Emilie's Voice (20 page)

Who had seen him leave? Two, maybe three servants? They were easily bought.

François ran down the stairs to the door by which Charpentier had entered. The little page stood there still, looking confused.

“What happened here, lad?” asked François.

“Not sure really. A man, he grabbed me, and then ran upstairs, and came back carrying something that looked like a sack but I think it was a person.”

The boy was very young, probably not more than eleven or twelve years old. “Listen to me,” said François, taking the lad’s chin in his hand and turning his face so that he could look directly into his eyes. “You saw no such thing. You were asleep in your quarters until I called you to come and help me. The young girl jumped out of her window and was killed in the Cour de Marbre. We moved her, you and I. We got a cart, and we took her to a far corner of the garden and buried her. And we cleaned up the blood in the courtyard.”

By this time the lad’s eyes were huge. “You want me to lie?” he said.

“That’s right,” said François. “I want you to lie, so that someone may live in peace and serenity. I don’t think it’s much to ask.” François reached into his pocket and pulled out a shiny coin, which he gave to the boy. “Promise me,” he said.

“I promise,” the boy said, and then scampered off to bed.

Nineteen

The horse was clearly flagging on the return trip to Paris, and Charpentier was afraid that he had injured Émilie by handling her so roughly in his haste to get away. There was nothing to do but stop.

Charpentier pulled his horse up by a copse of trees, and walked him to where they could not be seen from the road. He gently slid off, holding Émilie close, then laid her on the leafy ground.

“Émilie, Émilie!” he said, patting her cheeks and rubbing her wrists.

She murmured and opened her eyes. “Am I dead? Did I go to heaven?”

“No, Mademoiselle. Only to Paris. At least, that is where we will be in about an hour, if you can manage to sit up and hold on for a little while longer.”

“Monsieur Charpentier! I’m so glad to see you.” She began to cry. Charpentier lifted her and held her to him for a moment. He could feel her trembling.

“We must get back on the horse and continue. I have a place for you to stay. Are you all right?”

Émilie nodded. Charpentier helped her stand. “Just let me see to the horse for a moment,” he said, and then walked away from her to tighten the girth and check the horse’s hooves for stones.

She was a little wobbly at first, but Émilie pulled herself upright, stretched, and breathed deeply. When she did this, she noticed something small, sharp, and bright stuck on the inside of her cloak. She reached into its folds and felt a hard, pointy object caught by a few threads on the lining of the wrap. It was the diamond bird brooch the king had given her a few hours before. Émilie looked toward Charpentier, but he was still busy, now lengthening a stirrup so she could remount easily. She wrapped her fingers around the brooch. She would tell him about it later.

“Come and let me help you up,” said Charpentier. He lifted her easily onto the saddle and then mounted behind her. After readjusting the stirrup for his own leg, he yelled “Get on!” The horse, now a little rested, took off at a gallop.

Émilie leaned back against Charpentier’s chest, feeling his arms enclosing her, muscles tensed to control the horse, and shut her eyes. The wind felt good on her face. She could already smell Paris.

St. Paul’s coachman approached the sleeping figure propped against a boulder at the side of the road. “Is that you, Monsieur de St. Paul?”

St. Paul shook himself awake. “What time is it?” he asked, leaping to his feet.

“It’s two in the morning. I was afraid I wouldn’t find you.”

“What took you so long!”

“With only one horse, it was slow.”

“Did you see anyone ride by, very fast, toward Paris?”

“No, I didn’t—that is, only one horse, but not going very fast, because it was carrying two people.”

St. Paul shook his head and sat in silence for a minute or two. “Let’s go on to Versailles. There’s nothing else I can do now.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Where’s the horse?”

“I think he’s over there, enjoying all this grass. I’ll get him, and we’ll be on our way before you know it.”

St. Paul was very happy to see the inside of his coach. This kind of excitement was not really in his line. He was annoyed at himself for failing to stop Charpentier, but it was only a temporary setback. He would find a better way. He would bring Émilie back to Versailles, with or without the help of Madame de Maintenon. He had tried it her way, and what was the result? Now the king would have no one else to thank but him. St. Paul looked at his ruined breeches and sighed. He had no more credit with the tailor. He would have to convince his godmother to advance him some cash.

“You say she jumped,” said Madame de Maintenon, who looked as if she had not been asleep when François knocked on her door.

“Yes. There was nothing I could do. By the time I was able to enter the room, it was too late.”

“Thank you for coming and telling me first,” she said, looking steadily at François. “Where is she now?”

“I buried her.”

The widow Scarron did not take her eyes off François. “So soon? How did you manage it?”

François was certain she had seen through his lie. “I had help. A young page was nearby. And besides, you know, a suicide …”

“I think you had better inform the king.” Madame de Maintenon let go of the line of inquiry, but François was under no illusion that she bought the story completely.

“Someone should tell the girl’s parents,” said François.

“Yes, her parents. Do you know them?”

“No, Madame.”

“I shall send St. Paul when he returns. François,” she said, and François could almost see her mind at work during the pause in her speech. “François, did you give my instructions to the wine steward?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“And what happened to the wine for Mademoiselle Émilie?”

“I am afraid I dropped the tray when I heard the noise that made me force the door of her chamber.” François was certain he saw the widow Scarron breathe a sigh, almost of relief.

“You may go.”

The door had certainly been broken in, and the window was still wide open. Apart from these two things, it looked much like the other little rooms in the great château. There was nothing in particular to distinguish it, except for the things on the desk: a set of watercolors and a velvet box. St. Paul was mildly curious about what was inside the box, although he imagined it was a gift from the king, very likely a valuable and utterly useless trinket. He picked it up and opened it. He was really not surprised to find it empty, except for a piece of paper, whose message was clear enough. If there had been anything of value in the box, he would have taken it himself and blamed one of the servants for stealing it. He glanced around the room for the object that the box should have contained, but he found nothing.

Altogether too early the morning after his unsuccessful adventure, St. Paul was called to attend Madame de Maintenon. She told him that Émilie had leapt from her window and killed herself, and that he was to go to Paris to inform her parents. He went directly from the widow Scarron’s apartments to quiz his coachman about what he had seen the night before. The man swore that it was two people on a horse. Of course, it might have been a different two people. But at that hour? And on that road?

The palace guard, on the other hand, swore that no one had come through there before St. Paul himself in the early hours of the morning. Someone could have bought him off, though.

“Serves me right for leaving Versailles.” St. Paul’s voice sounded loud in the deserted room.

“Oh, she’ll see me!” Madame de Montespan said, sweeping past the footman at Madame de Maintenon’s door.

“To what do I owe this honor?” said the widow Scarron, rising from her desk and curtseying to the marquise.

“You just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you!”

“I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The girl. You knew she was going to flee, didn’t you? What did it matter to you?”

“My dear Marquise, exactly what do you insinuate?”

Madame de Montespan strode restlessly around the small parlor, her silk skirts swishing against the furniture. “Why did she do it? She had everything to live for.”

“These are mysteries we must look to God alone to answer.” Madame de Maintenon turned away from her visitor.

“God, or the devil! Be careful how you use your influence, Madame.”

“Surely such agitation is not good for a woman in your delicate condition,” said the widow Scarron.

“Yes, another of the king’s darlings for you to teach. Make no mistake, that is your job.”

Madame de Maintenon curtseyed. “So sorry you could not stay longer and enjoy a cup of tea.”

“I wouldn’t dare drink tea that you had prepared.”

“I thought that sort of thing was more in your line.”

Madame de Montespan left the room as suddenly as she arrived.

When St. Paul made the journey to Paris the next day to inform Marcel and Madeleine, he said nothing of the velvet box with its note, and its lack of an object he knew must be very valuable. He told them only what he had been told: that François had found a discreet spot within the garden of Versailles to lay their daughter to rest. Marcel broke down immediately, but Madeleine maintained her composure. St. Paul admired her restraint.

Émilie, as she had been, effectively ceased to exist.

Twenty

Three days had passed since Émilie’s dramatic exit from Versailles. She departed, as she often mused, exactly as she had come: more or less unconscious. Now she was in a small apartment, spending much of her time entirely alone. Charpentier told her they were still in the Marais, but what did it matter? He had forbidden her to go outside.

“What if someone recognized you? It could be dangerous—for both of us.”

“You mean I cannot walk home to see my father and mother?”

Charpentier looked at her and sighed. “Promise me, for now, you will not go outside. Lucille will see to your needs. If you want anything, anything at all, just tell me.”

“When can I go about the streets again?”

“When the danger is past,” answered Charpentier, in a tone of voice that had signaled to Émilie that there was no point in pressing the issue further. He had been her teacher before, but it irked her that he took command so completely. How was she to know whether it was best to follow his instructions or whether he too was trying to use her in his own way? The world seemed to have undergone a strange transformation since the night of her début at Versailles. Nothing felt certain anymore.

Charpentier had taken care to provide clothes for Émilie and brought her books to read and a deck of cards. Émilie had learned a simple game of solitaire at Versailles on those evenings when she was required to attend the card parties, when she would watch the ladies wager huge sums of money against each other with a kind of desperation. Now she began to understand why, when everything else in life seemed to be in the control of others, trusting to pure chance might have its allure.

When she was not singing, Émilie’s favorite occupation at Versailles had been drawing and painting. The drawing master was a kind old soul who was nearly blind, and he complimented whatever she did. Charpentier said that he would bring her paper and paints too, so that she could amuse herself during the many hours she would have to spend without him. Émilie was not completely alone all day, though. Lucille, the maid, came for a few hours, to tend the fire and bring Émilie food—delicious, simple food instead of all the rich delicacies that were the usual fare at court—and see to her daily wants. Charpentier himself stopped in for an hour or two each evening. He had to continue his life at the Hôtel de Guise as if nothing had happened and so could not spend the days in Émilie’s company.

With so many empty hours between visits, she had ample time to reflect upon what had happened to her. They had arrived in Paris in the dead of night. Charpentier sat with her until she fell asleep in the comfortable bed in the tiny apartment. By the time she awoke several hours later, he had returned, looking refreshed.

“Tell me everything,” she said.

Charpentier filled her in quickly on the events of the night before. Émilie shivered when she realized that if he had not arrived when he had, she might have fallen out of the window and would really be dead.

“What shall we do now? Do they know I am here? What about Mesdames, and François, and St. Paul, and the king?”

He reached into his waistcoat and withdrew a letter from his inside pocket. “They all believe that you fell. This was waiting for me when I went back to the Hôtel de Guise this morning.” He showed Émilie the note that had arrived at dawn that day. It said that the king had been informed of Émilie’s death, and that if Charpentier valued his or her life, he must ensure that she was never again brought before the royal notice. The note was not signed.

“So, I am dead after all,” she said.

For a moment Émilie was aware of an enveloping silence, as if the world had fallen away, and all that was left was herself, perched atop a lofty peak that was surrounded by clouds. She was far away from everyone, including Charpentier. No one could know, she was certain, how it felt to find oneself erased from so many minds. She shook her head from side to side, just to bring herself back to the present. Then she turned toward Charpentier.

“Don’t you see what it means?” she said.

“It will not be so bad! They will leave us alone. I can show you the music I have written. You can sing for me.”

Émilie gazed steadily at him. She felt her eyes stinging and could not stop the tears that burned in them. She knew, after her triumphant début, that anyone with any connection whatsoever to the court would recognize her voice the instant it was raised in song. Her face they might forget, but her voice—never. She understood that as long as she and Charpentier must avoid the notice of the king, she must not sing.

“Ah,” Charpentier said, the light fading from his eyes. “I see. How stupid of me. Of course.” He walked over to the window. Émilie could see his shoulders droop. After a moment or two he turned and came back to her bedside.

“So, that’s how it must be. It doesn’t matter, to me. Really it doesn’t.”

Charpentier took Émilie’s hand in his and stroked it. Although she realized that it was meant to be comforting, his gesture only irritated her. Émilie wanted to scream out loud, but she was too tired, so she lay back and turned her head away. Charpentier lifted her fingers to his lips, then departed in silence.

Now the lonely hours yawned before Émilie, who found herself counting each day off as if she were serving out a prison sentence. Although she was no longer confined to the château and grounds of Versailles, she was a captive still, this time in solitary confinement, with the boundaries of her world tinier and more restrictive than they had ever been. She never thought she could possibly miss anything about her life at court, but she did miss contact, however superficial, with other people. She missed François and his quietly sensitive responsiveness to her every need. She missed the silent Marie, who took care of her without a word of complaint. She missed running through the corridors or the garden when no one was looking. She missed disliking Lully, and being fussed over and petted, even if there was always some unstated motive behind the attention. She missed being part of the world, whatever that world was.

Lully drew himself up to his full height and tried to suck in his belly. He was dressed in his finest clothes, having arrived to go over with the king the plans for an upcoming celebration. When he felt he looked his best, he cleared his throat and tapped lightly at the door. Colbert’s voice called to him to enter.

“So, my friend, will you have a new ballet for me?”

The king was in a good mood. He had just recently discovered that he was to be a father again.

“Yes, Your Majesty, a ballet. Will you take part? There is a wonderful role for you.”

“Alas, my dancing days are at an end. Madame de Maintenon advises me that it does not become a monarch to appear upon the stage.”

Lully was not certain, but he thought he saw a knowing look pass between the king and his finance minister.

“And how much, Monsieur de Lully, will this new production cost?” Colbert asked. He had his ledger books open on an enormous table at the right height for standing.

“That is impossible to say, Monsieur. We must maintain the utmost quality. The king’s festivities cannot be seen to be anything less than perfect.” Lully glanced in the direction of the king for corroboration.

Louis turned to Colbert. “Monsieur Lully speaks the truth. However, I believe that he may be able to make some economies, now that we no longer have the expense of the young singer to bear.” The king cast a meaningful look at Lully.

“Yes,” he said, “a great pity that such talent should perish.” Lully understood that this was his monarch’s way of punishing him for whatever role he might have had in provoking Émilie’s suicide. He would have to bear some of the expense himself. This was vexing, to say the least. He had his heart set on some new tapestries for his town house in Paris. And Pierre had asked for a pretty little bauble, a gold buckle with rubies and pearls. He had been so sweet and comforting lately, Lully hated to say no.

The king smiled. “Let us have a grand bower. I see thousands and thousands of roses …”

“And perhaps there can be a chorus of pages, to cast flower petals before the king. I believe there is one in particular who has a fine voice?” Colbert waited for Lully to answer.

“I do not know whom you mean, Monsieur,” he answered.

“Strange,” said Colbert, smirking, “I have heard that you give private instruction to one young fellow at all hours of the day and night.”

Lully’s response caught in his throat, and he pretended to cough into his handkerchief.

“I hope you are not suffering from a cold,” said the king, leaning back in his chair away from the court composer.

“No, Sire,” Lully answered. “It was only the slightest tickle. But I believe you will not be disappointed with the spectacle or the singers who will next perform before you.”

Lully remained closeted with Louis and Colbert for the remainder of the afternoon. By the time he left, he was furious and had made a mental note to discover who had betrayed him so infamously to Colbert. In those few hours he had discovered not only that his fortune was to be diminished because of Émilie’s demise, but that he must take somewhat greater care with his personal proclivities, or he might find himself accused of a crime that not even the king would dare forgive. Fortunately, he knew that his wife would back him up. She was a fool, but she was loyal, and she liked the life to which his influence at court entitled her. She spent almost all her time in their house in Paris, never questioning her husband’s right to have his personal valet in attendance night and day. A pity, really, that he could not return her esteem in equal measure.

“Émilie,” began Charpentier just before he was going to leave her one night and return to his celibate quarters at the Hôtel de Guise.

“Yes?” She stopped leafing through the book of poetry he had brought her and that she was too lazy to actually read and looked up at him from where she sat on the rug in front of the fireplace. “What is it?” she asked.

“I just think, it’s time we made a few changes.”

At last, thought Émilie. “You mean, I can go out now?”

“Well, not exactly, but if we make this change, I think you will be safer, and then soon you may start to appear in public again.” Charpentier fidgeted with the lace on the edges of his cuffs.

Émilie was puzzled. He looked distinctly uncomfortable and would not meet her eyes. “I don’t understand,” she said.

All at once Charpentier turned his gaze full onto her, grasped her hands, and pulled her to her feet. The book that was in her lap tumbled to the floor. “Émilie, I think we should get married.”

“Why?” Émilie blurted out the question before she could stop herself, and immediately regretted it.

Charpentier stepped back from her, pushed his wig back slightly and scratched his scalp, a familiar gesture that brought a smile to Émilie’s lips. She reached for his hands again. “Do you love me?”

He was silent for a moment or two, his eyes traveling over her face as if looking there for confirmation. “Yes,” he said.

The look on Charpentier’s face made Émilie want to hold him like an infant, it was so full of uncertainty and fear. “Well then,” Émilie said, lowering her eyes, “perhaps we should.”

Charpentier took Émilie’s face between his hands and drew her forward to him. He kissed her, very gently.

Émilie felt the touch of his lips, warm, moist, and light, on hers. Something gave way inside of her, and she felt a tingling in regions of her body that were far from her mouth. It was a pleasant sensation. She let his kiss continue as long as he cared to press his mouth to hers. Émilie knew that they should get married, knew that it would happen even if she had not enjoyed Charpentier’s kiss so much. There was the matter of propriety, after all. Despite the fact that no one was aware that she was living there at a man’s expense, unchaperoned, in an apartment in a part of town where women of ill repute set up housekeeping four or five times a day, Émilie realized that the arrangement was not entirely
comme il faut.

“And what about you?” asked Charpentier, after he had stopped kissing Émilie, and the two of them simply stood there, searching each other’s eyes.

“Me?” she asked.

“You know,” he said. “Are you happy? About getting married?”

“Of course I am!” Émilie wanted to give him the answer she knew he was looking for. But somehow, just then, she could not. It would have been so simple, just to say those three words, to surrender herself completely to the idea that they would never be separated again, that her soul was bound to his for all eternity, but something held her back. She was grateful to Charpentier for not asking in a way that would force her to say it when she needed time to understand what it all meant. The reality of her situation, the carrying through of the scheme that Madame de Montespan had concocted ostensibly to help Émilie return to the man she loved, had opened her eyes. What she had felt before was yearning, infatuation, desperation. Consenting to be married was one thing. Admitting to being in love was something else altogether.