Emilie's Voice

by Susanne Dunlap

  Something was wrong. Although the atmosphere was alive with the restless night breezes, there was not the faintest sign of humanity anywhere. He was neither early nor late. The clock had struck the three-quarter hour almost at the moment he dismounted. But the door to the right of the Cour de Marbre was shut, and all was utterly quiet, except for the occasional snorting of his horse, and Charpentier’s own pounding heart. It was time to make a move, regardless. To delay might spoil everything. So he tossed the horse’s reins over a post and grabbed the spare cloak he had brought for Émilie, then ran to the door and flung it open, hoping to find her waiting just on the other side. The sudden movement sent a rat scurrying away. It had been nibbling at a dead mouse that was right against the door. No doubt it was this that had pushed it open slightly and made the noise Charpentier had heard. His precipitate entrance not only startled the rat but also awoke a young servant who had nodded off on the floor a little away from the door with a sputtering candle next to him.

  “Where is she!” Charpentier, with unaccustomed force, grabbed the lad by the shoulders and lifted him into a standing position.

  “That way!” the frightened lackey squeaked, pointing to the door that led to the stairs. “Two flights up, at the end of the hallway.”

  Charpentier let go, leaving the boy rubbing his arms, and charged down the hallway and up the stairs. When he emerged at the top, he saw a servant at the end of the corridor, standing at what he assumed was Émilie’s door. He heard the sound of breaking glass and was vaguely aware of the splash of some liquid on his hands as he threw all his weight against Émilie’s locked door, splintering the hinges away from the frame.

  “Good God!”

  He bounded across the room in two steps, reaching his arms out to grab Émilie, who was balanced precariously on the window ledge. As he pulled her back in, he felt her body go limp. She had fainted. Charpentier swirled the cloak around her, scooped her up, and carried her out past the servant.

  Panic seemed to give him wings. With strength he did not know he possessed he mounted his horse with Émilie in his arms, and they galloped through the gates as the guard called after them. Charpentier kept riding. He looked back once or twice, but no one followed them. Émilie was still slack against his chest, and he rode with one arm around her waist and the other controlling the horse. Émilie’s head lolled backward so that her lips were within inches of his, and he could smell her sweet breath. She was still slender, he noticed, but taller and more womanly than when he last saw her. Charpentier clung to his former student, partly because he feared that she might slide off the furiously galloping horse, and partly because he did not want to let her go.

  “We’ll be there soon, my love,” he whispered to the unconscious girl, and then he spurred the beast on faster and faster through the night.

  François had arrived at Émilie’s door about twenty minutes before midnight with a small tray bearing a carafe of wine and a single glass. He wished, more than anything, that there had been some easy way not to follow Madame de Maintenon’s instructions. He knew the horrible fate that awaited Émilie if she drank the wine. François thought for a moment of “accidentally” dropping the tray. But the widow Scarron was canny, and she would not expect François to make such a mistake. It passed through his mind that he could drink it himself. But although he took no pleasure in harming others, François had no desire to harm himself either. As the hour drew nearer, he continued to hope that he would think of something, or that events would transpire that would solve the dilemma for him. If the note he intercepted told the truth, then someone would attempt to abduct Émilie that night. Abduct, or rescue, depending on how one looked at it. If not, then it was up to him, to give her the wine and take her to the king, or not. He stood quietly outside the door, listening closely for any sound, trying to read the silence for meaning, trying to find a way to resolve the predicament that he—and Émilie—faced.

  François’s thoughts were interrupted by loud noises from below, and he looked up just in time to see a stranger barreling down the hallway toward him, his hard-soled boots ringing against the wooden floor. Before he could say a word, the man—Charpentier, he assumed—shoved him aside, sending the wine spattering against the walls and the glass to the floor, where it shattered. The stranger rammed himself so hard against Émilie’s door that the frame came apart.

  There was no time even to utter a sound before the intruder dashed back past him, this time carrying the unconscious Émilie in his arms. Stunned into complete immobility, François heard the abductor take the steps two at a time, marveling that he did not lose his footing. The door to the courtyard slammed behind him, and then the hollow clopping of hooves on cobbles faded as they made their escape.

  François shook himself out of his stupor and cautiously entered the room. Émilie’s empty dress was draped over her bed. The window was wide open, and the cold night air blew in unimpeded. In that moment François understood what had actually happened. Charpentier had prevented Émilie from taking her own life. This was an outcome he had not foreseen, and it changed everything. He crossed himself and said a silent prayer.

  “Heaven help us,” said François to the empty room. There would have to be an explanation. If he raised the alarm, guards would chase after them, they would be apprehended, and then—anything could happen.

  In the course of a lifetime at Versailles, François had seen everything. The most preposterous events seemed to be daily occurrences there, as if there was an unwritten law that life at court should be absurd and exaggerated. He looked at Émilie’s window and pictured her standing framed by it on the window ledge, then just leaning forward and sailing out, to plunge into the courtyard below. It wouldn’t have been the first time such a thing had happened. And why couldn’t it have happened? Who else had seen Charpentier arrive?

  Who had seen him leave? Two, maybe three servants? They were easily bought.

  François ran down the stairs to the door by which Charpentier had entered. The little page stood there still, looking confused.

  “What happened here, lad?” asked François.

  “Not sure really. A man, he grabbed me, and then ran upstairs, and came back carrying something that looked like a sack but I think it was a person.”

  The boy was very young, probably not more than eleven or twelve years old. “Listen to me,” said François, taking the lad’s chin in his hand and turning his face so that he could look directly into his eyes. “You saw no such thing. You were asleep in your quarters until I called you to come and help me. The young girl jumped out of her window and was killed in the Cour de Marbre. We moved her, you and I. We got a cart, and we took her to a far corner of the garden and buried her. And we cleaned up the blood in the courtyard.”

  By this time the lad’s eyes were huge. “You want me to lie?” he said.

  “That’s right,” said François. “I want you to lie, so that someone may live in peace and serenity. I don’t think it’s much to ask.” François reached into his pocket and pulled out a shiny coin, which he gave to the boy. “Promise me,” he said.

  “I promise,” the boy said, and then scampered off to bed.

  Nineteen

  Truth does less good in the world than the appearance of truth does harm.

  Maxim 64

  The horse was clearly flagging on the return trip to Paris, and Charpentier was afraid that he had injured Émilie by handling her so roughly in his haste to get away. There was nothing to do but stop.

  Charpentier pulled his horse up by a copse of trees, and walked him to where they could not be seen from the road. He gently slid off, holding Émilie close, then laid her on the leafy ground.

  “Émilie, Émilie!” he said, patting her cheeks and rubbing her wrists.

  She murmured and opened her eyes. “Am I dead? Did I go to heaven?”

  “No, Mademoiselle. Only to Paris. At least, that is where we will be in about an hour, if you can manage to sit up and hold on for a little whi
le longer.”

  “Monsieur Charpentier! I’m so glad to see you.” She began to cry. Charpentier lifted her and held her to him for a moment. He could feel her trembling.

  “We must get back on the horse and continue. I have a place for you to stay. Are you all right?”

  Émilie nodded. Charpentier helped her stand. “Just let me see to the horse for a moment,” he said, and then walked away from her to tighten the girth and check the horse’s hooves for stones.

  She was a little wobbly at first, but Émilie pulled herself upright, stretched, and breathed deeply. When she did this, she noticed something small, sharp, and bright stuck on the inside of her cloak. She reached into its folds and felt a hard, pointy object caught by a few threads on the lining of the wrap. It was the diamond bird brooch the king had given her a few hours before. Émilie looked toward Charpentier, but he was still busy, now lengthening a stirrup so she could remount easily. She wrapped her fingers around the brooch. She would tell him about it later.

  “Come and let me help you up,” said Charpentier. He lifted her easily onto the saddle and then mounted behind her. After readjusting the stirrup for his own leg, he yelled “Get on!” The horse, now a little rested, took off at a gallop.

  Émilie leaned back against Charpentier’s chest, feeling his arms enclosing her, muscles tensed to control the horse, and shut her eyes. The wind felt good on her face. She could already smell Paris.

  St. Paul’s coachman approached the sleeping figure propped against a boulder at the side of the road. “Is that you, Monsieur de St. Paul?”

  St. Paul shook himself awake. “What time is it?” he asked, leaping to his feet.

  “It’s two in the morning. I was afraid I wouldn’t find you.”

  “What took you so long!”

  “With only one horse, it was slow.”

  “Did you see anyone ride by, very fast, toward Paris?”

  “No, I didn’t—that is, only one horse, but not going very fast, because it was carrying two people.”

  St. Paul shook his head and sat in silence for a minute or two. “Let’s go on to Versailles. There’s nothing else I can do now.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Where’s the horse?”

  “I think he’s over there, enjoying all this grass. I’ll get him, and we’ll be on our way before you know it.”

  St. Paul was very happy to see the inside of his coach. This kind of excitement was not really in his line. He was annoyed at himself for failing to stop Charpentier, but it was only a temporary setback. He would find a better way. He would bring Émilie back to Versailles, with or without the help of Madame de Maintenon. He had tried it her way, and what was the result? Now the king would have no one else to thank but him. St. Paul looked at his ruined breeches and sighed. He had no more credit with the tailor. He would have to convince his godmother to advance him some cash.

  “You say she jumped,” said Madame de Maintenon, who looked as if she had not been asleep when François knocked on her door.

  “Yes. There was nothing I could do. By the time I was able to enter the room, it was too late.”

  “Thank you for coming and telling me first,” she said, looking steadily at François. “Where is she now?”

  “I buried her.”

  The widow Scarron did not take her eyes off François. “So soon? How did you manage it?”

  François was certain she had seen through his lie. “I had help. A young page was nearby. And besides, you know, a suicide …”

  “I think you had better inform the king.” Madame de Maintenon let go of the line of inquiry, but François was under no illusion that she bought the story completely.

  “Someone should tell the girl’s parents,” said François.

  “Yes, her parents. Do you know them?”

  “No, Madame.”

  “I shall send St. Paul when he returns. François,” she said, and François could almost see her mind at work during the pause in her speech. “François, did you give my instructions to the wine steward?”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  “And what happened to the wine for Mademoiselle Émilie?”

  “I am afraid I dropped the tray when I heard the noise that made me force the door of her chamber.” François was certain he saw the widow Scarron breathe a sigh, almost of relief.

  “You may go.”

  The door had certainly been broken in, and the window was still wide open. Apart from these two things, it looked much like the other little rooms in the great château. There was nothing in particular to distinguish it, except for the things on the desk: a set of watercolors and a velvet box. St. Paul was mildly curious about what was inside the box, although he imagined it was a gift from the king, very likely a valuable and utterly useless trinket. He picked it up and opened it. He was really not surprised to find it empty, except for a piece of paper, whose message was clear enough. If there had been anything of value in the box, he would have taken it himself and blamed one of the servants for stealing it. He glanced around the room for the object that the box should have contained, but he found nothing.

  Altogether too early the morning after his unsuccessful adventure, St. Paul was called to attend Madame de Maintenon. She told him that Émilie had leapt from her window and killed herself, and that he was to go to Paris to inform her parents. He went directly from the widow Scarron’s apartments to quiz his coachman about what he had seen the night before. The man swore that it was two people on a horse. Of course, it might have been a different two people. But at that hour? And on that road?

  The palace guard, on the other hand, swore that no one had come through there before St. Paul himself in the early hours of the morning. Someone could have bought him off, though.

  “Serves me right for leaving Versailles.” St. Paul’s voice sounded loud in the deserted room.

  “Oh, she’ll see me!” Madame de Montespan said, sweeping past the footman at Madame de Maintenon’s door.

  “To what do I owe this honor?” said the widow Scarron, rising from her desk and curtseying to the marquise.

  “You just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you!”

  “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “The girl. You knew she was going to flee, didn’t you? What did it matter to you?”

  “My dear Marquise, exactly what do you insinuate?”

  Madame de Montespan strode restlessly around the small parlor, her silk skirts swishing against the furniture. “Why did she do it? She had everything to live for.”

  “These are mysteries we must look to God alone to answer.” Madame de Maintenon turned away from her visitor.

  “God, or the devil! Be careful how you use your influence, Madame.”

  “Surely such agitation is not good for a woman in your delicate condition,” said the widow Scarron.

  “Yes, another of the king’s darlings for you to teach. Make no mistake, that is your job.”

  Madame de Maintenon curtseyed. “So sorry you could not stay longer and enjoy a cup of tea.”

  “I wouldn’t dare drink tea that you had prepared.”

  “I thought that sort of thing was more in your line.”

  Madame de Montespan left the room as suddenly as she arrived.

  When St. Paul made the journey to Paris the next day to inform Marcel and Madeleine, he said nothing of the velvet box with its note, and its lack of an object he knew must be very valuable. He told them only what he had been told: that François had found a discreet spot within the garden of Versailles to lay their daughter to rest. Marcel broke down immediately, but Madeleine maintained her composure. St. Paul admired her restraint.

  Émilie, as she had been, effectively ceased to exist.

  Twenty

  There is only one genuine kind of love, but there are thousands of copies.

  Maxim 74

  Three days had passed since Émilie’s dramatic exit from Versailles. She departed, as she oft
en mused, exactly as she had come: more or less unconscious. Now she was in a small apartment, spending much of her time entirely alone. Charpentier told her they were still in the Marais, but what did it matter? He had forbidden her to go outside.

  “What if someone recognized you? It could be dangerous—for both of us.”

  “You mean I cannot walk home to see my father and mother?”

  Charpentier looked at her and sighed. “Promise me, for now, you will not go outside. Lucille will see to your needs. If you want anything, anything at all, just tell me.”

  “When can I go about the streets again?”

  “When the danger is past,” answered Charpentier, in a tone of voice that had signaled to Émilie that there was no point in pressing the issue further. He had been her teacher before, but it irked her that he took command so completely. How was she to know whether it was best to follow his instructions or whether he too was trying to use her in his own way? The world seemed to have undergone a strange transformation since the night of her début at Versailles. Nothing felt certain anymore.

  Charpentier had taken care to provide clothes for Émilie and brought her books to read and a deck of cards. Émilie had learned a simple game of solitaire at Versailles on those evenings when she was required to attend the card parties, when she would watch the ladies wager huge sums of money against each other with a kind of desperation. Now she began to understand why, when everything else in life seemed to be in the control of others, trusting to pure chance might have its allure.