Louis Mérante stood in the doorway of his ballet studio, glancing over the letter that had arrived earlier that morning. Another new student. He sighed, his sharp eyes skimming the room where his pupils were already stretching and preparing for the day's lesson. With precise movements, he folded the letter and slipped it into his coat pocket, his expression revealing little more than calm indifference.

As he entered, the soft sound of his polished shoes tapping against the wooden floor drew the students' attention. He strode toward the center of the room, cane in hand, and without missing a beat, began the day's routine.

"Positions, everyone," Mérante commanded in his smooth yet authoritative tone. His eyes flicked over each student, checking their posture as they all hurried into first position. His cane gently tapped the floor with each step he took, moving between the dancers, correcting a turned-out foot here, adjusting an elbow there.

"Fifth position now," he instructed, his voice carrying the confidence of a man who had mastered his craft. The class flowed seamlessly, each position followed by another, with the students responding to his every command. His sharp eyes caught every detail, but he made no comment yet on the new student standing quietly at the back of the room, observing them just as closely as he observed her.

Finally, after running through the initial warm-ups, Mérante came to a pause. His cane stilled, and his gaze swept the room one last time before resting on the newcomer. He tilted his head slightly, a faint spark of curiosity in his otherwise composed features.

"You," he said, gesturing toward the student with his cane. "Step forward."