Rondo Allegro (14 page)

Today, Madame looked positively ill. She kept blotting her
face with a dampened linen, at last saying fretfully, “We need a larger
theater, but Anton says we’ve not the money. How can we get more money if we
haven’t more seats, I say? Anna, you have been singing better than ever; if
only your claque of admirers would pay for their seats!”

She got heavily to her feet and walked away to summon her
maid for more hot chocolate, as Anna frowned. “The officers do not pay?”

“Who would dare to gainsay them?” Lise said, shrugging, then
she gave Anna a meaning look. “Just do not string him along. They mislike that,
oh, much.”

“Especially when they send gifts,” Catherine said, with
meaning. “It is not so bad if you turn down a merchant, or even an
avocat
. But the soldiers?”

“So true!” Lorette, older—nearly Madame Dupree’s age—made a
spitting motion. “They rule France now, and think about it! When they were boys,
it was, displease the crowd, and voila, off to the guillotine, or to a
lamppost, whichever was nearer.” She made a gesture like hanging herself. “You
young things do not remember, but I do. Women, men. Even the poor dogs, one
terrible season. Nobody was safe from the mob, ten years ago. Less. And they
all remember it, how no one could stop the mob. Now, it is known that no one
can stop the soldiers.”

“Alors! The days of the mob are gone, at least,” said
another, laying her hand on her breast. “Bonaparte took care of the mobs! His
officers are all lovers, and they must answer to their commanders.”

“Tchah.” Lise laughed. “Here is the truth, my dear. Argue,
call them devils, be haughty or sweet, as you wish. The one thing you must
never do is make them look foolish. They will never forgive you.”

“That’s true for everyone,” Hortense said, as she restitched
her worn practice skirt.

Catherine patted her hand. “And so it is. But the days are
gone when a woman can challenge a man.”

Lise’s features sharpened with impatience. “Good riddance!
Let us talk of pleasant things.”

Catherine crossed her arms. “I am a citizen. I have the
right to speak my mind.”

“Not for long,” Madame Dupree said good-naturedly, and as
everyone turned quickly, she rejoined them, sitting down with a sigh. “Not if
Bonaparte has his way. We shall be back to curtseys and bows, that is what I
predict.”

Her words had the effect of breaking up the group a moment
before M. Dupree appeared, beckoning impatiently. “I want to try something new
in the first act.”

And the rehearsal began.

Anna said nothing to Parrette, but so intense was her inward
conflict that Maestro Paisiello, when she went to him for her private lesson,
stopped her a few bars into her first piece. “Are you feeling ill, child?” he
asked.

Anna flushed with remorse. She knew that he was having trouble
with his audiences, who could be difficult for so many reasons that had little
to do with music. His opera
Nina
,
once immensely popular in Paris, had not been performed since the Revolution,
when it was condemned as elitist for having been written in Italian, which “the
people” could not be expected to understand.

Complaints about it had resurfaced, and gossips had it that
Proserpina
had been set back a season,
some said because Mademoiselle Georges was being coached in singing, others
because of the reception of the Maestro’s last concert at the Tuileries.

As she looked into the maestro’s careworn face, Anna
regretted her selfishness. “It is, oh!” She blushed. “It is only heart
trouble.”

“You?” he exclaimed. “Handsome you have become, but you are
yet a mere child!” He lifted his wig, patted his handkerchief over his head,
then plopped the wig down again in a cloud of powder as he peered at her more
closely. “Perhaps you are not so young, then. Oh, to have small problems! But
they are large to you. My dear Anna, permit an old man to stand in for the
father you loved. I know what he would say if he were here, for we were great
friends. He would warn you that hearts are tender indeed, full of the fire of
love, but hearts have not eyes, nor a brain.”

“But Auguste is so handsome,” Anna protested. “I want to
become his lover, but . . .” She hesitated before mentioning
Parrette’s disapproval.

“But you are devoted to your music,” the maestro stated with
an expression of approval.

Anna agreed, remorseful because she had not been thinking of
her music at that moment. Her ambitions
did
stand in the way of love far more than the existence of a piece of paper
stating she was married. “If he does not understand, if he places himself in
the way of your success, perhaps it is not love he professes, but something far
more ephemeral. The heart is fickle, for it is made for love, and it will
overwhelm you with the enticement of attraction at the flash of a smile, a
handsome profile, at a shower of the pretty compliments you most want to hear.”

Anna’s cheeks burned.

He saw her expression, and his tone lightened to gentleness.
“The falsity comes in a man saying what you wish to hear so that he can gain
his own ends.” He lifted a shoulder. “In this city, they will say La, that is Paris
in modern times! But I have traveled much in my years, and I’ve seen all the
variety of human nature. This behavior one finds everywhere. So, to you: if you
want something that endures, then you must use your brain as well as your heart
to determine if he is saying what he truly feels. There! I have stood in for
your dear Papa, and you have been angelic in permitting an old man this
liberty. So, let us begin anew, and this time, pianissimo only for the first
eight bars, then that little breath, and—glory.
One, due, tre
 . . .”

o0o

When Anna returned to the theater, Lise gave her a narrow
look. “Where were you?”

“Tuileries,” Anna said wonderingly.

Lise sighed and marched away, her thin shoulder blades
poking the flimsy muslin as her shoulders twitched in ill humor at every step.

“What happened to her?” Anna asked Hyacinthe.

“Oh, Consular Guard is gone on maneuvers. It cannot be
helped!” Hyacinthe threw her hands up. “Why she insists that her lovers have to
be in regimentals?”

Anna murmured something sympathetic, but she was aware that
her own sense of disappointment was mitigated by a sense of secret relief. She
would not have to decide right now about Auguste, lovers, annulments, or
anything having to do with the heart.

M. Dupree interrupted them, his usually mild voice
surprisingly pettish, “Are you here, then, Signorina Bernardo? Or did you leave
your voice back at the Tuileries?”

Anna apologized at once, and willingly threw herself into
rehearsal.

To M. Dupree’s relief, the front rows in that night’s performance
sported no chasseurs, but their regular audience was not back. He still did not
know for certain if the chasseurs were chasing away custom with their noise.
There was nothing he could do about it if any soldiers caused trouble, but
forewarned was forearmed, that he had learned during the days of the mobs.

So he took his younger brother Pierre aside, saying, “Find
out what you can.”

The dry, hot winds died down after two days, but the humid
stillness that set in afterward was not considered an improvement. Summer in
Paris could be punishing, with brilliant light reflecting off streets, walls,
and every bit of metal.

Tempers flared during rehearsal. Props seemed to break with
irritating regularity, and even Madame and Monsieur, usually the most genial of
couples, quarreled when she missed yet another rehearsal while he was trying to
change the staging.

“I have to lie down,” she said. “This stage, it is airless.
I cannot sing if I cannot breathe!”

“If you were not sick every day, perhaps we would fill enough
seats to warrant moving to a larger space!” he retorted.

Madame whirled around and stalked off.

Her husband mopped his face, then said dispiritedly, “We
shall rehearse the farce, and the
entr’acte
ballet. Perhaps Madame will return refreshed by afternoon, for we really must
restage the entire second act. Musicians! Come, come. Places!”

At the end of a trying day, with everyone struggling through
a lifeless performance before a half-empty theater, Monsieur Dupree gathered
his company and declared that this week would see the last of
Médée
. “It’s simply too hot for the
tragedy of the Terror. We shall bring back
La
Caverne
, or another reliable republican opera.”

The night of the new staging, Anna reached her dressing
room, which—being high up, almost directly under the roof—was hotter than an
oven, to discover herself nearly crowded out by three bouquets. The heady scent
of flowers, the beauty of the blossoms which were still miraculously fresh, and
above all the extravagant romance of the gesture succeeded in banishing Anna’s
ill-temper.

Then Parrette appeared, and, with arms crossed combatively
over her spare bosom, muttered, “So he is trying to buy your favors with
flowers?”

Anna’s good mood vanished like a candle snuffed. “That is so
hateful!”

“Or is he in on the wager?” Parrette retorted, and stepped
closer, lowering her voice. “Pierre Dupree admitted to me this morning that
they are wagering hundreds upon Auguste’s success with you. Double if they hit
upon a specific date.”

Anna’s lips parted as she drew breath for a denial, then she
remembered Auguste’s careless words. He had even admitted that they had already
had a wager about her. She frowned at the innocent blossoms. Surely, if Auguste
loved her the way she loved him, he would not make wagers over her, or was that
the way all men behaved?

She decided to ask Lise after the performance.

“We cannot move about in here,” Parrette said, regarding the
bouquets askance. “I will take them downstairs. In this heat, they will be
wilted before the first act is over.”

“Thank you,” Anna said stiffly.

Parrette gave her a long look, picked up the flowers and
went out.

There was the last performance to ready for, the more
exasperating as Anna’s costume clung to her sticky flesh. Everyone was in a
temper, she discovered when she gathered in the wings. Even the orchestra
seemed to play a half a beat too fast, and a quarter-tone sharp. Or maybe it
sounded wrong in the humid air.

The curtain opened, and there were the chasseurs,
resplendent as always, filling the front rows. From the smell of wine on the
heated air, they had been fighting the summer heat in their own manner, and as
the performance began, rustling, clanking weapons, and not-very-muffled
laughter caused some of the others in the audience to whisper and cry, “Hush.”

“Hush yourself. Or step outside and hush me up.” That was
one of the chasseurs.

Anna’s entrance followed on raucous laughter.

“Shut up, now,” Auguste said audibly. “That I may worship my
divinity.”

More laughter. Anna straightened her spine, inflated her
ribs, and sang with more power than she ever had.

At the close of the act, the chasseurs stomped and called
“Brava!”

Madame Dupree looked impatient as she took Anna aside.
“Filling the hall is good, if the upper galleries had anyone in them. Not so shrill.”

Shrill! Anna knew she was not shrill. Her temper flared. The
house seemed hotter than ever, the smells irritating; even the candles gave off
a singe that seemed to burn the throat.

Anna clipped her lips tight against a retort, turned away so
abruptly that she trod on her gown. R-i-i-i-p!

It needed only that.

Parrette was there at once, needle ready—but then her arm
sank down as she sagged in dismay. The simple gown had ripped to the arms, and
in the next act, the Handmaids participated in a frenetic dance. Hasty basting
would never do. “There’s bound to be a gown in Adelaide’s trunk,” she
whispered, naming a dancer who had had to quit due to a bad fall. “I’ll fetch
it.”

Tears burned Anna’s eyelids. She knew how much work her
moment’s fit of temper would cause. And though she could assuage her sense of
guilt by offering to do the sewing, she knew very well that Parrette would
refuse. No one made tiny, exquisite stitches like hers.

She slipped away as the actors rushed to take their marks
for the beginning of the next act; at least she had a few measures in which to
blot her eyes and get control of herself. She wandered into the farthest
storage area with its jumble of ancient painted flats, broken props, and stacks
of old wood waiting to be reused.

She walked without aim, wiping at her eyes lest they get
puffy. She sneezed three times in a row, the stinging scent of candles set too
close to wood sharpening into the acrid stench of smoke. There was no light.
The air blurred oddly. Anna blinked, her eyes stinging. Alarm prickled the back
of her neck, and she peered into the thick darkness. Horror flashed through her
when she spied a murky red glow.

In that brief flare, she discovered billows of smoke
reaching upward from pale licks of flame outlining an old three-legged chair.

“Fire,” she whispered, and then, running back to catch the
arm of the curtain boy, “Fire!” She pointed with shaking fingers.

The curtain boy dashed up to M. Dupree, his voice cracking
on the word, “Fire!”

He had not spoken that loud, but from Anna’s vantage, it
appeared that the first two rows had been listening for it. As she watched in
astonishment, the chasseurs rose almost in a body, and surged through the
surprised musicians, knocking several of them over, then stampeded onto the stage.

“To the rescue!” Auguste roared, waving his sword.

The music ended in discordancy. The performers either froze
in place, or backed away hastily as the soldiers rushed off into the wing, half
of them straight for the fire, and the rest running to this or that pretty
young dancer or singer.