Emilie's Voice (31 page)

Thirty-three

During the twenty-four hours that Charpentier drifted in and out of delirium, Marcel, Madeleine, and Sophie tried to think of a way to find out what was happening to Émilie at Versailles. But Sophie’s sources had proven unreliable in the past, and without being able to read or write, Marcel and Madeleine could only pray that their sonin law would recover quickly and help them get information about their daughter’s whereabouts. Just under two days after Émilie was removed from the Bastille, Charpentier’s fever broke and he insisted on getting dressed and taking a fiacre to Versailles. Each step of the process exhausted him, and it was difficult to put his chemise, waistcoat, and coat on over his still wounded shoulder. He stood up, and then had to rest for a while. He dressed, and then had to sit quietly in the parlor for about an hour. It would be difficult to disguise the fact that he could not move his left arm.

“You must not go so soon! What good will it do for Émilie if you kill yourself?” Madeleine argued with Charpentier.

“You don’t know what they—St. Paul especially—are capable of. Émilie has no one to protect her. I must go. They must see that I am not simply going to let her be taken from me without a murmur.”

There was a knock on the door below. Both of them froze, listening intently. They heard the landlady’s voice. She mounted the stairway and tapped on the Charpentier’s door. Lucille opened it for her, and when she had gone, came into the parlor with a letter in her hand. She gave it to Charpentier.

“What does it say?” asked Madeleine.

It was on very heavy paper and sealed with a large quantity of red wax and a stamp that bore the fleur-de-lys. “It says I am to appear before His Majesty. Today.”

“Does it mention Émilie?”

Charpentier let his hand drop, as if the piece of paper were instead a lead weight. “No, it does not. And now it is no doubt too late. But still, I must go.”

He looked up from the letter to face Madeleine’s level stare. It had been a year and a half since Émilie’s parents had seen her. Charpentier found himself wondering whose fault it had all been. It was they who had consented to send Émilie to Versailles. It had been he who had removed her and made it necessary for her to hide away, to risk the king’s wrath. They were in this together. Although he did not know what would happen, and he suspected that his attendance at Versailles would alter nothing, he had to keep hoping that at the end of the day, Émilie would be sitting beside him with her arm through his, and her head resting on his good shoulder.

“Heavens! You’re dressed,” Sophie said to Charpentier, having returned from her errands, which included gathering the remainder of her belongings from her shabby room.

Madeleine embraced her. The maid had proven her loyalty and gained the respect of both Marcel and Madeleine. “He has been summoned to Versailles,” she said.

Charpentier held out the letter for Sophie to read.

“Where is Marcel?”

“Gone to fetch a coach,” said Charpentier.

The luthier came back a few moments later, and Madeleine and Marcel helped Charpentier stand. From the top of the stairs they watched him take each step with his wobbly legs. “Bring me my daughter,” Madeleine said, and then looked away before he could turn around and see the expression on her face.

All the way to Versailles Charpentier tried to work out what to say when he was brought before the king. Should he be indignant? Respectful? Pleading? Desperate? He had no way to know what was appropriate. Besides, Lully had been spreading lies about him, so Émilie told him, and for all Charpentier knew, the king thought he was a traitor. Perhaps I am going to be sent to prison, he thought. Matters were complicated by the fact that he felt very ill. He cradled his bad arm in his good one, but still every bump, every jolt of the carriage sent a searing pain through his shoulder. Charpentier wished that he could fall into a deep, interminable sleep, nestled up to Émilie. But ever since he had recovered enough to understand the entire sequence of events, he had barely closed his eyes.

By the time the carriage arrived at the main gate, Charpentier was in agony. He climbed out of the coach and crossed the Cour Royale on foot, remembering so clearly the night he had entered on horseback. How everything had changed since then. But he did not have time to dwell on the past. A servant led him away, not to the king’s apartments, but to the office on the ground floor of the château occupied by Monsieur de Lully.

“Welcome, Monsieur Charpentier!” said Lully with a smile that limited itself to his lips. “At long last we meet.”

It was odd, thought Charpentier, to look into the eyes of the person who had done more to thwart his career than anyone else alive. He noticed that they were overshadowed by folds of skin that gave them an almost slanted look, and that Lully’s nose was pinched and narrow at the top and splayed out at the bottom. The cheeks were sallow and flabby. Altogether, it did not look like a French face. Also in the room was a valet, who stared angrily at Charpentier.

“But I forget myself,” said Lully, noticing that Charpentier leaned on the back of a chair. “Please, sit down.”

Charpentier took the chair gladly.

“I am a great admirer of your sacred music, Monsieur Charpentier.”

“You might perhaps also admire my music for the theater if I were permitted to make use of adequate forces to mount a production.” Charpentier knew he was being rude, but he did not care.

“The king is very particular, what can I say? Is that perhaps your reason for coming here today, to persuade him to alter the ordinance?” “I imagine you know the reason for my visit.”

“Ah yes, it is quite an honor!”

“An honor to have one’s wife abducted?”

“Come now, Monsieur Charpentier, that is an exaggeration … So, you thought you would come and reclaim your rights? I assure you, the king does not often relinquish conquered territory,” Lully said with a chuckle.

“I do not see the cause for mirth.” Charpentier was a little surprised by Lully’s manner.

“Of course, how callous of me.” Lully sat in a chair opposite Charpentier and looked at him, the hint of a smile on his face, without speaking for what seemed a long time.

“Tell me,” he finally said, “when was the last time you heard Mademoiselle Émilie—I mean, Madame Charpentier—sing?”

Charpentier seethed. This game had gone on long enough. “I have not heard her sing for eighteen months, since I introduced her at a soirée at the Hotel de Guise—and I do not see that it is any business of yours!”

Lully ignored him. “And how would it be, for you, if you were never able to hear her sing again?”

“I’ve heard enough. My appointment was with the king.” Charpentier used his good arm to push himself to a standing position.

“Forgive me. I speak in riddles. But I simply wondered, as a matter of personal curiosity, one musician to another, whether you cared more about the woman or the voice?”

Charpentier clenched his fist so hard that he could feel his fingernails dig into his palm. If he had full use of his limbs, he would have been tempted to wrap his hands around Lully’s neck with the same deadly pressure. Instead he spoke, an icy edge in his voice. “Tell me, Monsieur de Lully. Are you married?”

“Why yes, I am. But that does not signify,” he said.

Charpentier saw the servant cast a searing glance in Lully’s direction, which Lully returned. So that was how it was. “The king is waiting for me.”

“I see you do not want to answer me.” Lully tore his eyes away from the pretty young man. “No matter. The outcome will be the same.” He rose. “A word of advice, Monsieur Charpentier. The king does not like to be contradicted. You will get nowhere by telling him it is your right to have Émilie returned to you. Le Comte de St. Paul learned, greatly to his detriment, that it does not do to anticipate the king’s wishes.” Lully paused to brush some imagined dust off his coat.

“I am certain St. Paul received no more than he deserved.”

“Perhaps. Who can say? When the king discovered that he had fought a duel, the count was banished immediately. Shall we go? I believe this was the appointed hour.”

Charpentier’s jaw dropped open and then clamped shut. “I was under the impression I was to have a private conversation with the king.”

“Whatever gave you that idea? My dear sir, there is no such thing as a private audience with the King of France!”

Lully laughed as they made their way to the Ambassadors’ Staircase. Charpentier followed him up the marble sweep and through the apartments that had been the scene of Émilie’s last night at Versailles a lifetime ago, and that she had described to him in her letters for all those months. Because it was not yet sunset, there were no candles lit, and the ornate hangings made the enormous rooms appear even darker and more somber than they actually were. Charpentier tried to imagine Émilie there, thinking about him, writing letters to him. He wondered if François was still at Versailles, and if he had been allowed to comfort Émilie again.

Although the Hôtel de Guise was a large house, the sheer scale of the Château de Versailles awed Charpentier. He felt small. Utterly insignificant. It took so long for the two composers to reach the room where King Louis held court that in his fever Charpentier almost forgot why he was there. When at last they arrived and the door opened before them, the raucous sound of men’s and women’s voices all chattering at the same time flooded out. The room was mobbed with courtiers trying to get into position to be noticed by the king. He and Lully hovered in the background of the crowded space, but Louis clearly anticipated their arrival and noticed them immediately.

Charpentier had seen his share of splendor before, but the king’s robe of deep blue velvet embroidered with gold fleurs-de-lys and trimmed with ermine was magnificent beyond his wildest imaginings. The great monarch sat, raised above the tumult, looking like a father who indulgently permitted his wayward children to cavort noisily in his presence but who was capable at any moment of commanding utter obedience. Louis turned to a soberly dressed minister who stood by his side. The man motioned Charpentier to approach.

Charpentier’s legs almost refused his command to move, and his wounded shoulder throbbed unmercifully. He was extremely tired after his long walk from Lully’s apartment to this public reception room. With a mighty effort, he stepped forward. His slow progress had the effect of silencing the entire company, who practically held their breath as the composer made his way.

“Your Majesty,” said Charpentier, bowing deeply, forcing his left arm into the correct position for a courtly bow. He almost fainted, but he took Lully’s advice and did not say anything more, waiting for the king to address him. He had, after all, been summoned there.

“We hear that you have talent. It is our wish that you compose music to aid us in our devotions. For that purpose, we grant you a pension and the title of Chapel Master.” The crowd applauded politely, and he waved Charpentier off, as if this was the only reason he had summoned him to come before him. The courtiers all began talking again, pressing forward to catch the king’s eye.

“But Your Majesty!” said Charpentier. All chattering in the room ceased once more, and eyes focused on this nobody who had said “but” to the king after being granted a pension. “My wife, Émilie. Is she not here? Am I not to see her?”

Louis turned to a woman clad all in black, whom Charpentier had not noticed before. The king whispered something to her, and she nodded, then left. When she returned, a postulant of the Carmelite order followed her in. Because he was not expecting to see her in such garb, Charpentier failed at first to realize that it was Émilie. Her lovely blond hair had been cut short, and what was left of it was hidden beneath the short veil she wore. Her young face looked almost raw, almost indecently naked without the frame of her hair. He could not read her expression because her eyes were focused on the floor.

The king spoke again. “Your wife, Monsieur Charpentier, has chosen to follow the path of God. You may say your farewells.”

At that Louis rose and left the room, and everyone who was attached to the court followed him out, except Lully and the woman who had led Émilie into the chamber. Lully strode up and stood right in front of that woman.

“This is your doing!” Although he did not shout, the fury in his voice was unsuppressed.

“Mine? No one can choose the convent who is not called.”

Lully turned from her and stormed out of the room, leaving Charpentier and the two women alone.

“Émilie?” This creature, whom he knew to be his wife, but who seemed like a stranger, walked toward him with her eyes cast down.

Émilie raised her gaze to meet that of her husband. She stopped just out of his arm’s reach. She could feel Madame de Maintenon watching to see if she did one thing wrong, one thing that violated the agreement she had been forced to sign. Émilie had been prohibited from touching her husband, from weeping, from calling out to him. She had been warned that she would forfeit her life if she even suggested the nature of the alternative to her choice to enter the convent.