Emilie's Voice (12 page)

To the shock of all, King Louis stood up from his seat and swept the crowd of courtiers and servants with his gaze. “Won’t one of you help the poor girl?” he asked, and then commenced laughing heartily.

Within seconds François had leapt upon the stage and disengaged Émilie’s foot from its caught position. He righted her, but her headdress was a shambles. Émilie did not know what to do, so she removed it, gave it to one of the children, and then made the deepest, slowest curtsey she had ever managed. She did not look up. She couldn’t bear to see the king’s expression.

The curtain was hastily drawn across again, and the festivities continued. Émilie, however, was rooted to the spot. She did not know how she had been able to descend to the floor and rise again in her curtsey despite the pain in her ankle.

“Come, let me help you back to your room,” said François, supporting her under her elbow.

“No!” cried Émilie. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“It’s my foot. I can’t walk. And …”

“And what, Mademoiselle?”

Émilie did not answer him but looked down at the floor. François followed her eyes and saw the blood that had trickled down from between her legs. The servant blushed.

“I’ll fetch one of the maids, and a surgeon,” he said.

Eleven

The king’s first view of Émilie had precisely the effect that Madame de Maintenon had planned on, although she had hoped it would have been accomplished with more decorum. Louis began to make discreet inquiries about the young cygnet who had fallen off her perch.

“I am very pleased, Monsieur de St. Paul, with Mademoiselle Émilie’s progress,” she said.

St. Paul pretended to yawn. “I knew you would soon see the many ways in which the young thing might entertain the king.”

“Ah, but simply entertaining the king is not very difficult.”

“You seem to imply that this project took no effort—nor, might I add, expense—on my part,” said St. Paul, his voice betraying more than he wished of pique.

“The expense, I imagine, you intend to recoup. The effort—what effort has there been, after all? It is Monsieur Lully who instructs her, and François who looks after her. All you did was bring her to Versailles in your carriage! And now that she is here, you have no more expenses on her behalf.”

“What if I had not seen her at my godmother’s salon? Where would you be now!” The count was becoming annoyed.

“There would have been other ways,” she said, walking to the window of her sitting room and looking out over the gardens. It was so hot that the landscape seemed to duplicate itself just above the horizon. No ladies cavorted on the lawn today. She closed the shutters and plunged her room into near darkness. “Do not worry yourself, Monsieur le Comte. If all goes well, you will be amply rewarded for your troubles. But the real question is how to take the next step. What must Mademoiselle Émilie do to secure herself in the king’s regard so that I may continue with my plan?” Without looking at St. Paul, she went to her bookshelves.

“You mean
our
plan, do you not, Madame?”

She smiled. “Of course, how foolish of me.”

St. Paul took his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the perspiration off his face. The widow Scarron never misspoke, and so he suddenly had the distinct impression that she had not told him everything. From what she had originally said, he thought that the idea was to replace Madame de Montespan, who had become rather too powerful and public, with someone whom they had in their power and could manipulate as necessary. Now it seemed that she had something else in mind. This powerful lady had promised him advancement, and he knew she could procure it. But if she did not trust him, he could not trust her. He would have to be very cautious. “I am here to do your bidding,” he said.

“I thank you, Monsieur.” Madame de Maintenon ran her fingers along the spines of the books, and chose one seemingly at random. “But instead, let us do Monsieur Quinault’s bidding. Or at least, let Mademoiselle Émilie do it.” Madame de Maintenon opened the volume and traced the lines on the page with her forefinger. “According to Quinault, she must offer to give her life to save her husband. Then we shall see—if she plays her part well, she shall be redeemed by the gods.”

“Of course. How clever of you. Let her sing in an opera. It is the story of Alceste, if I am not mistaken? The king will be utterly enchanted. I shall inform Monsieur Lully right away. Is there anything else you wish me to do?”

“I will call for you later, when we see how things go.” The widow Scarron punctuated her last phrase by snapping the book shut. She extended her hand to St. Paul, who bent over it, and then left.

“She is not ready! She has no finesse!” Lully’s face was almost purple with consternation. First, the widow Scarron had persuaded him not to let Émilie sing during the fête, which would have been the perfect opportunity for her to do something easy and charming for the king, and now she wanted him to give the girl one of the most demanding stage roles he had ever written!

“Do you question the judgment of the king? It was, after all, his command,” St. Paul lied, examining his fingernails for a few moments before speaking once again. “And so, you must make her ready by the day of the performance. There is time enough, I think!”

Lully knew that this wish was never expressed by the king. He was accustomed to receiving his sovereign’s orders directly but he did not want to disabuse St. Paul of the belief that his lie had worked. No, this was the work of the widow Scarron, he was in no doubt whatever. She was up to something, that he realized. It did not matter to her whether the performance itself was perfect or not. Music was not her forte, not like the Marquise de Montespan. He had composed
Alceste
for the pleasure of the king’s official mistress in the first place, and she had such taste, such esprit. This gesture was in some way intended to lash out at Madame de Montespan, and he, by being forced to comply, would alienate one of his greatest allies at court.

He also knew that, whatever his feelings about the matter, he would never dare to confront His Majesty. Madame de Maintenon was too well liked, and he could see where things were headed. He had no choice but to accede.

“All right, Monsieur de St. Paul, I shall commence rehearsals on the morrow.”

“Perhaps I’ll pop in from time to time and see how you’re coming along,” said St. Paul with a smile of triumph.

“Only His Majesty is permitted to attend rehearsals.”

St. Paul paused on his way out the door of Lully’s apartment. “Oh, did I forget to say? His Majesty won’t be able to come to any rehearsals. He is much too occupied with the distressing news from Belgium. In any case, he knows his part. And he would prefer to be surprised on the night of the performance.”

Lully ground his teeth and stared at the door through which he saw St. Paul’s back disappear. He shook his head. The girl’s voice was pretty, there was no mistaking it. But to perform a major role required so much more than that. It could be an utter fiasco, and then he, Lully, would have let the king down. Never had his productions been anything but magnificent, perfect in every detail. He must talk to Quinault about rewriting the book a little. Such a young creature would never be believed as a matron with several children. At least he could retain Mademoiselle St. Christophle, the best singer in his troupe, as the Spirit of the River Seine in the prologue. St. Paul only mentioned the role of Alceste herself, and she does not enter until Act I. And then he would have at least one lead singer he knew he could count on to get the production off to a good start.

“La Christophle will be furious!” Lully said aloud to his empty study.

Émilie opened the hidden door that led to the Salle de Bal very slowly. Already gathered in the room were about a dozen people she did not know, whom she had never seen before. Realizing that her jaw was clenched and the muscles in her face tight and unnatural, she forced herself to relax: she would have to sing before long. Everyone looked so big, so much older than she. She smoothed her dress down and checked to see that her hair was not messy, then stood as tall as she could and joined the others in the center of the room.

“I am Émilie,” she said to a young woman who looked to be only a little older than she was, and who was standing a little off to the side. “Pleased to meet you.”

Before the girl had a chance to answer her, Lully walked in and clapped his hands. “Attention!” he barked. “Today, we begin an enterprise that the king has commanded. We are to perform, out of doors, the tragedy of
Alceste
, two months from today, on October the fifth.”

A murmur passed through the assembled crowd, and Émilie saw several of the singers smile and nod to each other.

“I shall announce the roles and would like each of you to come forward and stand by me when I have read your name.”

Lully went through almost the entire cast, including the chorus of soldiers and the ballet dancers. He paused for a moment when only Émilie and one other woman were left standing on one side of the room. “In the role of the Spirit of the River Seine, Mademoiselle St. Christophle.”

The lady stepped forward. “The River Seine, and Alceste, at your service, Monsieur!”

The other cast members laughed, but Lully continued with his eyes fixed on the paper he held before him.

“As Alceste, Mademoiselle Émilie Jolicoeur.”

Émilie walked over to take her place among her colleagues. But instead of the subdued chatter that had greeted all the other announcements, there was complete silence. Émilie knew nothing about the way things worked in an opera troupe, that young singers normally had to put in a couple of years singing the small roles before they leapt to stardom. She did not realize that Lully had instantly made her a pariah among the rest of the players, who, one by one, turned their backs on her.

Émilie bit her lower lip to stop herself from crying. She wanted to run from the room and hide away, not be the focus of everyone’s attention. If this was what it was like to be in an opera, she never wanted to do it again. At least, not one of Monsieur Lully’s. Monsieur Charpentier would never let something like this happen to her, she was certain.

The late-summer trees had begun to look as if they were growing tired of being green, and here and there a bright scarlet or yellow leaf dotted the foliage. Soon it will be autumn, Émilie thought somewhat sadly as she nodded back and forth in a sedan chair in time with the footsteps of the servants who carried it. She was on her way to visit the Marquise de Montespan at Clagny, a journey of only about a mile, but she wished she were on her way home. Autumn in Paris was her favorite season. She loved to be all snug indoors with the wild wind whistling around the roof of their house, and the restless water of the Seine sloshing against the stone supports of the bridge far below. It was on those nights that her father would tell a long story that sent a frisson of fear through her body, a story about dungeons and desperadoes, of treasonous princes and poisonings. All three of them would stay up late, past the time when the fire went out, and every slam of a door that was caught in the wind would make them jump with delighted terror.

The summons to attend the king’s official mistress had come just after her rehearsal the day before. François brought it to her. Madame de Montespan was still the most powerful woman at court, she had been told, although there were rumors that Madame de Maintenon was edging her out of the king’s favors. Émilie saw the marquise once in a while in the evening, at the queen’s card parties, when she, Émilie, was summoned to be decorative and helpful, picking up ladies’ fans when they dropped them or beckoning servants to replenish glasses of wine. The Marquise de Montespan was always the most magnificently dressed and still very beautiful after several childbirths. She looked more regal than the queen herself but was never unnecessarily unkind. She even asked Émilie to sing for her someday.

“Be careful,” François had told her. “She did not get to her position through an excess of virtue.”

“Why does she want to see me? Do you think she’ll ask me to sing?” she asked him.

“Who can say? But her summons must be obeyed, as surely as a summons from the queen. Now let me see how you look.” François stepped back to admire Émilie’s gown and coiffure, over which Marie had taken special care that morning.

As she made her short journey dressed like a lady of rank, Émilie suddenly wished that Charpentier could see her. She was embarrassed to think how childish she was when she had gone for her lessons every day. He would be proud to see how elegant, how calm she had grown. She had written to him and told him about singing the role of Alceste, and he wrote back, so happy for her and full of advice. She read the letter several times over before burning it, as she had all Charpentier’s others on François’s advice. It always pained her to do it. The paper with Charpentier’s handwriting on it was her only connection with the world outside Versailles. There were days when she thought she might die if she did not receive a letter from her mentor—her friend. Émilie could tell that he worried about her, and she could also tell that he wished she would come back. He wished, even, that she had never gone away. She would reassure him that Lully’s music, although very skillful, was not the equal of his, and that she would never enjoy singing it as much. Émilie longed to be permitted to sing one of the airs Charpentier had written for her. Even more than that, she longed to sing their own, special duet.

Émilie’s memories were interrupted when the servants deposited her chair abruptly at the bottom of a long flight of marble steps leading up to the door of the miniature Versailles that was in view of the full-scale version where Émilie now lived. She knew that if she were a little more important, they would have carried her all the way up and into the very room where her hostess awaited her. As it was, they stood by, immobile. She struggled somewhat awkwardly out of the chair, exposing her ankles in the process.

Although from the outside Clagny resembled Versailles, as soon as Émilie walked through the door, she could tell she was in an altogether different place. As in Versailles, there were parquet floors, marble columns and statues, and beautiful hangings and pictures, but the ceilings were lower. And because the rooms were not as deep, the light from the windows illuminated them better, but it was filtered by gauzy silk curtains that waved languidly as she walked by and stirred up the peaceful air.