Francoise Montmartre had two secrets.
She was a "shadow" who painted in place of a famous artist, hidden beneath his prestige. She was a failure, a woman painter who would never amount to anything.
She loved Jane Doyle, a dancer at the Moulin Rouge, even though Jane was mercenary, sharp-tongued, greedy, and vain, even though she bossed her around and looked down on her.
But she loved her deeply, like a moth throwing itself into a flame without hesitation.
Jane Doyle also had two secrets.
She was a vulgar whore from the gutter, lice crawling beneath her lavish skirts, born in the deepest filth and heading toward an even deeper darkness.
She loved Francoise Montmartre, a penniless, wandering painter on Montmartre Hill, even though Francoise was silent and gloomy, spent all day cooped up, and was destitute, even though her gaze was always fixed on the heavens and never lingered on Jane.
But she loved her deeply, like a pure water lily growing from rotting mud.
We were all rooted in the lightless gutter, our tangled roots rotting as we struggled to survive, our souls falling into ruin amid our bitter struggles. Yet in this lowly, filthy fate, I had gained the noblest thing in the world.
I still love you deeply.
A vain dancer x a shadow painter. Two imperfect, ordinary people try to love each other.
Note: This story has no content warnings. Readers who need warnings should proceed with caution.
Theme: Even in the mud, one can possess the noblest love.
