Emilie's Voice (28 page)

Thirty

By the time Marcel and Charpentier arrived at the appointed spot, a faint light illuminated the outlines of the landscape. Charpentier could see the contour of St. Pierre and the abbey of Montmartre against the lightening sky in the distance and heard the mournful tolling of the bell calling the nuns to lauds. Another coach already waited for them there. Charpentier recognized it right away as Monsieur de St. Paul’s. The count and his second lolled nonchalantly against a jagged stump, taking aim through the gold-handled pistols.

The formalities were accomplished, and Marcel and St. Paul’s friend loaded the guns. Charpentier’s hands shook.

The duelists paced apart as agreed, and then turned.

At first Charpentier did not know what had happened. He could not see anything when he tried to aim, and thought that St. Paul was dancing around in merriment at the spectacle. The report of the pistol deafened him for a while, and he felt as if he inhabited a bizarre twilight of existence. Suddenly he found he was lying flat on the ground and staring at the now pale blue sky. Marcel’s face appeared over him wearing a look of concern, and then the world went black.

Every now and again Sophie tried anew to pick the wardrobe lock using her fingernails, but to no avail. After about an hour, she gave up altogether, and sat crouched in the corner behind a muslin slip. She began to weep, using the slip to dab her eyes.

In what must have been the early hours of the morning, Sophie heard the door of the room open.

“Just help me out of this gown, and you may go. I’m too old for these festivities. It will take me a week to recover.”

It was the princess. Sophie barely breathed.

“Yes, Mademoiselle. But the party was a great success, no?”

“It was. But fancy that nephew of mine, challenging poor Monsieur Charpentier to a duel! What can have possessed him?”

“I understand the fellow hit him on the chin, Mademoiselle.”

“I’m sure he deserved it. I hope they have the good sense to cool off and forget their argument. Such a waste. Thank you, Jeanne. Just put the gown away and then you may go.”

Sophie heard the maid’s steps approach, and she pressed herself into the back of the armoire. The metallic grind of the lock disengaging was followed by a flood of fresh air. It was all she could do to prevent herself from leaping out and filling her lungs. The girl put the dress in its place, pushed the doors shut again, but did not lock them. Sophie breathed a quiet sigh of relief. She would wait until Mademoiselle was asleep and then steal away. She knew now that she had missed her opportunity to warn Charpentier. All that was left was to get back to Émilie as quickly as she could.

Once the princess was snoring, Sophie pushed open the armoire door and crawled through the room. She heard a seam tear when her toe caught in the hem of the gown.

“Oh my poor Alençon!”

Sophie stopped. The snoring commenced again. The princess was talking in her sleep. Sophie made it to the door, opened it quietly, and slipped out of the house unseen.

Émilie awoke with a start at dawn. The notebook lay open on her lap, and the fire was almost out. She closed the book, rose, and tried to poke the fire into life again, but there was no wood left. Lucille had not yet arrived. She looked around. Sophie was not there, nor was Marc-Antoine. Émilie’s heart began to beat fast. She searched around the apartment, as if she might find her husband hidden somewhere, until the silence and emptiness were almost unbearable.

The stillness was broken suddenly by loud knocking at the door below.

“Émilie! Open up!”

It was Sophie’s voice. “Thank God!” Émilie said as she went as quickly as she was able down the stairs to let her in.

When Émilie threw the door open, there stood Sophie in a state of disarray, wearing a beautiful gold gown that was rumpled and torn. “What happened?”

“I don’t have time to tell you. We must get away this instant. Leave everything behind, just come with me. I can hide you!”

“But Marc-Antoine! I cannot go without him. He will worry if I do not leave word.”

Before Sophie could explain, two police officers sprang out from the alley next to the house. “Madame Émilie Charpentier, née Jolicoeur?”

Émilie was about to open her mouth to say it was she, when Sophie stood in front of her and spoke. “That’s me! I’m Émilie Charpentier.”

“Sophie!”

“Shut up!” she whispered.

One of the police officers grabbed Sophie roughly by the arm. “You’re under arrest, by order of His Majesty the King.”

“On what charge?”

“Theft of property belonging to the Crown.”

The other police officer began to tie Sophie’s hands together behind her.

“No!” screamed Émilie. “I’m Madame Charpentier! It’s me you want!”

The two policemen looked at each other, then at Sophie and Émi-lie. “Don’t listen to her,” said Sophie.

“She’s lying!” insisted Émilie.

“Look, we only need one of you. We’re looking for Madame Charpentier, the singer.”

“That’s me! I’m the singer. Listen!” Sophie began to belt out one of her comic songs for all she was worth. The policemen looked at each other again and grimaced.

While Sophie was still howling, Émilie began to sing in earnest, one of the new songs her husband had composed for her and that she had learned during the long night before. After a moment Sophie fell silent. For several minutes the little group on the pavement stood completely still. Émilie’s voice rang out in the clear morning, echoing off the buildings. They stayed there, a reverent audience, until Émilie finished her song.

The policeman let Sophie go and instead tied Émilie’s hands behind her.

“No!” cried Sophie. “Émilie, you fool! I know how to get away! Don’t you see? They would have ended up with no one, and now they have you!” Tears streamed down Sophie’s face as she watched the policemen put Émilie in a cart that waited down the street. Within moments, they took her away.

Sophie turned and went into the house, making no effort to stop her sobbing. She would have to stay there, to tell Charpentier that Émilie had been taken. “Why did she do it?” she asked the empty parlor.

She wiped her nose on the sleeve of Mademoiselle de Guise’s gown and flopped into a chair. Next to her, Émilie’s embroidery lay abandoned, and the notebook of music was open on the floor. Poor Émilie, she thought.

After no more than a quarter of an hour, Sophie heard the door below squeak on its hinges and then slam shut. What sounded like a wild beast grunting was making its way up the stairs to the apartment. She stood up and pressed herself against the wall next to the parlor door so that she would be hidden when it opened.

“Émilie? Sophie?”

It was Marcel. Sophie came out from behind the door and gasped. Marcel supported Charpentier, whose shirt was awash in blood.

“What happened?”

“A duel. I tried to stop it.”

“Let’s get him into bed,” said Sophie, coming to support Charpentier on the other side. Together they laid him down. “He is feverish; he needs a doctor.”

“Can you stay with him? I must go tell my wife what has happened. Where is Émilie?”

“They took her. The police.”

Marcel collapsed onto a chair. “The police! What has she done?”

“I’ll explain it all later. Go home, bring Madame Jolicoeur here to help. We will get Émilie back,” Sophie said, putting her hand on Marcel’s shoulder.

Marcel nodded and left without saying another word.

“Help me up. I must go immediately!”

“But Monsieur le Comte, you are not out of danger!” St. Paul’s valet fluttered about rearranging the count’s hairbrushes and making a great show of pouring a dish of tisane.

“I might as well be dead as let Mademoiselle Émilie come to any harm before I get her to Versailles. Fetch my coat!”

St. Paul flicked his hand at the bowl of tisane, which flew across the room and smashed against the wall. When he tried to stand, a sharp pain stabbed through his right leg, and he collapsed on the edge of the bed. “And my walking stick,” he said through his clenched teeth.

All the way to the Bastille, St. Paul’s leg throbbed. He had not counted on Charpentier’s being able to wound him at all. Although it was not a fair fight, the count had not aimed to kill. He intended only to render Charpentier ineffective at preventing Émilie’s arrest, which he had arranged just before his godmother’s soirée. Now she had no doubt spent the night in prison. That would not gain him any favors with the king.

At that moment the blood started to seep through the dressing and into his last pair of good breeches. St. Paul wondered what excuse he could think of for asking his godmother to lend him another fifty écus.

The large, dark chamber where Émilie and about a dozen prostitutes, thieves, and other petty criminals were thrown together had a thin layer of straw on the floor. Everyone defecated in the corners, and rats ran around freely. Her wrists were rubbed raw from the ropes they had tied around them to bring her there, but once she was in the prison, the ropes were removed. The massive stone walls and the iron bars were adequate measures of restraint for the motley assortment of troublemakers who had been put in prison for a month or two to teach them a lesson. The few accused of heavier crimes would eventually be led from that place to their execution. They were those who, although guilty of capital offences, were not considered dangerous enough to take up space meanwhile in the more secure and still more inhospitable Châtelet.

No murmur from the outside reached Émilie where she was, so she assumed that the king had discovered the diamond brooch missing and had ordered her arrested. A part of her felt that she had gotten what she deserved for having ruined the slippers, for having carried off the diamond brooch, and most of all for having lost her baby. She thought perhaps if she just closed her eyes, she would die, that all the time she had spent since the day she tried to leap out of her window at Versailles would be as if it had never occurred. But life was not so simple. Émilie comforted herself by imagining all the music she had learned from Marc-Antoine’s notebook, creating a concert in her own mind as she rocked back and forth on her heels, crouched down in the middle of the cell.

Madeleine Jolicoeur brought her son-in-law a bowl of broth. She had removed the lead slug from his shoulder and cleaned the wound. Her mother had taught her how to deal with injuries, assuming that she would never be wealthy enough to afford a doctor if Marcel should have an accident while working with his sharp implements.

Lucille arrived at her usual hour, just in time to miss all the excitement. She screamed when she saw Monsieur Charpentier wounded. Madeleine sent her out for food.

Once Charpentier was resting comfortably, Sophie looked through Émilie’s clothes.

“What are you doing?” demanded Madeleine.

“I can’t go around in Mademoiselle de Guise’s dress. I thought I could just borrow one of Émilie’s for now.”

Madeleine did not trust Sophie, for no other reason than that she was too pretty. “Very well. But not one of the silk ones.”

Sophie changed her clothes and joined Marcel and Madeleine in the parlor. “Where do you think they’ve taken her?” Marcel asked.

“Probably the Bastille. It’s close to here, and she’s not a known criminal.” Sophie paced back and forth. Marcel and Madeleine followed her with their eyes. “In which case, someone needs to go there and bribe the guards. That’s the way to get her out.”

Marcel shook his head. “We have little money. Probably not enough.”

“I have some,” said Sophie. She went into Émilie’s room and fished out from her small valise the leather pouch where she kept the remainder of her savings.

“Why would you do this?” It was Madeleine. She did not understand what Sophie had to do with her daughter, what possible ties she could have that would link her to Émilie.

“It’s a long story, and we don’t have any time. Monsieur Jolicoeur, take this, and go to the Bastille right away.”

“Wait!” said Madeleine. She had brought her workbox over with her from home, not wanting to waste any time if she had to stay and nurse Monsieur Charpentier. She opened it and groped around in the bottom, retrieving two scraps of satin with tiny jewels embroidered on them. “These might be worth something. You could sell them, get a little more money.”

Sophie looked at the bits of fabric Madeleine gave her. “Where did you get these?”

“They were all that was left of a ruined pair of slippers Émilie wore. I cut them out before throwing the rest of the slippers into the fire.”

“When was this?”

“Oh, more than a year—yes! Of course. It was the night Émilie sang at the Duchesse de Guise’s salon.”

Sophie smiled weakly and shook her head, and then before she knew what was happening, tears began to flow down her cheeks.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said Madeleine.

The words came out all squeezed and breathless. “You see, it’s the shoes! I’ve found them!”