When she was not singing, Émilie’s favorite occupation at Versailles had been drawing and painting. The drawing master was a kind old soul who was nearly blind, and he complimented whatever she did. Charpentier said that he would bring her paper and paints too, so that she could amuse herself during the many hours she would have to spend without him. Émilie was not completely alone all day, though. Lucille, the maid, came for a few hours, to tend the fire and bring Émilie food—delicious, simple food instead of all the rich delicacies that were the usual fare at court—and see to her daily wants. Charpentier himself stopped in for an hour or two each evening. He had to continue his life at the Hôtel de Guise as if nothing had happened and so could not spend the days in Émilie’s company.
With so many empty hours between visits, she had ample time to reflect upon what had happened to her. They had arrived in Paris in the dead of night. Charpentier sat with her until she fell asleep in the comfortable bed in the tiny apartment. By the time she awoke several hours later, he had returned, looking refreshed.
“Tell me everything,” she said.
Charpentier filled her in quickly on the events of the night before. Émilie shivered when she realized that if he had not arrived when he had, she might have fallen out of the window and would really be dead.
“What shall we do now? Do they know I am here? What about Mesdames, and François, and St. Paul, and the king?”
He reached into his waistcoat and withdrew a letter from his inside pocket. “They all believe that you fell. This was waiting for me when I went back to the Hôtel de Guise this morning.” He showed Émilie the note that had arrived at dawn that day. It said that the king had been informed of Émilie’s death, and that if Charpentier valued his or her life, he must ensure that she was never again brought before the royal notice. The note was not signed.
“So, I am dead after all,” she said.
For a moment Émilie was aware of an enveloping silence, as if the world had fallen away, and all that was left was herself, perched atop a lofty peak that was surrounded by clouds. She was far away from everyone, including Charpentier. No one could know, she was certain, how it felt to find oneself erased from so many minds. She shook her head from side to side, just to bring herself back to the present. Then she turned toward Charpentier.
“Don’t you see what it means?” she said.
“It will not be so bad! They will leave us alone. I can show you the music I have written. You can sing for me.”
Émilie gazed steadily at him. She felt her eyes stinging and could not stop the tears that burned in them. She knew, after her triumphant début, that anyone with any connection whatsoever to the court would recognize her voice the instant it was raised in song. Her face they might forget, but her voice—never. She understood that as long as she and Charpentier must avoid the notice of the king, she must not sing.
“Ah,” Charpentier said, the light fading from his eyes. “I see. How stupid of me. Of course.” He walked over to the window. Émilie could see his shoulders droop. After a moment or two he turned and came back to her bedside.
“So, that’s how it must be. It doesn’t matter, to me. Really it doesn’t.”
Charpentier took Émilie’s hand in his and stroked it. Although she realized that it was meant to be comforting, his gesture only irritated her. Émilie wanted to scream out loud, but she was too tired, so she lay back and turned her head away. Charpentier lifted her fingers to his lips, then departed in silence.
Now the lonely hours yawned before Émilie, who found herself counting each day off as if she were serving out a prison sentence. Although she was no longer confined to the château and grounds of Versailles, she was a captive still, this time in solitary confinement, with the boundaries of her world tinier and more restrictive than they had ever been. She never thought she could possibly miss anything about her life at court, but she did miss contact, however superficial, with other people. She missed François and his quietly sensitive responsiveness to her every need. She missed the silent Marie, who took care of her without a word of complaint. She missed running through the corridors or the garden when no one was looking. She missed disliking Lully, and being fussed over and petted, even if there was always some unstated motive behind the attention. She missed being part of the world, whatever that world was.
Lully drew himself up to his full height and tried to suck in his belly. He was dressed in his finest clothes, having arrived to go over with the king the plans for an upcoming celebration. When he felt he looked his best, he cleared his throat and tapped lightly at the door. Colbert’s voice called to him to enter.
“So, my friend, will you have a new ballet for me?”
The king was in a good mood. He had just recently discovered that he was to be a father again.
“Yes, Your Majesty, a ballet. Will you take part? There is a wonderful role for you.”
“Alas, my dancing days are at an end. Madame de Maintenon advises me that it does not become a monarch to appear upon the stage.”
Lully was not certain, but he thought he saw a knowing look pass between the king and his finance minister.
“And how much, Monsieur de Lully, will this new production cost?” Colbert asked. He had his ledger books open on an enormous table at the right height for standing.
“That is impossible to say, Monsieur. We must maintain the utmost quality. The king’s festivities cannot be seen to be anything less than perfect.” Lully glanced in the direction of the king for corroboration.
Louis turned to Colbert. “Monsieur Lully speaks the truth. However, I believe that he may be able to make some economies, now that we no longer have the expense of the young singer to bear.” The king cast a meaningful look at Lully.
“Yes,” he said, “a great pity that such talent should perish.” Lully understood that this was his monarch’s way of punishing him for whatever role he might have had in provoking Émilie’s suicide. He would have to bear some of the expense himself. This was vexing, to say the least. He had his heart set on some new tapestries for his town house in Paris. And Pierre had asked for a pretty little bauble, a gold buckle with rubies and pearls. He had been so sweet and comforting lately, Lully hated to say no.
The king smiled. “Let us have a grand bower. I see thousands and thousands of roses …”
“And perhaps there can be a chorus of pages, to cast flower petals before the king. I believe there is one in particular who has a fine voice?” Colbert waited for Lully to answer.
“I do not know whom you mean, Monsieur,” he answered.
“Strange,” said Colbert, smirking, “I have heard that you give private instruction to one young fellow at all hours of the day and night.”
Lully’s response caught in his throat, and he pretended to cough into his handkerchief.
“I hope you are not suffering from a cold,” said the king, leaning back in his chair away from the court composer.
“No, Sire,” Lully answered. “It was only the slightest tickle. But I believe you will not be disappointed with the spectacle or the singers who will next perform before you.”
Lully remained closeted with Louis and Colbert for the remainder of the afternoon. By the time he left, he was furious and had made a mental note to discover who had betrayed him so infamously to Colbert. In those few hours he had discovered not only that his fortune was to be diminished because of Émilie’s demise, but that he must take somewhat greater care with his personal proclivities, or he might find himself accused of a crime that not even the king would dare forgive. Fortunately, he knew that his wife would back him up. She was a fool, but she was loyal, and she liked the life to which his influence at court entitled her. She spent almost all her time in their house in Paris, never questioning her husband’s right to have his personal valet in attendance night and day. A pity, really, that he could not return her esteem in equal measure.
“Émilie,” began Charpentier just before he was going to leave her one night and
return to his celibate quarters at the Hôtel de Guise.
“Yes?” She stopped leafing through the book of poetry he had brought her and that she was too lazy to actually read and looked up at him from where she sat on the rug in front of the fireplace. “What is it?” she asked.
“I just think, it’s time we made a few changes.”
At last, thought Émilie. “You mean, I can go out now?”
“Well, not exactly, but if we make this change, I think you will be safer, and then soon you may start to appear in public again.” Charpentier fidgeted with the lace on the edges of his cuffs.
Émilie was puzzled. He looked distinctly uncomfortable and would not meet her eyes. “I don’t understand,” she said.
All at once Charpentier turned his gaze full onto her, grasped her hands, and pulled her to her feet. The book that was in her lap tumbled to the floor. “Émilie, I think we should get married.”
“Why?” Émilie blurted out the question before she could stop herself, and immediately regretted it.
Charpentier stepped back from her, pushed his wig back slightly and scratched his scalp, a familiar gesture that brought a smile to Émilie’s lips. She reached for his hands again. “Do you love me?”
He was silent for a moment or two, his eyes traveling over her face as if looking there for confirmation. “Yes,” he said.
The look on Charpentier’s face made Émilie want to hold him like an infant, it was so full of uncertainty and fear. “Well then,” Émilie said, lowering her eyes, “perhaps we should.”
Charpentier took Émilie’s face between his hands and drew her forward to him. He kissed her, very gently.
Émilie felt the touch of his lips, warm, moist, and light, on hers. Something gave way inside of her, and she felt a tingling in regions of her body that were far from her mouth. It was a pleasant sensation. She let his kiss continue as long as he cared to press his mouth to hers. Émilie knew that they should get married, knew that it would happen even if she had not enjoyed Charpentier’s kiss so much. There was the matter of propriety, after all. Despite the fact that no one was aware that she was living there at a man’s expense, unchaperoned, in an apartment in a part of town where women of ill repute set up housekeeping four or five times a day, Émilie realized that the arrangement was not entirely comme il faut.
“And what about you?” asked Charpentier, after he had stopped kissing Émilie, and the two of them simply stood there, searching each other’s eyes.
“Me?” she asked.
“You know,” he said. “Are you happy? About getting married?”
“Of course I am!” Émilie wanted to give him the answer she knew he was looking for. But somehow, just then, she could not. It would have been so simple, just to say those three words, to surrender herself completely to the idea that they would never be separated again, that her soul was bound to his for all eternity, but something held her back. She was grateful to Charpentier for not asking in a way that would force her to say it when she needed time to understand what it all meant. The reality of her situation, the carrying through of the scheme that Madame de Montespan had concocted ostensibly to help Émilie return to the man she loved, had opened her eyes. What she had felt before was yearning, infatuation, desperation. Consenting to be married was one thing. Admitting to being in love was something else altogether.
The wedding was set for three days later, at midnight.
“I feel like a criminal,” Émilie said as they went over the arrangements.
“Nonsense! You’re not doing anything wrong. You have never done anything wrong.”
Émilie was not so sure. She had never told anyone about the evening slippers, not even Charpentier. Somehow committing her misdeed to the permanence of pen and paper was too frightening, and so she did not relate the story of their demise in her letters, as she had intended to. And Charpentier still did not know about the diamond brooch. It remained hidden, wrapped in a handkerchief, in the little cabinet that contained her personal belongings. When he was not there, she sometimes took it out just to look at it. It was her only link with a life that seemed now to have been no more than a dream. She would ponder for hours at a time the idea that everyone she knew at court presumed that she was no longer alive. She had in her possession the only evidence that might prove them wrong, and it fascinated her.
“We’ll have to do something about your hair, for a while at least.”
Émilie shook herself out of her reverie and tried to attend to all that Charpentier said.
“We’ll try a wig, just to be sure.”
“But I still don’t understand why midnight,” she asked, having followed her own train of thought despite her attempt to pay attention.
“I’ve told you before. We need to do it when there will be no one in the church.”
Émilie feared, from something he said, that Charpentier had laid down large sums of money to keep the records hidden. He had gone over everything several times, but try as she might, she could not keep it all straight in her mind. Every time she asked him about it, she hoped that the circumstances had somehow magically altered, that there was no more need for secrecy. But his answer remained always the same. He explained to her that she was not to be “Émilie Jolicoeur,” but “Marcelline Sansvoix”—only for a few hours, because she would return to the apartment as Marcelline Charpentier. That was very difficult for her, losing her name. Émilie could not accustom herself to the idea. Charpentier promised her he would still call her by her given name when they were alone. It was only necessary for the sake of the parish register that she not be Émilie.
The court of Versailles seemed a lifetime away at that moment, and yet it loomed like a threatening presence over everything they did. Émilie tried to picture what was happening at each moment in her absence, and only then realized how much her existence there had been centered upon her own activities. She had no idea what everyone else did while she was engaged in singing, drawing, reading, writing, walking in the garden, or learning fancy needlework. And yet, there were hundreds—thousands—of people, continuing whatever occupations and business had previously taken up the hours of their days, as if she had never existed. Just as they would have if she had truly died. Perhaps François missed her; perhaps he was the only one whose life would be different without her there.
When she took Charpentier’s name tomorrow, she would cease to exist again, or at least a part of her would no longer be, that part of her that identified her as the daughter of her father. There too, her parents’ life would not change at all. She wondered who had told them that she died. It grieved her to think they would believe they no longer had a child. That would be the first thing she would do when she could. She would find a way to tell them that she was still alive. Being dead to everyone else was bearable. Being dead to her parents felt too real.
Twenty-one
There is no passion where pride reigns more powerfully than in love, and one is more often content to sacrifice the peace of mind of the person one loves than to sacrifice one’s own.
Maxim 262
Less than three blocks away from where Émilie waited in chaste near-solitude to become a married woman, Sophie continued to sell the rights of consortium several times a night. Circumstances had made it necessary that she put her plans for an acting career aside for a little longer. Although she had counted on being finished with her vengeful meddling by now and therefore able to move on to a more respectable lifestyle, nothing had gone according to plan. She waited outside the Hôtel de Guise early the morning after she had waylaid the stable boy, hoping to be present either when Charpentier returned disappointed or when the bailiffs arrived to arrest him for his part in the plot. To her dismay, neither of these events occurred. A courier came to the door with a note just after Charpentier showed up at around dawn, the distracted elation in his eyes telling of the success of the previous night’s adventure. Sophie was smart enough to realize that someone at Versailles must have intercepted her
letter before it could reach Madame de Maintenon. And clearly, interfering with the stable boy had not delayed Charpentier enough to spoil the abduction. If only she could have thought of some way to meddle with the horse. But she was afraid of horses and did not know what she might have done that would have rendered the animal unfit to ride.
So far, Sophie’s actions had been determined by a combination of will and serendipity. There was no question that she felt badly used by Émilie and Charpentier, but without full possession of the facts, Sophie was not entirely willing to condemn them. Now, however, calamity was piled upon calamity, and her pride was stung. As far as Sophie knew, Émilie had been handed the life she herself had craved and then had thrown it all away by running off with Charpentier. It never occurred to Sophie that the successful abduction was achieved without Émilie’s full cooperation. And yet she had seen enough of life at court not to assume that she knew everything. Therefore she felt that it was still necessary for her to guard her hand, to maintain whatever anonymity she had until she could arm herself with more information. The worst thing would be to go barging in somewhere and discover that she’d gotten everything entirely wrong.
So whenever work would allow, Sophie took the opportunity to wait for Charpentier at the Hôtel de Guise so that she could start following him again. After only two days, she managed to be there at the time he emerged, late in the afternoon. He carried a leather satchel under his arm and was far too preoccupied to notice her, and so despite his circuitous route—no doubt designed to prevent anyone’s discovering exactly where he was going—she shadowed him all the way to the apartment in the Marais where Émilie was hidden. To Sophie’s amazement, this was in the same part of Paris in which her own squalid room was located, although the house where Émilie was hiding looked nicer than hers. Not that she actually saw Émilie, but she knew that Charpentier was not the type to patronize a whore, nor was he likely to keep a mistress. In fact, from everything she had seen of him at the Hôtel de Guise, she had once presumed he wasn’t interested in women at all.
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