“Oh, Émile,” I said. There has been a growing sense of dread that I have about this pregnancy. I know that I cannot live with Émile outside the circus. I don’t know if that includes my child as well, but even if I could exist out there, with him, I know the artist’s life is solitary. I see how Hadley and Ernest Hemingway struggle with their son, Bumby. Ernest is always writing by himself at the cafés while Hadley walks Bumby alone through the Jardin du Luxembourg, the child toddling beside her. My life at the circus has been vibrant and I’ve been surrounded by performers all my life. I cannot imagine another life, even if it is with Émile.

But he looked at me so expectantly, so in love. “Cecile?”

“It sounds wonderful,” I lied.

August 23, 1925

It is hard to write this, but I need to capture every detail.

After my performance a week ago, I stopped at Montparnasse and was alarmed to see that Émile looked much as he did when I saw him on the street that one night. Once again he was pale, with the dark hollows under his eyes, but this time they were even more pronounced.

I insisted he join Sylvie and me for dinner. He ate very little, assuring me he was just distracted. Worried about him, I spent the night at his apartment. He woke, feverish. Fearing that he had caught something, he sent me back to the circus so he wouldn’t pass it on to me and the baby; the horrors of the Spanish flu still lived large in the minds of soldiers like him. While I didn’t tell him so, I was glad to be back on the other side. My leg and arm had been aching. I felt like I was coming apart; this pregnancy was already taking a toll on my body.

When I didn’t hear from Émile after three days, I insisted that Sylvie accompany me to his apartment. She was hesitant at first, but she reluctantly agreed to go. That Esmé is now shattered over him has caused Sylvie to hate him even more.

The taxi left us off about two blocks from his apartment. The summer air was stifling. At cafés, women fanned themselves and angled for chairs in the shade, the sound of jazz flowing out onto the streets. “You do not like him.”

Her hands plunged deep into her dress. “I don’t know how you could possibly like him, let alone love him. He slept with Esmé.”

“He didn’t sleep with her.” This was what Émile told me, and I believed him.

She snorted and spun in front of me in the street. “Do you really think Esmé would be this angry and possessive of him if she hadn’t slept with him?” Sighing in disgust, she walked the block in silence.