Rondo Allegro (12 page)

Anna shrugged sharply, aware that she had copied the gesture
from Lise. “Who has time for anything else?”

“It is just as well. Just as well,” Paisiello said on a
sigh. “So. Mademoiselle Georges. It is no worse than royal demands, then, if no
better. Oh, that patrons would hand over the wherewithal, and then get
themselves out of the way! Do I tell them how to conduct their wars? I do not.
If he insists, then I shall have to strengthen the chorus, and give her
pastoral melodies. Simple.”

He made a dismissive gesture, and bent toward Anna. “And so
we come to you. I find you here in Paris, and you appear to have overcome your
scruples about employment.”

“So I have,” Anna said.

“What then is your goal?”

Anna straightened up, unaware of the significant changes the
maestro observed in her countenance. “I intend to become the best singer in
Paris,” she said.

“Bon!”
He clapped
his hands. “That is exactly what I want to hear. I want you as my Cyane. Come
into the rehearsal hall. I am relieved to find you have fattened up a little,
and I approve the way you carry your head. You are no longer such an awkward
little colt, oh my! Not at all—I scarcely should have recognized you! Now I
must hear you sing. I trust you have worked on your breathing, for I am
determined that you shall work hard . . .”

In France, they were now back to the Gregorian seven days,
though it was still considered the Year IX, and not 1802.

Anna was busier than ever, between her dance lessons and the
ever-changing
Proserpina
, and her
occasional private concerts late at night after her theater work in the role of
one of Dirce’s Handmaids in Cherubini’s
Médée
.
This opera had been so popular when produced five years ago that it was being
staged again at the rickety Théâtre Dupree, Madame Dupree singing the title
role.

For a third . . . there was a very, very
handsome officer in the Consular Guard.

As spring ripened into summer, more and more glorious
uniforms appeared to be strolling the boulevard.

Paris was taking on a decidedly martial air, but the change
was gradual, at least to the young actresses, dancers, and hopeful performers
who failed to take an interest in politics or foreign affairs. All their
attention was for an admiring pair of eyes above gleaming epaulettes, a
debonair pelisse, high, glossy boots encasing a fine pair of legs, and above
all, the careless largesse of the soldier who lives for the moment.

During one of Anna’s evening walks along the Boulevard, they
were joined by a raffish set of young officers who each bought the pretty
singers and dancers a rose from a street seller, after which the two groups
joined and wandered to a café popular with performers.

As always, Lise took the lead. Hyacinthe and Eleanor did
their best to fascinate with the play of eyelash, and shrug of round shoulders.
Their tiny puff sleeves drifted carelessly to the top of their pretty arms.
Anna, the youngest, was also the quietest; her pleasure was divided between the
balmy air, scented with the fragrance of linden, the charming lights set out by
all the cafés, the general mood of hilarity, and also those admiring glances
from dashing men.

Gradually she became aware of a steady blue gaze. She began
to steal peeks at the handsome young officer, until one day their eyes met, and
he smiled.

After that, she was aware of him while everyone else chattered
on. It was a strange feeling, as if she were alone on stage. As if a candle
glowed beneath her skin. When the evening ended, Anna joined those returning to
the Foulon, but when she glanced back, the tall blond officer raised his
fingers in salute.

Blushing fiery red, Anna turned quickly, but she was
laughing as she caught up with the others.

To the whispered delight of the dancers, the front rows of
the pit at Théâtre Dupree were taken over by a set of young officers of the
Consular Guard. M. Dupree watched them with a nervous air from off the wings,
mopping his shining head. The officers were boisterously loud in their praise
whenever their favorite girls appeared on stage.

One night, after the officers had been there for five
straight performances, Anna stood in the wings behind Hyacinthe and Catherine,
waiting for her cue, as all three peered past the footlights at the young men
in the first three rows.

“He is very handsome. Very! Such an air, and his mustache,
just enough. Not like the monstrous ones some of the officers wear.”

Lise drifted up to join them, peeked, then raised her thin,
arched brows. “You detest the mustaches,
cherie
?
I find them gallant.”

“Bah! Have you tried to kiss a man with one? It is like
kissing an old goat in the field. Worse, that stinky pomade!”

A careful toss of black ringlets, and a sniff. “Tchah! For
diamond ear drops, I will hold my nose against the pomade.”

The orchestra struck up the notes preceding Anna’s entrance.
She straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath, conscious of the
tightening of her upper ribs. She was also conscious of her toes pointing, the
curve of her wrists, the angle of her head as she took the small sliding steps
onto the stage that mimicked the floating grace of Madame Josephine, the First Consul’s
elegant wife.

From the first row came a shout, “Toast!” and “Brava!”

Anna tried not to smile as she began her opening song, but
her mind was less on her breathing then on the surprise gift of pink roses that
had arrived earlier and was now sitting in her tiny dressing room, filling the
stuffy air with their heavenly scent.

As the performance progressed, she could not resist the
occasional glances at that first row, where epaulettes glittered on broad
shoulders. Ah, there he was: one of the tallest, his hair gilt in the
reflection of the many candles. She shivered when she remembered the roses, and
the little card with that delightful inscription:
To Anna, who sings like an angel.

She was conscious of giving her best performance, smiling
all the way through to her bows; her partner in the performance, the newly
hired tenor, Jean-Baptiste Marsac, watched her speculatively for the first time.

When she returned to remove her costume, she found Parrette
frowning at the flowers. “Parrette, what is wrong? You aren’t angry with me?”

“Not at all, me! It is just that this great
thing
crowds us right out,” Parrette
said, waving at the bouquet. “And no doubt will shed petals all over that I
shall have to sweep up.”

“I will carry it to the Foulon myself. And put a cloth under
it to catch petals.” But Parrette’s brow was still furrowed. “Surely you do not
grudge my singing gaining an admirer?”

“If I was sure it was your singing,” Parrette grumbled.

Anna laughed.

After the performance, she carefully laid aside her Greek-styled
costume and pulled on a smart new gown of striped muslin, trimmed at the little
sleeves and high waist in contrasting ribbon. She gaily wished Parrette a good
night, and when she reached the street, she linked arms with Hyacinthe and
Eleanor, making it about ten steps before they found themselves surrounded by a
number of tall chasseurs of the Guard of the Consul, resplendent in their tight
uniforms gleaming with gold braid, extravagant bear-lined pelisses swaying with
martial panache.

“Mesdemoiselles,” one cried, and Anna turned.

He was taller than she remembered, his blond mustachio
curled fiercely. Half-shut blue eyes gazed appreciatively down at her, sending
a champagne fizz through her veins as he bowed over her hand.

His warm lips brushed her skin. “
Ma chère
Anna,” he said lazily, “will an angel deign to grace mere
mortals with her attention?”

Anna blushed hot all over. She scarcely knew what to say;
Lise took her arm, tugging. “Come, Anna! They are holding a table for us at the
Trois Arlequins.”

Anna had never before had her own admirer. As the chasseurs
paired off with dancers and actresses, her tall companion walked beside her, his
sword rattling at each step of his high, glossy boots. “You know my name, but I
do not know yours,” she ventured.

“Auguste,” he said.

“Auguste?” she prompted, though in Paris people used first
names as often as last. Post-Revolution Paris was inconsistent about
honorifics.

“Ah,” he exclaimed. “Slain through the heart, hearing my
name upon those lips!”

They crowded into the popular café. When they discovered
that their favorite spot had been claimed, the chasseurs swaggered to the best
table, hands to the hilts of their swords as they shoved the young men in
civilian dress away from the little chairs, then bowed with extravagant
audacity at their female companions.

The waiters, scenting trouble, hastened to bring the best
champagne. Anna, unused to the heady drink, blinked as candlelight gained
auras, and tricks of light caught in bright, admiring eyes. Edouard was the
tallest; Guillaume the one who sang in a pleasing tenor, though the words were
so idiomatic Anna didn’t quite catch them all. From the way the men laughed,
she suspected Parrette would not translate for her.

Then Piers called for yet another bottle.

“. . . the bad old days,” Edouard said, as he
began pouring more champagne all around. Anna stared fixedly at the golden
liquid, the tiny bubbles rising, then puffing into air, causing a faint smell
that tickled the inside of her nose. How could it do that? It seemed like magic
The entire evening seemed like a fairy tale.

“…but the worst were the names,” Piers said, his face
flushed. “Do you know what my mother changed my name to, after the Declaration?
Eh? Fevridor. Yes, Fevridor, I ask you! Not even a month I prefer! My youngest
brother had it worse, though: Dix-Août.”

“My cousin is Crainte. There is not much romance in ‘Fear’!
He goes by Luc, now.”

“That’s nothing. The butcher at the end of our street? He
named his twins Droit de l’Homme Tricolor and Mort aux Aristocrates. ‘Right to a good beating for being intolerable,’
and ‘Death to patience,’ that’s what we called those brats!”

Everyone laughed, and Guillaume pounded the table with his
fist. “Wager! I’ll lay you hundred my sister has it worse. She was born in the
Year IV. Amour Sacré de la Patrie et le Constitution, is what our mother called
her! Now, if any part of that name crosses your lips, she swears a fate most
sanguinary!”

“I’ve met her. I’ll not take that wager,” Auguste said, and
everyone laughed.

Anna found their laughter so funny that she was still
fizzing with giggles when she felt Auguste’s strong hand slide around her
waist. Her blood heated. She blinked downward, enjoying the sensation of being
held by a man, but why were his shirt cuffs so frayed beneath the splendid blue
coat with its brave gold braid?

The evening came to a summary end when, pooling their last
coins, the men could not come up with the price of another bottle. At first it
looked as if there might be trouble, but the waiters, long experienced, had
assembled in a mass, outnumbering by a factor of four the tipsy soldiers.
Finding themselves surrounded by brawny young men in aprons who carried kitchen
knives or cudgels, the chasseurs each linked arms with their fair companions
and Edouard led the way out.

Talking and laughing, the party strolled back along the
boulevard. Anna, reaching fresh air at last, found to her dismay that the world
was slowly revolving, and her lips had gone numb.

She liked the feel of Auguste’s steady arm holding her upright,
and when he pulled her close and kissed her, the candle beneath her skin flared
to firelight. She did not even mind the smell of pomade.

But the dizziness made her stumble. “I need to go home,” she
slurred. “I feel sick,” she added, as the dizziness made her weave on her feet.

When she hiccupped, and pressed a hand to her middle, Auguste
smilingly turned her over to Hyacinthe, who was no steadier on her feet. “L-l-l-la,”
Hyacinthe slurred. “How I ador-r-re the cafés in summer!”

“Me, too,” Anna murmured, and hiccupped again. “But perhaps
not so much champagne.” She hiccupped a third time.

Hyacinthe did not notice. “Lise wants a fiery lover, but I!
I love to sip, and to flirt, and the lights…” She bit her numb lips, then said
carefully, “Lise laughs at me for being a bore. But some day I want a husband
of my own. In a tiny house. With a garden. I shall grow my own cabbages. But
not yet! Not while I am young!”

Anna paused on the stairs, swaying. “That is my own
sentiment. Except I cannot marry.”

Hyacinthe blinked. “You cannot?”

“I am already married.”

“You are? Married, and not a widow? For I do not see Citizen
Spouse.”

“I know not if I am wife or widow.” Anna thought this very
funny, and laughed.

Hyacinthe laughed because Anna was laughing, and each leaned
against the other for support, laughter begetting laughter until Anna
hiccupped, and sucked in air. “Oh, I am dizzy. I think I am going to be sick.”

“Not upon me!”

“Oh-h-h-h,” Anna sighed.

“Then he must be in the army,” Hyacinthe said, as they struggled
up the stairs together.

“Navy. A sea captain in the English navy,” Anna corrected,
and she found that funny, too. Hyacinthe laughed with her, until Anna frowned
with difficulty. “Oh. The English, no one likes them. You must not tell
anyone.”

“Me? I am silent as the tomb.”

It took a very long time to mount the endless stairs, where
the scandalized Parrette bustled Anna out of her new gown and forced her into a
cold bath.

“You should never let yourself be weak,” Parrette scolded in
Neapolitan, as the walls in the Hôtel Foulon were so thin. “This is exactly how
foolish women get themselves into trouble!”

“There was no danger,” Anna mumbled. “And I returned with
Hyacinthe.”