Rondo Allegro (10 page)

“No.” Anna lifted her arms. “I only want to move the way you
do, on stage. I thought if I attended your morning rehearsal, it might benefit
me.”

“Why should she not?” Hyacinthe asked.

One side of Lise’s mobile mouth curled up. “Why, be
welcome!” She made an airy movement, and curtseyed mockingly. “But at the back.
Out of our way. See if you can keep up,” she added.

Lise, though younger than some of the dancers, was their
acknowledged leader. The women arrived first, the only time they could claim
the entire stage for themselves. The stage was bitterly cold, but they soon
warmed themselves, and the air around them, by working hard.

The girls’ dance practice began easily enough, with the five
positions and repetitive movements that Anna thought must train the foot and
the arm. Before long they became more difficult, especially the bends, and the
lifting of legs. Anna began sweating, her plain rehearsal gown twisting unpleasantly
about her, the seams pressing warningly against her flesh and threatening to
rip. Now she understood why the dancers wore knitted hose under short skirts,
and loose blouses.

Several times she nearly gave up, but then caught a smug,
mocking glance from Lise, which kindled her determination. Lise wanted her to
quit. Therefore she wouldn’t.

After an interminable time her muscles trembled so much she
knew she would have to quit or drop right there on the stage, but then new
voices echoed from the side entrance, and there was M. Dupree, rushing around
madly as he always did, and mopping his balding head with a snowy linen
handkerchief.

The dancers withdrew, obviously ready for the real
rehearsal. Anna could scarcely walk. She slipped into the wings, grateful for
once that her singing part was small.

Rehearsal even so took all her strength. Climbing those long
flights of stairs to her room hurt so much that she had to lean on the bannister
to catch her breath at every landing. When at last she stumbled into their room
and fell on the bed, her legs twitching with pain, Parrette looked up from her
stool by the window, where she was sewing. “What happened to you?”

Anna told her.

Parrette’s black brows drew together, reminding Anna of
Lise, which caused a bubble of laughter that she was too tired to release. “As
your dear mother used to say in English, that girl is no better than she should
be,” Parrette stated.

“And what is meant by that?”

“Never mind.” Parrette sniffed. “I think your idea is good,
but you can do just as well without those foolish dancers.”

By then the stiffness had set in, and Anna almost cried out
with the pain when she stooped to take off her shoes. But she said, “I mean to
try it again. I think I might need hose, like theirs, and a tunic. Do you know
where to find such?”

Parrette threw her hands heavenward. But by next morning,
Parrette had traded for the first, and whipped together the second from Anna’s
oldest gown.

Anna was there early, though she wondered if her muscles
might shred like rotten fabric. She gritted her way through the morning, and
each morning thereafter. It hurt so much she moved badly on stage instead of
gracefully.

But on the third day, Hyacinthe whispered, “It was that way
for us all. And it is worse at the Opera! The great Vestris works them until
their feet bleed, every day! You will get used to it.” She twirled, light and
graceful as a butterfly.

I am going to move in
that way
, Anna thought determinedly.
If
I strengthen my body, surely it will strengthen my voice.

The days slid into winter and the dancing gradually became
easier. Anna also learned that though no dancer had any grand title, and no
‘birth’ to speak of, there was just as strict a hierarchy among them as in any
court. The dancers always took the same places, Philippe, the handsome,
mercurial
premier danseur
, and the
other two male dancers in front. Until it was time for company dance
rehearsals, the men held completely aloof from the women, of whom Lise and
willowy, light-haired Ninon were rival leaders.

Lise and Ninon hated each other. They never spoke to the
other if it could be avoided. Anna saw that taking the lowest place effectively
removed her from the silent competition that existed between many of the
dancers. She was safe in their indifference, learning more each day.

Presently the last snow of the winter sent white drifts
scudding down the Boulevard. Signs of spring began to appear. One morning Anna,
huddled in her pelisse, became aware that her legs did not hurt. She still was
not certain the dancing made her look any better on stage, but at least she
could get through the dance practice without aching. And she finished the long
day less tired.

That, unexpectedly, created a new problem.

Hearing through her open window the faint echoes of people
strolling the Boulevard and having a good time made her restless. The sun was
now setting later each day, and all the trees and flowers in tiny garden pots
began to bloom. Paris was magical at night, everyone said, but she did not see
it.

By 28 Germinal, Year X, or Easter of 1802, when Napoleon
restored the churches and Parrette could once again attend Mass without fear of
being arrested, once again Paris resounded with church bells—those that had not
been melted down to make cannon.

On April 6
^th
, everyone “went to Longchamps.”

Hyacinthe invited Anna to witness the parade along the
Champs d’Elysées. The dancers put together their scant money to hire a fiacre,
and in this they dashed along, gazing at carriages decorated with ribbons and
flowers. The celebrative crowd streamed along the road toward the valley
leading to the Bois de Boulogne. Here and there on grassy areas other dancers
in floating classical tunics danced and posed, wreaths and leaves in their
hair, pretending to be figures of mythological times.

Afterward all Paris streamed back to the cafés and theaters.
The soft spring air was filled with little lights, and the sounds of music and
laughter.

At such times, Paris was magical, and Anna loved it all.

And yet it was not a fairy tale, however much it might look
that way at night. Anna had had too many dire warnings from Parrette about
wandering alone on the boulevard, much less the streets of Paris. She sat
disconsolately on the landing late one evening, while the theater stage was
being redone. Anna was going over the music of the new production so that
Parrette could spread fabric out in the tiny room.

As she sat there, humming the music and trying to get it by
memory, the door behind her opened. Lise and Hyacinthe, both dressed smartly,
stepped past her. Their voices and laughter floated up the stairs as they
descended to the street for a stroll on the Boulevard with their friends.

Anna watched them wistfully, then made herself return to her
task.

The next morning, when Anna left to go to dance practice,
she heard quick steps behind her. She was surprised to find Lise’s dark gaze on
her. Anna sidestepped so that Lise could pass, but instead, the dancer matched
Anna’s pace.

“Is Parrette Duflot your maid or your
duègne
?” Lise asked abruptly when they got outside in the brisk wind
that presaged rain.

Anna’s mother had taught her during the rough and tumble
days in the royal nursery that part of deflection was to answer insulting
questions as if they had been put in a charitable tone.
What are they really asking?
Mother had said.
Answer that, if you can. If you cannot? Deflect, disengage, retreat.

Why must it always be
me who has to run away?
Anna had asked petulantly.

To which Parrette had replied,
Aside from the question of rank, which cannot be got round, a retreat
is not always running away. The smart servants learn to never let the royal
children catch them, and never show fear if they do. Their example is their
father, who lives for the hunt and the kill.

So what was Lise really asking? Lise had grown up during the
Revolution, when people who had duennas were despised, even murdered.

Anna said peaceably, “Parrette was with my mother until she
died. She chose to stay with me even though I was left with nothing. I do not
pay her as I have nothing to pay her with.”

“Who was your mother?”

Anna drew in a deep breath, considering Lise’s accusatory
tone. One still heard people addressed as ‘Citizen’ but ‘Madame’ and ‘Monsieur’
were also heard, and also, great people such as Madame Bonaparte no longer hid
their aristocratic connections. Did Lise think that Anna was an aristocrat, or
merely that she was getting above herself?

Anna walked a few steps, not seeing the muddy boulevard but
her childhood, the cozy morning breakfasts with her parents. She would never lie
about her birth, but she felt that the circumstances of her family’s rank were
no longer relevant.

So she answered in the manner of a French professional. “My
mother was a governess until she married my father. He was a musician. They are
both dead.”

“Ah,” Lise said, her tone lightening, as Anna had hoped it
would. “She is very clever with her fingers, Parrette. She could set up her own
shop.”

“With what money?” Anna gave the Parisian shrug.

Lise laughed. “With what money indeed? Madame said you once
lived in a palace, in Italy.”

Anna laughed. “And so I did. Parrette, too. Many, many
people live in palaces. There are those, such as the royal family, who live in
the great chambers and give the orders, and then there are the rest of us who
live in the attics, and who carry out the orders.”

“Ah.”

They walked in silence the rest of the way to the theater.
Later, when they left rehearsal, as there was no opera that night, Hyacinthe
came to Anna and said, “Will you walk out this evening with us?”

Anna looked past her to Lise, who stood against a painted flat,
half-smiling.

“Yes, I would like to, very much,” Anna said.

“Wear something pretty.” Hyacinthe patted Anna’s arm.

Anna skipped back to her rooms, her heart filled with
anticipation. She would not be alone, therefore Parrette could have nothing to
object to. And she could wear her prettiest gown.

Her first night out was every bit as enchanting as any stage
performance. Light spilled from theaters and cafés, and everywhere people
laughed, flirted, sang, danced. Hyacinthe introduced Anna to a great many
people—far too many to remember. They mostly seemed to be other performers,
with occasional young men rising in some profession, and then there were the
officers in their dashing uniforms.

Paris was in full bloom by then, the theaters and cafés enjoying
a busy season. One day they met two young naval attaches who had been sent to
Paris with reports. While they were bragging about the speed of their travel,
and the importance of their dispatches, they made mention of Admiral Nelson’s
defeat of the Danes at Copenhagen, at the end of March the previous year.

Nelson! The English fleet! Anna had given up being concerned
about Captain Duncannon, but there was still Parrette’s son Michel. However, the
other girls showed scant interest. Anna tried to think of some way of
introducing a question about the names of English ships, such as Michel’s
Pallas
, but the subject passed too
quickly. She made an excuse to leave early, stopped by one of the cafés that
always carried newspapers, and for the first time since her arrival in Paris, sought
to find old copies.

She was successful in one place, where old newsprint was
utilized in a variety of ways. A young daughter of a café owner, hoping to earn
something by letting the crazy woman paw through the stacks in the basement,
lingered with a candle as Anna swiftly sorted through a stack.

She found what she sought, paid the girl a handful of
assignats
, and carried the newspaper
straight back to the Foulon. As a spring storm roared on the roof above their
room, she read them. “I overheard something about Admiral Nelson, the Danes,
and last year,” she said to Parrette, who stuck her needle in its paper case.
She knelt on the floor beside Anna, the candle resting between them, as they
compared accounts in the newspapers.

There was little enough to be gleaned. Anna remembered
Madame saying that the number of newspapers had diminished steadily under the
influence of the First Consul, and she saw that which was printed was decidedly
unflattering to the British.

One troubling item caught her attention, and she gazed at
Parrette, whose eyes looked black in the light of the single candle. “It says
in here that Nelson’s ship was the
Elephant
.”

Parrette pursed her lips. “They must have it wrong.”

Anna shook her head. “Remember how he shifted out of
Foudroyant
, and then back?”

Parrette’s eyes widened. “
Nom d’un nom!
You think Michel is no longer in the
Pallas
, then.”

“If Nelson can change ships, cannot sailors, too? I’ll ask
M. Dupree tomorrow,” Anna promised. “He must know—he seems to know everything
about Paris that it is possible to know.”

But when Anna approached the kindly director and asked if
there was some sort of British envoy, where she might find out more recent
news, his round, beaming face turned serious. Drawing her aside, he said
earnestly, “Don’t go pursuing that! Do you want Fouché’s
mouchettes
snooping around? I, for one, do not want them in my
theater. It has enough problems! Please, my dear young signorina, leave well
enough alone.”

Anna thanked him, and kept silence until later that day,
when she caught the dancers waiting in the wings before the performance. She
whispered to Hyacinthe, “Who are the mouchettes? Surely something else is meant
besides little flies.”