Emilie's Voice

by Susanne Dunlap

  “Charpentier is inside,” whispered the coachman, who leaned down from the box and spoke into the open window.

  St. Paul nodded to him and climbed out of the coach. “Pull just ahead there, a little out of sight. I’ll wait for him to come out and persuade him to join me.”

  The coachman did as he was told, and St. Paul stood to one side of the stable door. He drew his pistol out of his sash, cocked it, and stood at the ready.

  The public reception rooms of the château had never been so beautiful. For the first time since she had come to Versailles, Émilie did not feel diminished by her surroundings. She was part of them, and yet distinct: a mural come to life; a marble statue animated. She blended with the air, thick with the smoke from thousands of candles and torches. It was her natural element, this rich soup of perfume and body odor, food and burning fuel. She dove into the atmosphere and swam through it, flashing and sparkling like an exotic fish in a pond, smiling, smiling.

  Émilie ached with tenderness when she beheld the gorgeous plenty of the Salle d’Abondance and the Salle de Vénus. She could see beyond each delicate morsel of food, every one a perfect product of culinary art, to the hundreds of laboring hands that had produced it.

  The Chambre du Billard glittered with the forced gaiety of people losing money and pretending not to mind. In the Salle de Bal dancers so skilled and controlled in their movements that they looked as if they were made of wax performed a stately minuet. And in the next room, ladies fanned themselves and yawned at card tables set up around the state bed, the scene of the birth of all the royal children. Émilie had a vision of the queen, screaming with the pangs of labor, blood-soaked sheets clenched in her fists, while all around her courtiers laughed and told secrets.

  All eyes followed the ingénue as she glided from room to room. Some even called out to her or touched her on the arm or face as she passed, but she did not notice. She looked out on everyone from somewhere else, protected, secure. Even François’s furrowed brow and occasional questions and comments did not penetrate her cocoon.

  It could have been years or a moment ago that she had sung her heart out upon the stage. She paused in the midst of her progress to look out over the three fountains, playing exuberantly in the torch-lit garden. The autumn wind tossed spray irreverently at a few brave pedestrians, who scurried away from this unwelcome benediction.

  Arching jets of water created sparkling, fluid architecture, as ephemeral as it was miraculous, the backdrop to a living stage set upon which the drama of court life was constantly rehearsed. But none of that mattered now. Émilie wallowed in a state of delicious oblivion, letting herself imagine that it all happened magically, that no vast system of hydraulics was necessary to make the water flow against its will, but that some sprite had enchanted the entire acreage of Versailles, and that she too had been caught in the spell, frozen in time and space.

  When Charpentier arrived at the stable, the groom was nowhere to be found and his horse dreamily munched hay in his stall, more ready to settle down for the night than to spring into action.

  “Hey there!” At the sound of his voice, the horse lifted his head suddenly. After a moment Charpentier heard a shuffling and a loud “Ssshh” from the direction of the hayloft. “Where are you, boy? I need my horse!” A stifled giggle filtered down from above his head. He scrambled partway up a ladder to see where it came from.

  There, sprawled amid the bales in a state of undress not easy to remedy quickly, was the young groom, and with him a common prostitute. Because she faced away from him, Charpentier did not notice that it was the same whore who had announced herself to him as none other than Sophie Dupin, but he realized that no matter what he did, the lad would not be fit to help him with his horse for some minutes. So without a word, he climbed back down, fetched the tack himself, and did his best. He was not accustomed to the job, and although he knew what to do, it took him much longer than it should have. He lost twenty precious minutes in the process as he grappled with his horse, who had caught the mood of urgency and would not stay still.

  Once he was finished, Charpentier leapt onto the beast even before he left the stable.

  St. Paul saw the doors fly open, and he lowered his pistol to take aim. Charpentier galloped out at full speed and sent pedestrians scurrying as he wove through the evening crowd of coaches that clogged the rue de Grand Chenier. St. Paul pulled the trigger, but instead of a bright flash and a loud explosion, there was only a soft click.

  “Damn!” he said, and then yelled out, “You there! Stop!”

  He thought he saw Charpentier look back. His only consolation was that if Charpentier kept going at that rate, the man’s horse would expire before he reached Versailles. He was going too fast to catch by driving a carriage, and they would never get around the other vehicles that inched along the road. St. Paul tucked his pistol in his sash again and ran to his coach. “Unharness the horses!”

  Before the coachman was off the box, St. Paul started slashing at the traces with his knife. The coachman lifted the harness off one of the horses. “You’ll never manage sir, there’s no saddle!” he yelled.

  St. Paul ignored him and quickly knotted the long rein he had cut over the horse’s nose, leapt on his back, and kicked the beast. The coachman watched as his master followed the path that Charpentier had taken. Once St. Paul was out of sight, he tried to arrange what was left of the harness so that the remaining horse could pull the coach.

  Émilie arrived in the throne room. At its center sat Louis, in a red velvet armchair on a platform, surveying the scene around him with satisfaction. He was by far the most magnificently dressed of all the company, and his large wig added to his height. He was a very handsome man, with a bearing that left not a soul in doubt that everything the eye could see happened because he willed it. Beside him, Madame de Maintenon gave orders to servants, already more in command than the queen, who played cards in another room and was losing heavily to the Duc d’Orléans, so everyone whispered. Louis caught sight of Émilie straightaway and leaned to say something to the widow Scarron. She came forward to greet Émilie, her face full of meaning.

  “The king would like to hear a selection from Alceste.”

  She did not wait for any sign of assent from Émilie but turned immediately and gestured to the servants to bring in the harpsichord. Lully himself followed it in and then took his seat, prepared to act as accompanist. Everyone in the room went completely silent; no one dared not attend to that which held the interest of the king. For one evanescent moment, Émilie imagined herself back at the Hôtel de Guise, about to make her début. There she had had to sing out to be heard above the noise of conversation, and had, by sheer force of her beautiful voice, startled the entire company into raptures of applause and admiration. Here she looked around at the absolutely still and silent courtiers, smiled, and began to sing, very quietly.

  At the end of Émilie’s performance came the muted approbation of gloved clapping. Louis smiled at her, then turned and spoke into a man’s ear. It was Colbert, the finance minister, who left the room for a moment and returned carrying a black velvet box about six inches square. He presented it to Émilie. She looked at it, puzzled. François, who had stayed as close by her side as he dared, nudged Émilie and bowed deeply. She took his cue and curtseyed, then backed away and left the room.

  Once she was out of sight of Louis, Émilie had the sensation that someone had let all the feathers out of her magical cushion. What before had seemed warmly enveloping now felt so close that it abraded her. The noise of the crowd hurt her ears, the brilliance of her surroundings was like needles in her eyes. Her feet were so sore that every step was agony, and it was with difficulty that she kept from crying again.

  François saw her wilt and realized that she was so weak that she might drop the velvet box the king had just given her. He put his hand beneath her elbow and supported her, letting her lean on him all the way back to her chamber. He understood that she might lose heart at the prospe
ct of what was to come later that night. He wished he were in a position to comfort her.

  “Why don’t you open your present?” suggested François when he opened the door of her room, thinking that perhaps a beautiful bauble would distract Émilie from her agitation of mind. He felt sorry that such a sweet young creature had gotten herself mixed up in all these schemes. François placed the box on Émilie’s little writing table, then bowed to her and closed the door behind him as he left.

  When François had gone, Émilie wandered slowly to her desk and picked up the velvet box. It had a gilt clasp with a single pearl embedded in filigree that had been designed to resemble a bird’s nest. She teased the mechanism with her fingers until it disengaged, and lifted the lid. Cradled there in a bed of satin was a magnificent diamond brooch in the shape of bird. Its mouth was open, and its throat extended. She lifted the precious object out of the box and held it before her, letting the light from the candle glint and fracture into thousands of tiny points on the walls of her room. The brooch was like nothing she had ever seen before, and yet it made her immeasurably sad. The bird was trying to sing, but since it was only a piece of jewelry, it could not. Émilie was about to replace the bird in its silken nest when she noticed that the folds of satin concealed a small piece of paper. It was a note addressed to her.

  Mademoiselle Émilie,

  The king requests a private performance in his chamber at half past midnight tonight. François will conduct you thither.

  Émilie did not recognize the handwriting. Not that she imagined for one moment it was the king’s, but she knew that Madame de Maintenon had not written it. She also knew that her performance would not involve any singing at all, although she wasn’t entirely clear concerning what exactly losing her innocence would entail.

  Midnight was still over an hour away. Émilie took off her court dress and laid it across her bed. Then she walked to her window. The latch stuck when she tried to open it. When it finally gave way, the casement crashed against the outer wall of the palace, and one of the tiny panes shattered. Clouds scudded across a bright, moonlit sky, although the moon itself was out of sight, on the opposite side of the château. Directly across from her window, on the other wing of the château, one or two of the torches that had been fixed up high still glowed, halfheartedly competing with the moonlight. Below, the shiny surface of the Cour de Marbre was again exposed, the stage having been dismantled as quickly as it had been assembled. The black and white squares seemed to move and heave with the constantly changing cloud shadows.

  Past and future fell away. Now was all there was. It was comforting, in a way, to know what she had to do, before a different choice was forced upon her. Émilie turned away from the window and walked back to her desk, where she sat, perfectly still, and gazed unseeing toward the night sky.

  Eighteen

  It is easier to be wise for others than for ourselves.

  Maxim 132

  “I am expecting an important message from Paris this evening.” On her way to bed after the celebration that night, Madame de Montespan addressed the guard who stood outside the door of her apartments in the château. “It will come by messenger on horseback. Please make certain that he will be allowed to pass by the gate, sometime around midnight, I believe.”

  The guard bowed and walked to another guard a little farther along the corridor, who then walked to the next one and so on until the message reached the sergeant who was posted to keep watch over the main gate. By the time it arrived at its destination, Madame de Montespan was in her bed, drifting off to sleep. Satisfying to be able to help an insignificant person and harm her most detested rival at the same time, she thought, as she let herself sink into the luxurious comfort of silk sheets and goose down pillows. Besides, she was almost certain she was pregnant again. And Louis was becoming more and more fond of the children they had together. He had just agreed to allow her to bring them to court. Another baby was sure to cement her position.

  Every so often Charpentier looked behind him to see if he was being followed. Sometimes the wind carried the sound of pounding hooves in the distance, but he could not see anything. Still, he was afraid to slacken his pace. He had no idea who it could be that called after him like that as he left the stable. Who would have known of his plans?

  He guessed that he was about halfway to Versailles. The horse was already foaming at the mouth, and sweat gathered in white streaks on his flank. Charpentier decided he had to ease up or he might kill the animal. He slowed to a canter. It was hard to see the road anyway; the moon kept vanishing behind the clouds, and he had to traverse deep countryside to get to the little village that had once been the site of only a humble hunting lodge. He had never been to Versailles before. Charpentier had followed the directions he was given but was still anxious in case he had not taken the right road. The fact that it was the most well-kept highway to the southwest of Paris reassured him, however. Best not to dwell on it, he thought, and instead went over the other arrangements as he rode. A parcel had arrived earlier that day that contained twenty louis. The note said to use them if he needed to bribe the guards. He had tucked the pouch of coins hurriedly in his sash; now he let go of the reins with one hand to feel if it was still there. It was.

  After half an hour, St. Paul’s satin breeches wore through from rubbing against the sweating horseflesh beneath him. He was in agony. The horse, accustomed to pulling a carriage rather than being ridden, was not a smooth mount, nor was he particularly fast. St. Paul lost sight of Charpentier even before he left Paris.

  “Damn it all to hell!” he reined in his horse, which was willing enough to take a rest, and dismounted. They were miles from anywhere and hadn’t a hope of being able to stop Charpentier from carrying Émilie away.

  Just off the road St. Paul saw a chestnut tree with a boulder beneath it. He could sit there and wait for his coach to catch up to him. At least, he hoped that the coachman had followed. What a fiasco!

  As soon as he slid off, the horse, unused to being ridden so hard, put his head down and commenced tearing up what was left of the grass. St. Paul limped over to the boulder he had spotted. He tried to sit on top of it, but his backside was so sore he could not endure it, and so he settled for the soft ground, using the rock as a back rest. He removed his pistol from his sash and examined the firing mechanism. The priming powder was still in the pan. The flint was dull. He closed his eyes. He thought for a moment that perhaps he would be able to stop the couple on their way back to Paris, but in the dark he did not trust his aim-even if he were able to sharpen the flint enough to make a spark. It would not do to kill the girl by accident. At the rate Charpentier was going, St. Paul figured it would be at most two hours before he passed this way again. He yawned and let his head lean back. Within minutes his jaw fell open and his breathing was loud and regular.

  The moon had moved across the sky and now seemed to hang just over the slate roof of the old château. It beckoned Émilie, a magnetic disc of light, pulling her off her stool, drawing her slowly toward the window. With her eyes fixed on it, she climbed up onto the casement. In her hand she clutched the jeweled bird the king had given her.

  The cool breeze caressed her face. Her own voice rang out and echoed in her head, singing the words of Alceste that Quinault wrote and Lully set to music.

  Ah, I would do anything to save my true love!

  The sound she imagined was more beautiful than anything she had ever heard. She let it engulf her, let it drown out all other noises. Soon she could see the wind pushing and pulling the clouds into fantastic shapes, but she could no longer hear it. Below her was the Cour de Marbre. Somewhere, she was aware of clocks chiming and an insistent pounding, dull, like fists against wood, but very far away. She focused her mind out and over the black and white pattern of the marble below. When the wind was at its wildest, and the song in her head had reached its zenith, Émilie let go of the window frame, spread her arms wide, and balanced on the sill. While she stood there feeling al
most drunk with freedom, memories of the hours of singing with Charpentier and visions of her days in the workshop with her father crowded into her mind. She felt her eyes sting, and the moon seemed to swim in front of her. Émilie blinked hard. She would miss both of them in heaven, she thought, more than they would miss her on earth.

  A guard stopped Charpentier as soon as he entered the Cour Royale.

  “You there! What’s your business?”

  “I have a message, for …” Charpentier forgot what he was supposed to say and began to fish for the purse full of coins at his waist.

  “Ah yes! You’re expected. Dismount please, sir.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nobody rides into the Cour Royale except the king.”

  With relief, Charpentier slid off his exhausted horse and then led him on toward the door where he expected to find Émilie waiting. He tried to be quiet, but every step they took echoed loudly off the walls of the palace. He looked over his shoulder. There was nobody there, although he was still certain he had been followed from Paris. A noise from the direction of the château made him turn around suddenly. He put his hand over his horse’s nose, signaling for him to be quiet, and then listened. Nothing.

  Charpentier stepped slowly forward and his horse whinnied quietly, restless and tired. After three or four steps, he heard the sound once more. Again Charpentier stopped. But all he could hear was the roar of the wind in the autumn trees. In the Cour de Marbre, remnants of the earlier performance, in which Émilie had no doubt enthralled her audience, were still scattered around-a piece of scenery, meaningless and flat without its neighbors, and the orchestra’s stools and music stands not yet taken indoors. A few sputtering torches cast a faint, uneven light that made the black and white marble squares shimmer and dance. He tried, for a moment, to imagine Émilie singing there, but the wind had picked up, and it whistled around the stone palace and whooshed through the dry-leaved trees, drowning out everything he heard in his head.