“She is not ready! She has no finesse!” Lully’s face was almost purple with consternation. First, the widow Scarron had persuaded him not to let Émilie sing during the fête, which would have been the perfect opportunity for her to do something easy and charming for the king, and now she wanted him to give the girl one of the most demanding stage roles he had ever written!
“Do you question the judgment of the king? It was, after all, his command,” St. Paul lied, examining his fingernails for a few moments before speaking once again. “And so, you must make her ready by the day of the performance. There is time enough, I think!”
Lully knew that this wish was never expressed by the king. He was accustomed to receiving his sovereign’s orders directly but he did not want to disabuse St. Paul of the belief that his lie had worked. No, this was the work of the widow Scarron, he was in no doubt whatever. She was up to something, that he realized. It did not matter to her whether the performance itself was perfect or not. Music was not her forte, not like the Marquise de Montespan. He had composed Alceste for the pleasure of the king’s official mistress in the first place, and she had such taste, such esprit. This gesture was in some way intended to lash out at Madame de Montespan, and he, by being forced to comply, would alienate one of his greatest allies at court.
He also knew that, whatever his feelings about the matter, he would never dare to confront His Majesty. Madame de Maintenon was too well liked, and he could see where things were headed. He had no choice but to accede.
“All right, Monsieur de St. Paul, I shall commence rehearsals on the morrow.”
“Perhaps I’ll pop in from time to time and see how you’re coming along,” said St. Paul with a smile of triumph.
“Only His Majesty is permitted to attend rehearsals.”
St. Paul paused on his way out the door of Lully’s apartment. “Oh, did I forget to say? His Majesty won’t be able to come to any rehearsals. He is much too occupied with the distressing news from Belgium. In any case, he knows his part. And he would prefer to be surprised on the night of the performance.”
Lully ground his teeth and stared at the door through which he saw St. Paul’s back disappear. He shook his head. The girl’s voice was pretty, there was no mistaking it. But to perform a major role required so much more than that. It could be an utter fiasco, and then he, Lully, would have let the king down. Never had his productions been anything but magnificent, perfect in every detail. He must talk to Quinault about rewriting the book a little. Such a young creature would never be believed as a matron with several children. At least he could retain Mademoiselle St. Christophle, the best singer in his troupe, as the Spirit of the River Seine in the prologue. St. Paul only mentioned the role of Alceste herself, and she does not enter until Act I. And then he would have at least one lead singer he knew he could count on to get the production off to a good start.
“La Christophle will be furious!” Lully said aloud to his empty study.
Émilie opened the hidden door that led to the Salle de Bal very slowly. Already gathered in the room were about a dozen people she did not know, whom she had never seen before. Realizing that her jaw was clenched and the muscles in her face tight and unnatural, she forced herself to relax: she would have to sing before long. Everyone looked so big, so much older than she. She smoothed her dress down and checked to see that her hair was not messy, then stood as tall as she could and joined the others in the center of the room.
“I am Émilie,” she said to a young woman who looked to be only a little older than she was, and who was standing a little off to the side. “Pleased to meet you.”
Before the girl had a chance to answer her, Lully walked in and clapped his hands. “Attention!” he barked. “Today, we begin an enterprise that the king has commanded. We are to perform, out of doors, the tragedy of Alceste, two months from today, on October the fifth.”
A murmur passed through the assembled crowd, and Émilie saw several of the singers smile and nod to each other.
“I shall announce the roles and would like each of you to come forward and stand by me when I have read your name.”
Lully went through almost the entire cast, including the chorus of soldiers and the ballet dancers. He paused for a moment when only Émilie and one other woman were left standing on one side of the room. “In the role of the Spirit of the River Seine, Mademoiselle St. Christophle.”
The lady stepped forward. “The River Seine, and Alceste, at your service, Monsieur!”
The other cast members laughed, but Lully continued with his eyes fixed on the paper he held before him.
“As Alceste, Mademoiselle Émilie Jolicoeur.”
Émilie walked over to take her place among her colleagues. But instead of the subdued chatter that had greeted all the other announcements, there was complete silence. Émilie knew nothing about the way things worked in an opera troupe, that young singers normally had to put in a couple of years singing the small roles before they leapt to stardom. She did not realize that Lully had instantly made her a pariah among the rest of the players, who, one by one, turned their backs on her.
Émilie bit her lower lip to stop herself from crying. She wanted to run from the room and hide away, not be the focus of everyone’s attention. If this was what it was like to be in an opera, she never wanted to do it again. At least, not one of Monsieur Lully’s. Monsieur Charpentier would never let something like this happen to her, she was certain.
The late-summer trees had begun to look as if they were growing tired of being green, and here and there a bright scarlet or yellow leaf dotted the foliage. Soon it will be autumn, Émilie thought somewhat sadly as she nodded back and forth in a sedan chair in time with the footsteps of the servants who carried it. She was on her way to visit the Marquise de Montespan at Clagny, a journey of only about a mile, but she wished she were on her way home. Autumn in Paris was her favorite season. She loved to be all snug indoors with the wild wind whistling around the roof of their house, and the restless water of the Seine sloshing against the stone supports of the bridge far below. It was on those nights that her father would tell a long story that sent a frisson of fear through her body, a story about dungeons and desperadoes, of treasonous princes and poisonings. All three of them would stay up late, past the time when the fire went out, and every slam of a door that was caught in the wind would make them jump with delighted terror.
The summons to attend the king’s official mistress had come just after her rehearsal the day before. François brought it to her. Madame de Montespan was still the most powerful woman at court, she had been told, although there were rumors that Madame de Maintenon was edging her out of the king’s favors. Émilie saw the marquise once in a while in the evening, at the queen’s card parties, when she, Émilie, was summoned to be decorative and helpful, picking up ladies’ fans when they dropped them or beckoning servants to replenish glasses of wine. The Marquise de Montespan was always the most magnificently dressed and still very beautiful after several childbirths. She looked more regal than the queen herself but was never unnecessarily unkind. She even asked Émilie to sing for her someday.
“Be careful,” François had told her. “She did not get to her position through an excess of virtue.”
“Why does she want to see me? Do you think she’ll ask me to sing?” she asked him.
“Who can say? But her summons must be obeyed, as surely as a summons from the queen. Now let me see how you look.” François stepped back to admire Émilie’s gown and coiffure, over which Marie had taken special care that morning.
As she made her short journey dressed like a lady of rank, Émilie suddenly wished that Charpentier could see her. She was embarrassed to think how childish she was when she had gone for her lessons every day. He would be proud to see how elegant, how calm she had grown. She had written to him and told him about singing the role of Alceste, and he wrote back, so happy for her and full of advice. She read the letter several times over before burning it
, as she had all Charpentier’s others on François’s advice. It always pained her to do it. The paper with Charpentier’s handwriting on it was her only connection with the world outside Versailles. There were days when she thought she might die if she did not receive a letter from her mentor—her friend. Émilie could tell that he worried about her, and she could also tell that he wished she would come back. He wished, even, that she had never gone away. She would reassure him that Lully’s music, although very skillful, was not the equal of his, and that she would never enjoy singing it as much. Émilie longed to be permitted to sing one of the airs Charpentier had written for her. Even more than that, she longed to sing their own, special duet.
Émilie’s memories were interrupted when the servants deposited her chair abruptly at the bottom of a long flight of marble steps leading up to the door of the miniature Versailles that was in view of the full-scale version where Émilie now lived. She knew that if she were a little more important, they would have carried her all the way up and into the very room where her hostess awaited her. As it was, they stood by, immobile. She struggled somewhat awkwardly out of the chair, exposing her ankles in the process.
Although from the outside Clagny resembled Versailles, as soon as Émilie walked through the door, she could tell she was in an altogether different place. As in Versailles, there were parquet floors, marble columns and statues, and beautiful hangings and pictures, but the ceilings were lower. And because the rooms were not as deep, the light from the windows illuminated them better, but it was filtered by gauzy silk curtains that waved languidly as she walked by and stirred up the peaceful air.
The footman led Émilie past the formal reception room, with its thronelike, red-velvet-upholstered armchair at one end and tapestry-covered tabourets lining the walls, then ushered her through a small door into a more intimate chamber. Madame de Montespan’s private sitting room was not awe-inspiring and monumental; it was large and luxurious, filled with a vast quantity of soft, silk-and velvet-upholstered furniture that beckoned one to recline. Silver salvers of sweets were placed so that they were never out of reach, and the sunlight that washed in through the sheer drapes seemed to hang, tremulous, in a state of near extinction. In the corner a musician played the lute quietly. Because he was somewhat hidden behind all the furniture, the music seemed to arise from nowhere, to be distilled from the atmosphere, and once created, it was absorbed into all the yielding surfaces of the room. Madame de Montespan also had her own magnificent suite of rooms in the chateau of Versailles, but it was a measure of the king’s regard for her that he had built this jewel of a home for her practically on his own grounds. Those who were less charitably inclined implied that Louis built it so he could have an occasional rest from his volatile and demanding mistress.
Émilie closed her mouth suddenly, realizing that it was hanging open when she walked in. Never had so many of her senses been assaulted in so delightful a way at the same time. It took her a moment to realize that some of what seemed to be upholstered furniture was actually motionless footmen, stationed here and there with the function of holding a tray of chocolates, or a sconce containing a candle, at the precise location necessary for someone’s possible need, should he happen to be sitting or standing in a certain place. Émilie half expected that the chairs themselves would suddenly sprout arms and legs and beckon her—an image that was both amusing and terrifying.
It was not until she spoke that Émilie noticed Madame de Montespan.
“Come closer to me, mon enfant,” she cooed.
Émilie approached her cautiously.
“Come now! I won’t hurt you, child. Come and sit by me.”
The marquise patted the space next to her on the divan, most of which was covered by her rich, damask gown. The setting was perfect, and although Émilie had admired the marquise’s beauty before, for the first time she really understood the lady’s capacity to enchant.
“Why are you frightened? You must know that I am your friend.” With this statement, the marquise lifted her feet off the sofa and sat upright, making more space beside her. Émilie obeyed and perched on the edge of the divan. The scent of Madame de Montespan’s rich perfume wafted toward Émilie every time the marquise made a gesture. She took Émilie’s hand and began to stroke it.
“Sing for me,” she said, sounding like a sulky child begging for a treat.
“What, now, Madame?” asked Émilie.
“Of course!” she answered, letting just a hint of irritation creep into her voice. “My lutenist can accompany you.” Madame de Montespan smiled very, very slowly.
The control she had over her facial muscles fascinated Émilie. Just the slightest shift of her eyes brought a little Moorish footman, whose skin was the color of the ebony keys on Monsieur Charpentier’s harpsichord, to Émilie’s side. He bowed to her, and gestured toward the musician, whom Émilie now saw on the other side of the room.
The lutenist stopped playing the moment the marquise asked Émilie to sing. He waited for her to walk the distance from the sofa to the corner where he sat with the lute cradled in his lap. With a little pang of homesickness, Émilie noticed that it was not one of her father’s. She also noticed that the musician smiled serenely and stared somewhere off into the distance.
“What will you sing?”
His question caught Émilie off guard. He had not turned toward her when he spoke, and all at once she realized that he must be blind. She whispered to him the name of an air by Lully, and he strummed a few notes of accompaniment. Then Émilie began to sing.
“No, no, no! Not that one!”
Émilie had barely let one note escape from her mouth when she was interrupted by the marquise.
“Sing me something from Alceste.” Her expression was almost pleading, beseeching. The abrupt change in tone from one sentence to the next made Émilie’s head spin. And besides, she was not supposed to sing the music from Alceste for anyone. No one was even meant to know that she was going to perform the role, outside of Lully, St. Paul, Madame de Maintenon—and the rest of the cast, of course.
“You see, it’s my opera. So it’s only right that you should sing it for me.”
For an instant Émilie wondered who had betrayed the secret they had all been sworn to keep. But with so many in the cast, and footmen always hovering around, it seemed logical that word would spread. And besides, she did not see how she could say no to Madame de Montespan, and so Émilie did as she was told.
When the song was finished, there was total silence in the room. Émilie looked in the direction of the marquise, whose face was turned away. One of the footmen approached his mistress cautiously and held out a silk handkerchief, which she took and applied to her eyes. Émilie saw her draw a deep breath before she turned and spoke.
“I have been watching you closely. Yes, you are indeed a talent.” In one languid movement, she shifted her position on the divan to make even more room at her side. “Come back and sit here,” she commanded, but not without kindness in her voice. “You are very young.” She watched Émilie walk back across the room. “I can see what they are doing. I see it all. I was there, at the masquerade. You are very pretty.”
Madame de Montespan’s eyes traveled up and down Émilie’s body. She shivered to remember the feeling of being so exposed on that dreadful day. But the marquise ignored her discomfort and continued to speak. Soon Émilie became mesmerized by her face. Watching it was like watching clouds skitter across the sky on a windy day. In that moment Émilie thought she had never seen a more beautiful woman.
“I must tell you something that may cause you distress,” said the marquise, her expression darkening. “You have been brought here to help a certain woman—I shall not dignify her with the title of lady—destroy me.” She paused.
Her comment shocked Émilie. It jarred against the soothing atmosphere of the room. She had no idea how to respond, and so she said nothing.
“Yes, what can you say? I feel it is my duty, my obligation, to warn you
that the perpetration of her designs upon me will result in your destruction too.” Madame de Montespan held perfectly still at the end of this statement, keeping Émilie’s eyes locked in her gaze. “My spies inform me that they have plans to put you in the king’s bed, which is the way that they propose to supplant me, so they imagine … You blush! And I dare say you hardly understand why. Well, no matter. Others have failed, and you will too.”
Émilie was horrified. The stern look on the marquise’s face gradually subsided and was replaced by one that seemed to close off all communication between them for a moment.
“They have miscalculated, however, and the result will have no effect upon my position with the king. And once they realize this, you will have outlasted your usefulness. That is a very perilous position to be in at court.”
A wave of mild nausea swept over Émilie. It had never occurred to her that there was any reason at all beyond music that she had been brought to Versailles. How could she have been so naïve? There was danger all around her, and she had failed to notice it. Émilie had a momentary image of herself as a little mouse, being toyed with by a well-fed cat. She began to realize that human beings were passed around like chips at a gaming table at Versailles. Madame de Montespan seemed to imply that she, Émilie, was merely currency, that it was all she had ever been since she arrived at court.
“I can see that you are alarmed. But have courage, ma chérie! I have a plan to extricate you from this unappealing prospect,” said the lady, “and I think you will find it greatly to your liking. It involves, among other things, a reunion with your ‘Cher Maître,’ Monsieur Charpentier.”
At the mention of this name, Émilie sat up just a little straighter. It did not escape her notice that Madame de Montespan used a term for Charpentier that could only have come from a perusal of the letters that were supposed to have been completely secret.
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