Finding Emilie (20 page)

“My own terms?” Emilie frowned, examining the portrait more closely. “I look as if I might be nothing more than a well-decorated wife.” She held her hand to her throat, fingering the diamond she saw painted around her neck.

“I’ll add symbols for whatever else you’d like to convey,” Loir said. “I was certain you’d have ideas about that, so I left the table next to you empty.” She gestured to the still-drying paint. “And your hands too.”

Emilie thought for a moment. “Something expensive on the table—a necklace perhaps—tossed aside in favor of more important things?”

“A diamond necklace?”

Emilie laughed. “I love diamonds too much for that. Crystal beads, I think. A lovely long strand, sticking out from under piles of manuscript pages. Open books too.”

“And your hands?”

Emilie looked away from the painter. A smile played across her lips, as if she were remembering something that wasn’t to be shared. “In the hand of the heart, a white carnation, for passion,” she said. “And in the left, a compass, for my work.”

“Pointed up or down?” Loir asked. “Are you a philosopher of ideas, or a measurer of the world?”

Emilie thought for a moment. “Point it sideways, for I intend to be equally both.” She laughed. “And make it look as if I wouldn’t mind using the points as a weapon, if I had to.”

The painter’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “Madame la Marquise, it will be an honor.” She followed Emilie toward the door. “I’ll send it to you as soon as it is ready.”

“No,” Emilie said. “Send it to Cirey. To Monsieur Voltaire. He’ll know what it means.”

1765

“S
TANISLAS-ADÉLAÏDE BRINGS
very little of consequence to a marriage,” Baronne Lomont sniffed, setting her teacup on the table in the parlor of Hôtel Bercy a month before Lili and Delphine’s presentation at Versailles. “To be sure, her background on the Châtelet side is beyond reproach, but the Breteuils are in a far weaker position. Of course it’s true that her grandfather Breteuil had the honor of being in attendance to the king—”

“The secretary handling the schedule for the king’s foreign visitors, and one of those allowed in the king’s private chambers, is hardly in a weak social position.” Julie’s manner was controlled, as usual, but her indignation was unmistakable. “Surely you are not suggesting a man honored in that way lacks quality.”

“Of course not. The Breteuil family bought their titles long enough ago to have benefited from inclusion in good society for generations now, but that will never be the same as a noble bloodline.”

“I am quite aware of all the details of rank.” Julie’s tone was now frosty. “And though I wish I could make light of the entire subject, I know I cannot, since it is Lili’s future we are discussing.”

“And of course there is the matter of a dowry. I have been led to believe by her father that his contribution will be quite small. Gabrielle-Pauline made an excellent marriage to a duke of some consequence in Italy, but I recall the marquis paid a shocking dowry, especially considering he was marrying his daughter to a
foreigner. Florent-Louis is the heir, and the Châtelet lands and title must pass unimpeded to him. I’m sure his wife’s family would have quite a bit to say if the marquis decided to settle Cirey or another major asset on the girl.”

Lili’s spirits sank as they always did when the subject of her father came up. All her life she ‘d been told that he preferred to live the remainder of his life alone, and that his other two children had no contact with the aging recluse either. Lili’s half sister lived in Italy and after their mother’s death she had drifted out of contact with everyone in Paris. Lili’s half brother lived somewhere in France, but he had never made any effort to meet her, and Lili no longer gave much thought to either of them.

“Respect your father’s wishes,” Baronne Lomont had told her time and again. After all, he had settled a stipend on her that paid for her expenses at Hôtel Bercy, and it would be thoughtless to put this support in jeopardy out of something as self-serving as mere curiosity.

Lili felt her heart press against her tight bodice. Although she accepted that her father would not be part of her life, she wondered at moments like these whether there was more to his absence than simply not wanting to be bothered with her. Had she done something wrong? Did he blame her for her mother’s death? Tears sprang to her eyes.

“It’s not my fault that things are as they are,” she said in a tremulous voice. “Why would he want me to be a pauper?”

Julie opened her mouth to offer reassurance, but Baronne Lomont spoke first. “That demanding tone is further evidence that it would be wise to accept my offer of some final comportment lessons for Stanislas-Adélaïde before her presentation at court,” she said to Julie. “I know she is proper at table and manages other simple things I’ve taught her, but there is so much more to having real grace. Her conversation skills certainly leave much to be desired.” She stirred her tea with a tiny silver spoon. “Has she any experience using a fan?”

No one gets married without a dowry, Lili thought, digging at a cuticle until she drew blood and had to put her finger in her mouth to clean it. Just then, the baroness glanced in her direction, and her eyes flickered with disdain as Lili hastily returned her hands to her lap.

“I have a most suitable friend who will be pleased to be of assistance,” the baroness went on. “And if madame is amenable, Mademoiselle de Bercy is welcome to take part.”

“Thank you for coming,” Julie said, standing up to clarify that the subject, and the visit, were at an end. “One of my friends has a new opera opening this evening at the Comédie-Italienne. The girls and I are going as his guests, and we need time to prepare. Perhaps you have heard of Monsieur Philidor?”

“François André Danican Philidor?” The baroness arched her eyebrows. “The chess player?”

“Bien sûr. We have a chess game set up for him in the salon—you’re most welcome to look—and every week we lead him to the table with his eyes covered so he can’t see where the game left off the week before. He says he simultaneously played three English experts while blindfolded, but we haven’t enough room here to put him to such a test.”

Julie was by now near the door. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the English novel Tom Jones?” She stepped aside to allow the baroness to pass. “He’s written an opera based on it, and the girls and I are quite excited, since we read the book together last winter.”

Lili suppressed a giggle at Maman’s subtlety. The baroness did not approve of novels or salons—with or without chess—and Maman was, in her own gracious way, telling her she didn’t care.

“We’ll discuss your proposal tonight,” Julie said, “and I’ll send word tomorrow of our decision.” By now the baroness was at the parlor door. “Your generosity is most appreciated,” Julie added, and with a gesture of her hand, she ushered Baronne Lomont into the hallway and on her way out of Hôtel Bercy.

*   *   *

“
CHEZ
BARONNE LOMONT
?” Delphine wrinkled her nose in disappointment as the carriage left the courtyard for the opera house. “What on earth would she know about being attractive?”

“Everyone is young once,” Julie replied.

“Except Baronne Lomont,” the two girls said in unison, breaking into peals of laughter.

“Really, mes petites,” Julie said sternly enough to silence them. “You should be aware of how much is at stake here. Delphine, of course, will inherit Hôtel Bercy, and Lili, you needn’t fret about those rather cruel things Baronne Lomont said about your own situation, but neither the Bercy nor the Châtelet family is terribly strong when it comes to what assets their daughters bring to a marriage.”

They turned onto the Rue des Francs Bourgeois, and light from the streetlamps danced across Lili’s and Delphine’s solemn faces. “Why so serious all of a sudden?” Julie cajoled. “My point is simply that it is in your best interests to make the best impression you can. What if a man you fancy is interested in someone else because he perceives you as lacking in some way? You may very well end up wishing you had paid more attention to the social graces now.”

Under the hard stomacher shaping her bodice, Lili felt a familiar clawing sensation. She and Delphine would be going to meet Queen Marie Leszczynska in a month, and Lili didn’t feel ready at all. Though she and Delphine had spent hours in front of a mirror deepening their curtseys and practicing the subtle differences in eye contact and smiles appropriate to use with people of various ranks, most of the time she was thinking about the book she was reading, a funny story she and Delphine had shared, or perhaps nothing more than what would be served for dinner. The time had passed for resentment and disdain. Much as she bristled at the baronne’s snobbery, the old woman was right that it was past time to settle down and do what had to be done.

“I am paying attention, Maman,” Delphine said. The carriage had by now reached the end of the lighted thoroughfare and was making its way through a maze of small, dark streets. “I play the
piano for hours, and I never knock anything off the table with my skirts when I walk through even the smallest space.” She thought for a moment. “Although I could be quite a bit better at the minuet.” She winced and adjusted her hips on the seat. The lamps from a hôtel cast a brief glow inside the coach as they crossed Rue Sainte-Avoie. “And I don’t know how anybody can be pleasant in these awful stomachers, even if they do make one’s breasts look rather nice,” Delphine said, toying with a pink satin rose on the front of one of her new dresses.

“Well then, take the baroness up on her offer and ask for help with the minuet,” Julie said, as darkness fell over them again. “And if she has any advice about how to make a stomacher any more tolerable, be sure to let me know.”

Lili had been listening in silence. “A long time ago you told me that Baronne Lomont could be counted upon to be loyal, even if I didn’t like the way she acted toward me,” she said. “Is that why she’s forcing me into more of her lessons?”

“She wants you to be a grand success,” Julie replied. “Even if she makes it sound as if she fully expects you won’t be.” The carriage slowed and she looked out. “We’re at Saint-Jacques de l’Hôpital already. The Comédie Italienne is on the next block. So is it settled? I say yes to Baronne Lomont tomorrow?”

The girls took in the deepest breath that their corsets allowed. “It’s decided,” they sighed.

“I hope she serves good cakes at least,” Delphine said, pouting as the driver dismounted and opened the door to help them down. “Even if they do make me round as a ball.”

VIOLINS BOWED EXCITEDLY
, and bass viols and cellos joined in a delicate, climbing staccato. The strings swirled away like butterflies, only to be netted by an insistent continuo. As the curtain opened, the rows of lanterns at the edges of the stage cast their light on two women in a garden.

“A fine-looking young man can bedevil the soul of a maiden,” one of the woman sang, and Lili found her thoughts already straying, as they often did, to Jean-Étienne Leclerc and the day she had spent with Maman at the Jardin de Roi. She remembered how excited he had been to tell her about his uncle’s experiments to determine the age of the earth. Buffon had left the results unpublished, Jean-Étienne told her, so as not to be thought insane, since the calculations came out to three million years. Lili smiled, remembering how the young man had leaned toward her with the air of a conspirator, whispering that they both suspected it was countless years older than that.

I like Jean-Etienne, Lili thought, as a group of hunters sang a chorus onstage. I can talk to him. Her mind cast back to Paul-Vincent and his microscope. He doesn’t count because he was so young, she decided. She closed her eyes and listened to the music, trying to picture in her mind the exact color and contours of Jean-Étienne’s mouth.

“That must be Tom Jones!” Jarred back to the present, Lili followed the trajectory of Delphine’s finger toward a man in a hunting coat in the shadows in the back corner of the stage. Just watch the opera, Lili told herself. “No—it’s Squire Western,” Delphine corrected. “It’s certainly taking a long time for Tom to show up.”

The baritone began a long and enthusiastic aria about the hunt from which he and the men now filling the stage were returning, and Delphine leaned forward, looking through Maman’s opera glasses at each man in turn. She groaned as Squire Western put his arm around a pudgy middle-aged man who was playing the role of the young and dashing libertine. “There’s no way Sophie would fall in love with him,” she announced. “Just once can’t the hero be handsome?”

“Delphine, quiet!” Maman put her finger to her lips and took the glasses away, part of the ritual of waiting for Delphine to get swept up in the music and forgive the cast. Finally she did, and their box was silent except for the occasional groan as Sophie endured the dimwitted meddling of her father and the simpering courtship of the toady Blilil. Finally the curtain closed on the first act, and the candlelit chandeliers were lowered to give more light in the house.

“Look, Maman,” Delphine said, peering through the golden haze at a group of people in one of the boxes on the opposite side. “That’s the Comte de Beaufort, isn’t it?”