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“I do not hate Franz, but neither can I say that I feel any sympathy for him. Nor can I claim to like him as a friend, it just so happens that he is the only acquaintance I have here. I have no particular fondness for initiating conversations with him or for writing to him first. I solely do so because I have no one else to talk to. A person simply cannot do entirely without social interaction! But the bottom line is that I do not like him all that much.”
“What a long answer,” The stranger’s voice was that of a woman’s, but her appearance was masculine. “So, you don’t hate him, as the rumors claimed, but neither is he a ‘friend’ to you. I understand.”
Fryderyk’s eyes shifted around to see if Franz was within earshot. He couldn't spot that blond head so he figured it safe to continue speaking “Yes, precisely.”
“Yet, you still write to him often, and you are the one to write first.”
“Well… it’s just… er, yes.”
“Strange. And you say it is because of your lack of acquaintances in Paris. How long have you been living here now?”
“A few years.” Uttering those words aloud felt strange to Fryderyk. He surprised himself with just how long he had already been living in France. “I am simply very selective about my company, that is all. I meet plenty of people in the salons, and I could easily secure their companionship. I simply do not seek it out myself.”
“Ah, so with someone like me—whom you have just met in this very salon—you will converse in this manner now, only to never speak to me again?”
Fryderyk was beginning to feel increasingly agitated by this conversation, which struck him more as an interrogation. He fought the urge to scoff and roll his eyes, though it was an exceedingly difficult battle. Many caustic retorts flashed through his mind, though ultimately, he gave a curt reply.
“Yes.”
He was just about to walk away when he suddenly felt a pair of firm hands on his shoulder. Franz... Now Fryderyk truly wanted to roll his eyes. He turned to look up at the taller man standing behind him with an expression of irritation in his eyes.
“I see that you’ve met Madame Sand!”
Madame? She hardly looks like one, and she most certainly does not deserve the respect that title implies.
Fryderyk tried to slip past the other pianist’s back and leave his conversation with this strange woman behind him once and for all. However, Franz began formally introducing the two before Fryc could sneak past.
"I’m sure you’ve already gathered this much, but Madame Sand is a writer. Novels, right? Short stories…" Liszt began to largely improvise his remarks. He didn’t know George Sand very well other than that she was a frequent guest at Parisian salons.
"No, I in fact did not 'gather' that at all. She spoke absolutely nothing about herself, whereas I have certainly revealed far too much about myself. Goodbye."
Franz now allowed his friend to make his escape, shrugging his shoulders by way of apology to George. Fryderyk hid in some random nook he found a while ago in d’Agoult’s home. He stayed there until most of the guests had left.
‘... The bottom line is that I do not like him all that much…’ Do I truly feel this way now?
Fryderyk’s brow furrowed as memories of his first encounter with Franz resurfaced. The strange sensation—suspended somewhere between hatred and whatever else that feeling might have been—had not accompanied him back then. When they first met, they had only each other to rely on. Both grappled with the hardships of the Parisian music scene, though it was Fryderyk who always struggled a little more. The spells of illness in winter, the days when he subsisted solely on bread, and Franz was the only one who ever brought him anything else. Perhaps Fryderyk had merely imagined the notion that they were struggling ‘together.’ Franz had it better. And maybe he too made up this idea that they had each other alone.
Behind the door of d’Agoult’s storage room, he could not help but compare how vastly different the places where Franz used to play to the one in which he was performing now. They used to play at intimate salons, not nearly as crowded as the one in which he found himself. It was better back then, more peaceful. Fryderyk was left only to ask himself ‘When did it change?’ Yet the question was quite futile, for he had already concluded that the influence of Marie d’Agoult was to blame. With his whole soul, he longed to get rid of her.
A sliver of light seeped through the door as someone began to open it.
"Fryderyk?" a female voice called out. "Franz told me you’d be here! Ah, you boys simply know each other so well."
Fryderyk rubbed his eyes, beneath which grey circles were visible, guessing that it must already be a little past ten o’clock.
“Ah, Madame Marie… I trusted that he would keep my little hideout a secret.” These words dripped with a hint of venom. “Apparently not. Why couldn’t he simply come for me himself? No—he couldn’t have left ‘home,’ no? After all, you live together.”
The countess scoffed “Yes, you know perfectly well that he lives here. But I’m not so mad as to keep him here like some sort of pet. He is free to go out whenever he pleases.”
“Oh, so is he ‘out’ now? Perhaps for a drink? With all the new people he met this very night?”
"...He’s waiting outside the door. For you. But you look too tired for what he has planned for the evening." Marie’s voice came out gentler than the words she spoke, likely out of pity for the man.
Fryderyk finally stepped out of the closet and into the yellowish light of the foyer. “Yes, I am tired. I’ll go home.”