Emilie's Voice Read online

  And then, perhaps, he might live in a decent house of his own, instead of the tiny room in this rabbit hutch of a palace. And Jacques would come when he was summoned, he could order food and wine whenever he liked, and his headache would at last go away.

  As Charpentier walked up to the Atelier Jolicoeur the day after the princess’s soirée, he could not help thinking how silent it seemed. There was something all wrong about it, and it confirmed his worries that something had happened to prevent Émilie from coming for her lessons that day. The door was unlocked, and so he entered the workshop without knocking. Marcel was deeply engrossed in varnishing a lute. Charpentier cleared his throat.

  Startled, Marcel looked up. “Monsieur Charpentier! I am happy to see you.”

  “Where is Émilie?” asked the composer without returning Marcel’s greeting.

  Marcel put his brush in a bowl of solvent, wiped his hands on his apron, and came out from behind his worktable. “She is upstairs. She is ill. Although out of danger now, they tell us.”

  Charpentier took a step back, as if the news had struck him physically. Somehow, he did not expect this. “Ill? Can I see her?”

  “I’ll see if she is awake,” answered Marcel. “Madeleine!” he called up the stairs. There was no response, and so he turned back to Charpentier. “I don’t know what is keeping her. The young gentleman is here, though. Perhaps that is it.”

  “Young gentleman?”

  The sound of Madeleine’s hurried steps coming down the flights of stairs from the apartment interrupted Marcel’s explanation. His wife appeared in the doorway, a frown on her face.

  “If she is ill, Émilie must have the best care,” said Charpentier, preparing to climb the stairs.

  Madeleine blocked the way. “Monsieur Charpentier. Forgive me, but I don’t much feel that your care is what is best for my Émilie!” she said, lifting her chin and smoothing her apron.

  “I don’t understand,” said Charpentier, turning to Marcel for an explanation.

  “Keeping her up to all hours, making her walk home in the cold and wet. No wonder she was at death’s door!” And with that, Madeleine turned and slammed the door in Charpentier’s face.

  “How can she think …” Charpentier was too stunned to say more.

  Marcel shrugged. “I told her you were not to blame, but she won’t hear it.”

  “You mentioned a young gentleman. Who is here?”

  “Monsieur de St. Paul has been so kind as to take an interest in Émilie’s recovery,” answered Marcel, looking down at the lute he had been varnishing. “He came to congratulate Émilie yesterday and was good enough to bring His Majesty’s own physicians to attend her.”

  “But—” Charpentier was about to ask Marcel how he could have let that slimy opportunist into his home, when he realized that the couple could have no idea that St. Paul was anything other than a rich man—godson of Mademoiselle de Guise, no less—with some interest in their daughter. He needed to think about what to do. He wanted to know how ill Émilie was, whether she was being properly cared for. But it was clear that he would not get that information just now. “Please send my wishes for a speedy recovery to Mademoiselle Émilie,” Charpentier said, then bowed and left.

  Try as he might, Charpentier could not understand what he had done to deserve Madeleine Jolicoeur’s enmity. He had taught their daughter music and singing for no fee at all, bought her a gown that cost him a great deal of his own money so that she could perform with dignity at one of the most illustrious salons in Paris—he had done nothing but try to help her. He did not like to think that the woman harbored ill feelings toward him, and he thought of returning and demanding an explanation.

  But his cold reception by Madeleine was not the only thing that weighed on Charpentier’s mind. Marcel said that St. Paul had brought His Majesty’s own physicians. It was an extravagant gesture for the sake of a young girl from a poor family in Paris. And he knew St. Paul. He had no money of his own but played on his godmother’s generosity whenever he needed cash. Her lack of relations made her overly indulgent, and usually he succeeded in wheedling substantial sums out of her. If St. Paul was being generous, it was because he saw some potential gain for himself. That was what really bothered Charpentier. He was certain St. Paul could not care less about Émilie herself.

  And if Émilie had a fever, it could easily affect her throat, ending her career before it really began. And yet, barred from seeing her, Charpentier could do nothing about it. He knew a doctor who had made a special study of the throat and the vocal cords. If only the Jolicoeurs would allow the doctor to consult, just to be sure that nothing had harmed Émilie’s voice.

  He thought he would give Madeleine time to cool off and then return and ask to be permitted to see Émilie. Charpentier was haunted by the picture of Émilie lying ill. But she was just a student, he reminded himself. More talented than most, but perhaps he would find another.

  When he arrived at his apartment in the Hôtel de Guise, Charpentier kicked aside the mess of manuscript sheets scattered across the floor of his study, found a bottle of wine and a cup, and poured himself a glass. Then he sat in his chair and stared into the fire until the sun went down.

  By the end of a week, Émilie’s condition did not appear to be improving any further. She still spent most of her time in a deep sleep and was virtually incoherent whenever she surfaced from her stupor.

  “I think a change of air is what the doctors would advise,” said St. Paul, perched uncomfortably on the edge of a wooden armchair, sipping tisane from a small earthenware bowl.

  “I do not wish her to leave.” Marcel stood at the side of the fireplace, gazing into it. “Not without seeing Monsieur Charpentier.”

  “The doctors would be able to continue caring for her night and day. As it is, they are now wanted at Versailles and can no longer give Émilie the attention she requires. You’ll see, she’ll recover much more quickly there.”

  “How can we keep her here, when the count is making such a kind offer? You have seen how these great men pay such attention to her,” Madeleine said, approaching her husband. “And what has that singing teacher to do with anything? If he had been more careful of Émilie, she might not have gotten sick in the first place.”

  Marcel was silent for a long while. Charpentier had returned day after day, and Madeleine had steadfastly refused to let him see Émilie. Although his wife clearly had her reasons, Marcel was uncomfortably aware that they owed the composer some explanation at least. But he had to make a decision, and Madeleine clearly wanted to acquiesce to St. Paul’s wishes. Marcel saw St. Paul shift a little and wince, the wood of the chair hard against his slender frame. “When would she return?” he asked the count.

  St. Paul smiled. “Whenever she likes!”

  Marcel stared down at the floor. He could think of no more excuses to hold out. “Well, if you really think it would be best.”

  The matter was settled. To seal the bargain, St. Paul gave Madeleine a purse full of copper coins and a surreptitious pat on the behind, and Marcel the promise that Monsieur Lully, the court composer, would purchase five of the Atelier Jolicoeur’s best violins for his famous ensemble.

  About a week after she had fallen ill, Émilie was carried, still semiconscious, to St. Paul’s coach, where she was tucked into a corner and transported to Versailles. She was not in a condition to see her mother and father waving as the coach drove away over the bridge and across the Île.

  That same evening, Marcel stood at the end of the bed in which his daughter had so recently lain, hovering between life and death. Madeleine had wanted to take away the linens and turn out the straw, wishing to eradicate the sickroom smell from her home, but he would not let her—not yet. He imagined his daughter beneath the blankets, her head cradled on the pillow, her blond hair darkened by perspiration, cheeks stained with the unnatural roses of illness. While he was lost in this private reverie, he saw something poking out from beneath the pillow, something dark. He dr
ew closer and realized it was a bit of fine cloth, which he teased out from its hiding place. It took him a moment to recognize it as a length of velvet ribbon that Émilie had shown them the day that Charpentier took her to the dressmaker’s. Marcel remembered how his daughter’s eyes had shone when she took the ribbon out of her pocket. It was exquisite, but Madeleine had refused to look at it. Now it was crushed and matted and almost unrecognizable. Without telling Madeleine, Marcel tucked the ribbon in his pocket.

  Seven

  One is never so happy, nor so unhappy, as one imagines.

  Maxim 49

  The widow Scarron’s black silk gown rustled as she strolled around her sitting room. When she reached the window, she paused for a moment and looked out over the now barren gardens. “So, Monsieur de St. Paul, you have brought her here.”

  “As we arranged, Madame.” St. Paul bowed.

  “And Monsieur Lully has been instructing her these few weeks now.”

  “Of course. He agrees with me. Her voice is simply unequaled.” St. Paul took a pinch of snuff.

  “I looked in on her dancing lesson yesterday. She is very young, as you said.” Madame de Maintenon was often described as handsome rather than beautiful, with her strong, placid features and dark brown eyes. She had a way of speaking that made her seem very intimate, and yet wholly separate from the world. There was something in the tone of her voice and the expression on her face that conveyed great humility and boundless pride at the same moment. It had taken her all her life to develop this extraordinary ability to act so that her financial inferiority and her spiritual superiority were apparent in equal measures at all times. It was what had helped her triumph over the almost insurmountable adversities of her past, a past that included being born in prison, marrying a brilliant but impoverished writer, becoming a widow at a young age, and being given charge of the infants who were the result of the king’s immoral activities. Through an astounding process of personal alchemy, she had become the most respected—and the most feared—woman at court.

  St. Paul paused to indulge in a hearty sneeze. “That is the beauty of it. A child, really.”

  “Yes, that is fortunate. And her parents? Were they difficult?”

  St. Paul smiled. “I know how to handle such people. It was only the matter of a few gifts, a few promises. And your idea, to make her appear more dangerously ill than she really was by using the drops to keep her unconscious—”

  Madame de Maintenon turned her head abruptly and looked at St. Paul over her shoulder, her eyes hardening into coals that hid sparks in their midst. “I know nothing of this! And I wish to know nothing, Monsieur le Comte, however clever your solution to the problem was.”

  St. Paul’s smile froze on his face. “Of course, how foolish of me.”

  “She will require careful handling. It is important that the child be properly groomed to be the very embodiment of music. It is this alone that will raise her above the commonplace.”

  “That will not be so difficult. After all, what could be more exalted, more pure—or more pleasing—than music?”

  “Plato, Monsieur de St. Paul, had something to say about music that it might well instruct you to read. The only truly pure music is that to be heard at the entrance to the gates of heaven. However, on this imperfect earth, the child will do.”

  St. Paul sniffed. “It might be wise to have someone watch her closely at all times.”

  “François is keeping an eye on her. He is a loyal servant. I pray you inform me of Mademoiselle Émilie’s artistic progress so that we may determine the best moment to introduce her voice to the king.” Madame de Maintenon put her hand out to St. Paul, who took the hint that he was being dismissed, kissed it, and left.

  The sky Émilie saw through the tall windows of the Salle de Bal was hung with clouds that looked as though they could not decide whether to unleash rain or snow. Émilie pulled her shawl more closely about her shoulders as she waited for Monsieur Lully to instruct the harpsichordist concerning which piece would form the subject of her lesson that day. She had made a miraculous recovery almost as soon as she arrived at Versailles, and she had started her lessons with the court composer the next week.

  But Émilie did not like Lully much. He was older than Charpentier, and fat. His clothing, although very luxurious, was always a little creased, as if it had been worn too many days in a row. He also had a mildly unpleasant odor about him that was not entirely masked by the rose water he sprinkled on himself, and his smile never enlivened his heavy-lidded eyes.

  “Attention, Mademoiselle Émilie,” he said. At the beginning of every lesson, Lully set her off to warm up like a windup mechanism and then walked around the room, not seeming to pay any attention to her at all. In the month that she had been working with the court composer, Émilie felt she had gained little. He showed her tricks and devices, and encouraged her to develop her highest notes rather than explore the deep riches of her middle range, as Charpentier had. Although Lully had already written some very pretty airs for her to sing, Émilie did not care for them much, and singing them gave her no joy. They did not seem to fit her voice quite as well as Monsieur Charpentier’s did, and she could not imagine singing with Monsieur Lully—even if he could sing, which he could not. His raspy baritone warble made her cringe the first time he demonstrated a new ornament for her.

  While she continued, Émilie turned to look out of the windows once again. She watched a small army of gardeners plant blossoming flowers in the beds close to the château. When the frost made them wilt a few hours later, the gardeners would come and dig them up again and replace them with new flowers from the acres of hothouses. She thought it utterly absurd.

  Émilie had no definite idea of how she came to be at Versailles. She remembered opening her eyes while she was still in her bed on the Pont au Change and seeing St. Paul hovering over her, with an older gentleman who she now realized was probably an apothecary or a surgeon. She thought that she was having a terrible nightmare, that she would wake up and it would all be over. Even after trying very hard to remember what had happened to her, the best she could do was recall being moved down the stairs. She thought it might have been her father who carried her, but she could not have said for certain. When she finally woke up, it was to find that the world had changed around her, and that the strangely aloof nobleman who had surprised her when she warmed up for her début at the Hôtel de Guise was suddenly a regular inhabitant of her daily life. He told her that her parents had not wanted the worry of caring for her while she was sick, but it hurt her that they would say such a thing.

  As she continued her voice lesson, Émilie focused her eyes nearer so she could see herself reflected faintly in the uneven glass panes of the enormous windows. Her pale blond hair was set off by a dark blue silk day gown, fitted sleekly in a bodice that ended a few inches below her natural waist, from which yards of fabric flowed before being caught up in places by little gold satin ribbons to reveal a paler blue satin petticoat beneath. It was richer by far than the gown she had worn to the princess’s salon. She thought for a moment about her début at the Hôtel de Guise. And then she thought of the ruined satin slippers. Émilie stopped singing. She hoped Sophie had not gotten in trouble. If only she could find some way to tell her what had happened.

  “Mademoiselle Émilie, encore!” said Lully from across the room.

  Clocks began to chime. It was eleven in the morning, and soon Monsieur Dubuffet would arrive to give Émilie her dancing lesson.

  Lully took out a large pocket watch and looked at it. “Until tomorrow,” he said, with a small nod.

  Once the distant din of the timepieces died away, it was so quiet in the palace that Émilie could hear the footsteps of Lully and the accompanist fading for several minutes.

  Monsieur Dubuffet was late. Émilie strolled around the room. The only sound that broke the stillness was the pit-pat of her own soft-soled shoes on the parquet floors that had been polished to a glassy sheen. After a few minutes
Émilie could resist the impulse no longer. Since no one was watching, she stood at one corner, then ran as fast as she could to the middle of the room, where she stopped running and let herself slide, skating all the way to the opposite corner. She smiled and barely contained a little shriek of delight. A moment before she reached the other wall, hands outstretched so that she would not crash, a door that had been made to match the paneling so exactly that it was almost invisible opened. Through it came not Monsieur Dubuffet but François, Madame de Maintenon’s trusted servant. Émilie had been introduced to Madame de Maintenon when she first arrived, and the lady would glide in and out like a wraith every now and again, appearing at the most unexpected moments. Émilie was afraid of her.

  “Monsieur Dubuffet begs your pardon, Mademoiselle, but a slight indisposition renders it impossible for him to attend you for your dancing lesson this morning.” François, who had witnessed Émilie’s youthful mischief, only just managed not to smile.

  The exaggerated formality of speech practiced by everyone at Versailles, from the loftiest of courtiers to the lowliest of servants, made Émilie want to laugh. A breach of etiquette was deemed more serious than a capital crime and, so she heard, forgiven less easily by the king.

  “Where are you from, François?” she asked, smoothing her hair into place and doing her best to look dignified.

  “From Paris, Mademoiselle.”

  “What are your people?” she persisted.

  François stood stiffly with his hands clasped behind him, ready to bow and retreat at any moment. The veteran servant walked with a slight bend at the middle, as if he were saving himself the effort of straightening up entirely because he would soon enough be required to fold over again. This creased way of standing made him look quite old, but he was not above middle age. “My father was only a humble blacksmith, Mademoiselle.”