“It will always be Montmartre,” she said calmly.
“It reminds people of your mother.”
“She’s not a secret.”
He frowned. “I suppose it could be something like ‘daughter atones for sins of mother,’” he said. “Yes. That’s what I’ll tell them. Good work today.” He patted her avuncularly on the shoulder and hurried to join the journalists. As he led them from the room, he made some joke, resulting in uproarious masculine laughter.
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