Empire of Butterflies (Finale)

Musée des Beaux-Arts, Reims — 547 km from Geneva, Switzerland

The evening rain in Reims was steady and cool, tapping rhythmically against the Musée des Beaux-Arts' windows like the idle drumming of a bored student on a wooden desk. Juliette glanced at her reflection in the glass—her hair slightly tousled from the weather, her makeup faded after a long day of teaching. She ran her fingers through her hair in a half-hearted attempt to tame it, then made her way to the main gallery. Her high heels clicked against the marble floor, echoing across the empty hallways.

She breezed by a series of paintings and portraits, feeling their eyes following her every move and their noses flaring behind the trail of Guerlain’s L’Heure Bleue she left in her wake.

She paused before Marine par temps gris by Henri Martin, bemused by how the canvas seemed to breathe with the salt of the breeze, the damp wood of the boats, and the weightless sweetness of fog. If she closed her eyes long enough, she could almost taste the heavy morning mist and feel its cool embrace against her skin.

Juliette had always longed to be out on the sea, where the waters embrace the sky and wash away the tragedy of being human. There, she could have pretended to be something else—a butterfly, perhaps—and flown away. Without rhyme or reason. Without ever needing to come back. She could have been free.

But, such was not a life. At least, not the life she wanted for herself.

Juliette peeled her eyes away from the painting as the lights of a police car momentarily flooded the room in red and blue. She turned around, nearly tripping on a stepladder, and caught herself by holding onto a nearby tarp.

Guillaume emerged at the end of the corridor and helped her find her footing. “New shoes?” he asked, pointing at Juliette’s red stilettos. “Bold choice.”

She brushed off the paint dust from the tarp and scoffed. “You’re a little slow on the renovations, Mr. Head Curator,” she teased, feigning reprimand.

The museum had been closed to the public for quite some time. The pair passed by the paintings they used to gaze upon when they were children. Juliette’s mother had always felt a great comfort meandering through these halls; where people kept to themselves, even when they walked in together.

“You know what they say about new shoes,” Guillaume remarked, “they take you to new places.”

“Actually,” Juliette corrected him with a smirk, “the saying goes ‘Good shoes take you to good places,’ Sal.”

Guillaume rolled his eyes but grinned as he led her to a large gallery, where he had set up a small dinner table beneath the soft glow of a single candelabra. The warm light flickered off gilded frames and the polished parquet floor. He pulled out her chair with exaggerated courtesy and then began uncorking a bottle of champagne, reading its label with self-assured ignorance.

“2011?” Juliette pretended to be shocked. “What a great year!”

Guillaume filled their glasses generously and sat down across from her, loosening his tie. He raised his glass, smiling warmly. “To us!” he exclaimed before downing its content down his throat.

Juliette held her champagne but did not drink. She stared at the glass for a moment before meeting his eyes.

“What's wrong?” Guillaume asked, his brow furrowing with concern.

She took a deep breath, then held it in for a few seconds before speaking in a single breath, “I got fired.”

He blinked in disbelief. "What? That cannot be right. Your students adore you. What reason could the administration have possibly given?”

“They want me to teach on the Parisian campus,” she replied, nonchalantly. “I start in September, but I’ll move there in June. Will you come help me?”

Stunned, Guillaume stood abruptly, a wide grin breaking across his face as he engulfed her in a bear hug. “Juliette, that’s amazing!” His hands traveled down her arms, lacing themselves around her fingers. “I am so proud of you,” he declared, his eyes locked onto hers and his hands punctuating his words with a gentle squeeze. “And of course, I will help you move.”

Juliette topped Guillaume’s glass and lifted her own. “To us!”

“You’ll be brilliant in Paris, you know,” Guillaume said after they had settled back down. “They’ll love you.”

Juliette took a sip of her champagne and leaned back against her chair. “It’s strange,” she admitted. “For so long, I thought staying in one place was... stifling. I used to think stability was a cage. But now, I feel like the promise of stability is giving me wings.”

“You’ve come a long way,” Guillaume said, his voice gentle.

Juliette’s smile lingered, the warmth of his words easing the ache of her impending departure. “And you,” she said, raising her glass again. “Head Curator. Father of two—soon to be three. It’s like you’ve built this whole life while I wasn’t looking.”

Guillaume chuckled, his laugh almost shy. "And yet, I couldn’t have done it without you. But you know," he paused, swallowing in search of the right words, “Part of me always believed we’d finish our lives together as… I don’t know. Maybe as neighbors.”

“Neighbors?” Juliette raised an eyebrow, “That’s cold, Guillaume.”

“Brothers in arms, then!”

“Brothers in arms?” she repeated, enunciating every syllable with both humor and incredulity.

“Partners in crime,” he said with a sense of finality.

Juliette’s grin widened to a smile. “Partners in crime,” she acquiesced, her eyes softening. “I’ve always liked the sound of that. And no matter where life takes us, we’ll always be together. Paris, Vienna, or anywhere in the world. Because we’re not just partners in crime. We’re soulmates. And that’s forever,” she declared, reaching across the table to hold his hand.

The hours went by and the candles burned lower, living out their lifetimes as the pair reminisced on their shared adventures. When a distant clock chimed eleven times, they stood in unison. Dazed and a little drunk, Juliette stumbled around the room in search of her purse.

Guillaume grabbed the bag hidden under her seat and jogged to catch up with her, just in time to see the tears rolling down her face before she abruptly turned away. “Hey, hey,” he whispered, his thumbs grazing her cheeks. “This isn’t goodbye. You said so yourself: we’re soulmates and that is forever.”

“Then, why does this hurt so much?” she asked, her tears growing from that of a thawing stalactite to the rapids of the Rhine river. She wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him towards her, burying her face in his wrinkled shirt.

“The pain won’t last very long,” Guillaume assured her, holding her tightly. “Because it won’t be long before we all come crashing at your place. Louis is always begging me to take him to Paris.” He smiled one of his lop-sided grins and continued, “And you better have a book deal by then.”

“I’ll do my best,” she whispered, a small laugh escaping through her tears.

They walked together to the museum’s entrance and Juliette retrieved her coat and scarf. Outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, the streets of Reims glistening under the streetlights. Guillaume held the door open, and she stepped out into the cool night air.

“And you, don’t wait too long to come back to visit us,” he said as she turned to go.

“I won’t,” she promised. “And you—don’t forget to write me that poem. You know how much I love those.”

Guillaume bemusingly shook his head. “Always demanding.”

Juliette grinned, her eyes sparkling beneath the harsh streetlights. “Always.”

She began walking away, her heels clicking softly against the wet pavement. When she reached the corner, she turned and waved a final time. Guillaume stood silhouetted in the museum’s doorway, his hands buried in his pant pockets.

As Juliette disappeared into the night, her thoughts buzzed with the possibilities of Paris. The city’s lights stretched before her like the blank pages of a book, and she could hardly wait to begin writing the next chapter.

And somewhere, far behind her, the rain began to sing.