By the time the carriage arrived at the main gate, Charpentier was in agony. He climbed out of the coach and crossed the Cour Royale on foot, remembering so clearly the night he had entered on horseback. How everything had changed since then. But he did not have time to dwell on the past. A servant led him away, not to the king’s apartments, but to the office on the ground floor of the château occupied by Monsieur de Lully.
“Welcome, Monsieur Charpentier!” said Lully with a smile that limited itself to his lips. “At long last we meet.”
It was odd, thought Charpentier, to look into the eyes of the person who had done more to thwart his career than anyone else alive. He noticed that they were overshadowed by folds of skin that gave them an almost slanted look, and that Lully’s nose was pinched and narrow at the top and splayed out at the bottom. The cheeks were sallow and flabby. Altogether, it did not look like a French face. Also in the room was a valet, who stared angrily at Charpentier.
“But I forget myself,” said Lully, noticing that Charpentier leaned on the back of a chair. “Please, sit down.”
Charpentier took the chair gladly.
“I am a great admirer of your sacred music, Monsieur Charpentier.”
“You might perhaps also admire my music for the theater if I were permitted to make use of adequate forces to mount a production.” Charpentier knew he was being rude, but he did not care.
“The king is very particular, what can I say? Is that perhaps your reason for coming here today, to persuade him to alter the ordinance?” “I imagine you know the reason for my visit.”
“Ah yes, it is quite an honor!”
“An honor to have one’s wife abducted?”
“Come now, Monsieur Charpentier, that is an exaggeration … So, you thought you would come and reclaim your rights? I assure you, the king does not often relinquish conquered territory,” Lully said with a chuckle.
“I do not see the cause for mirth.” Charpentier was a little surprised by Lully’s manner.
“Of course, how callous of me.” Lully sat in a chair opposite Charpentier and looked at him, the hint of a smile on his face, without speaking for what seemed a long time.
“Tell me,” he finally said, “when was the last time you heard Mademoiselle Émilie—I mean, Madame Charpentier—sing?”
Charpentier seethed. This game had gone on long enough. “I have not heard her sing for eighteen months, since I introduced her at a soirée at the Hotel de Guise—and I do not see that it is any business of yours!”
Lully ignored him. “And how would it be, for you, if you were never able to hear her sing again?”
“I’ve heard enough. My appointment was with the king.” Charpentier used his good arm to push himself to a standing position.
“Forgive me. I speak in riddles. But I simply wondered, as a matter of personal curiosity, one musician to another, whether you cared more about the woman or the voice?”
Charpentier clenched his fist so hard that he could feel his fingernails dig into his palm. If he had full use of his limbs, he would have been tempted to wrap his hands around Lully’s neck with the same deadly pressure. Instead he spoke, an icy edge in his voice. “Tell me, Monsieur de Lully. Are you married?”
“Why yes, I am. But that does not signify,” he said.
Charpentier saw the servant cast a searing glance in Lully’s direction, which Lully returned. So that was how it was. “The king is waiting for me.”
“I see you do not want to answer me.” Lully tore his eyes away from the pretty young man. “No matter. The outcome will be the same.” He rose. “A word of advice, Monsieur Charpentier. The king does not like to be contradicted. You will get nowhere by telling him it is your right to have Émilie returned to you. Le Comte de St. Paul learned, greatly to his detriment, that it does not do to anticipate the king’s wishes.” Lully paused to brush some imagined dust off his coat.
“I am certain St. Paul received no more than he deserved.”
“Perhaps. Who can say? When the king discovered that he had fought a duel, the count was banished immediately. Shall we go? I believe this was the appointed hour.”
Charpentier’s jaw dropped open and then clamped shut. “I was under the impression I was to have a private conversation with the king.”
“Whatever gave you that idea? My dear sir, there is no such thing as a private audience with the King of France!”
Lully laughed as they made their way to the Ambassadors’ Staircase. Charpentier followed him up the marble sweep and through the apartments that had been the scene of Émilie’s last night at Versailles a lifetime ago, and that she had described to him in her letters for all those months. Because it was not yet sunset, there were no candles lit, and the ornate hangings made the enormous rooms appear even darker and more somber than they actually were. Charpentier tried to imagine Émilie there, thinking about him, writing letters to him. He wondered if François was still at Versailles, and if he had been allowed to comfort Émilie again.
Although the Hôtel de Guise was a large house, the sheer scale of the Château de Versailles awed Charpentier. He felt small. Utterly insignificant. It took so long for the two composers to reach the room where King Louis held court that in his fever Charpentier almost forgot why he was there. When at last they arrived and the door opened before them, the raucous sound of men’s and women’s voices all chattering at the same time flooded out. The room was mobbed with courtiers trying to get into position to be noticed by the king. He and Lully hovered in the background of the crowded space, but Louis clearly anticipated their arrival and noticed them immediately.
Charpentier had seen his share of splendor before, but the king’s robe of deep blue velvet embroidered with gold fleurs-de-lys and trimmed with ermine was magnificent beyond his wildest imaginings. The great monarch sat, raised above the tumult, looking like a father who indulgently permitted his wayward children to cavort noisily in his presence but who was capable at any moment of commanding utter obedience. Louis turned to a soberly dressed minister who stood by his side. The man motioned Charpentier to approach.
Charpentier’s legs almost refused his command to move, and his wounded shoulder throbbed unmercifully. He was extremely tired after his long walk from Lully’s apartment to this public reception room. With a mighty effort, he stepped forward. His slow progress had the effect of silencing the entire company, who practically held their breath as the composer made his way.
“Your Majesty,” said Charpentier, bowing deeply, forcing his left arm into the correct position for a courtly bow. He almost fainted, but he took Lully’s advice and did not say anything more, waiting for the king to address him. He had, after all, been summoned there.
“We hear that you have talent. It is our wish that you compose music to aid us in our devotions. For that purpose, we grant you a pension and the title of Chapel Master.” The crowd applauded politely, and he waved Charpentier off, as if this was the only reason he had summoned him to come before him. The courtiers all began talking again, pressing forward to catch the king’s eye.
“But Your Majesty!” said Charpentier. All chattering in the room ceased once more, and eyes focused on this nobody who had said “but” to the king after being granted a pension. “My wife, Émilie. Is she not here? Am I not to see her?”
Louis turned to a woman clad all in black, whom Charpentier had not noticed before. The king whispered something to her, and she nodded, then left. When she returned, a postulant of the Carmelite order followed her in. Because he was not expecting to see her in such garb, Charpentier failed at first to realize that it was Émilie. Her lovely blond hair had been cut short, and what was left of it was hidden beneath the short veil she wore. Her young face looked almost raw, almost indecently naked without the frame of her hair. He could not read her expression because her eyes were focused on the floor.
The king spoke again. “Your wife, Monsieur Charpentier, has chosen to follow the path of God. You may say your farewells.
”
At that Louis rose and left the room, and everyone who was attached to the court followed him out, except Lully and the woman who had led Émilie into the chamber. Lully strode up and stood right in front of that woman.
“This is your doing!” Although he did not shout, the fury in his voice was unsuppressed.
“Mine? No one can choose the convent who is not called.”
Lully turned from her and stormed out of the room, leaving Charpentier and the two women alone.
“Émilie?” This creature, whom he knew to be his wife, but who seemed like a stranger, walked toward him with her eyes cast down.
Émilie raised her gaze to meet that of her husband. She stopped just out of his arm’s reach. She could feel Madame de Maintenon watching to see if she did one thing wrong, one thing that violated the agreement she had been forced to sign. Émilie had been prohibited from touching her husband, from weeping, from calling out to him. She had been warned that she would forfeit her life if she even suggested the nature of the alternative to her choice to enter the convent.
Charpentier broke the silence. “Why?”
The question hung in the air, unanswerable.
The widow Scarron walked forward to join the couple, who, although not even close enough to touch if their arms were outstretched, were held within each other’s orbit. “Sister Marcelline—as she is now called—has made her choice.”
Émilie glared at her with an expression that made her back away slowly and turn to face out of one of the long windows.
“But why? There must be a reason! I must know!” Charpentier’s voice was shrill with desperation.
Émilie spoke. “Please don’t ask why. You must trust me. It was the only way.”
Charpentier could not take his eyes from Émilie’s face, searching there for something—anything—that would help him understand what had happened.
“If I had come back,” she continued, “I would not have been—never-” Émilie’s voice grew smaller as she spoke. She took a deep breath and tried again. “I have chosen to dedicate my life, and my voice, to God. It was you who showed me what it was to sing. I would be—am—nothing without you.” There was the suggestion of tears in the tone of her voice, and she paused and took a deep breath before continuing. “But without my voice, I would be less than nothing.” Émilie stopped. She could say no more. The muscles in her jaw tightened with the struggle to suppress her emotions.
“Émilie!” cried Charpentier. He lunged forward and took hold of his wife’s left wrist, collapsing to his knees at her feet. The guards, who had to this point been nothing but ornamental to the room, quickly left their posts and approached him. Madame de Maintenon motioned them to stay back. She herself drew closer again, ready to intervene between the couple if necessary.
Émilie forced her arm to hang by her side. She could feel her husband’s sweating, shaking hand, feel his rapid pulse through the serge sleeves of her habit. She backed away from him, pulling herself out of his grip. Just as he released her, she felt Madame de Maintenon’s small, steely grasp on her shoulders. Slowly, the widow Scarron turned her around so that she faced the door. But Émilie kept her eyes locked with Charpentier’s as long as she could, craning her neck as she walked away.
“Who are you to take my wife from me?” Charpentier cried, reaching out for Émilie, too exhausted to move.
“I am Madame de Maintenon,” she said, not pausing, pushing Émilie through the door, which shut behind them.
Charpentier sat back on his heels and stared at the space where Émilie had been. He raised his hand to his chest and clutched it, pressing hard as if to stop some invisible bleeding. He began to tremble. Slowly he pulled himself to his feet and walked to the door.
He hardly remembered finding his way back to the Cour Royale. When at last he climbed into the waiting fiacre, Charpentier felt near to passing out. Everything seemed very far away and very close at the same time. The exuberant colors of the scenery were almost painfully vivid, and he heard every sound as if it were uttered just inches from his ear. The boisterous, mating birds seemed to sing with a single, insistent voice. The revolving coach wheels created a rhythm that tormented him.
“Émilie, Émilie, Émilie.” The music of her name, the rhythm of it, a perfect triplet if it was pronounced correctly. And with a shift of the accent, it was in two, an insistent beat, a pulse. Of course, he thought. It had been there all the time. Why had he not seen it? Or, rather, why had he not heard it? Madame de Maintenon thought she could separate them, but she was wrong. The sentence was pronounced, on both of them. He accepted his own punishment with joy.
Epilogue
Philosophy triumphs easily over evils past and evils to come; but present evil triumphs easily over philosophy.
Maxim 22
It was Easter Sunday. The king and Madame de Maintenon walked arm in arm down the aisle of the splendid new chapel he had built just for her. All the courtiers were already in their places. A new oratorio was to be performed. It had been written by the distinguished composer of sacred music, the chapel master Monsieur Marc-Antoine Charpentier, who had already taken his position at the front of the ensemble and the choir. Most of the performers were seated in the choir stalls, but there was one, a soloist, whose order made it necessary for her to remain behind a rood screen. The beauty of her voice was legendary. It was this that drew so many from far and wide to share the king’s devotions in the chapel at Versailles.
The orchestra began to play. The first sections were sung by the choir and a tenor soloist. It was the story of the Resurrection, clothed in magnificent music. Even those who only pretended to be devout could not help being moved by its beauty. But everyone waited, tensed, for the moment when the artist they had come to hear would begin to sing.
At long last the time arrived. After some introductory measures, a treble voice floated a high note above the accompaniment. To the congregation, it seemed as if an angel had chosen that moment to visit the earth.
The hush that descended on everyone present continued as the music wove its spell. A shared ecstasy hung just above the congregants’ heads. Madame de Montespan, grown fat and no longer on an intimate footing with the king, closed her eyes and gave herself to the music. The courtiers all looked down at their clasped hands or up at the magnificent ceiling. In the back, the lady’s maids and valets knelt, feeling keenly the privilege of sharing this hour.
But the most exquisite moment of all, the instant of sublimation, was yet to come. When the soprano finished her air, and the orchestra began the next movement, Monsieur Charpentier stepped away from his spot in front of the ensemble. He began to sing, and after a few measures, the voice of the hidden soprano joined his, following it, weaving through it, dancing around the same notes, holding dissonances together so long they were almost unbearable, and then melting into resolutions both anticipated and unexpected. Their voices blended so perfectly that they seemed to be one. The king placed his hand over his heart and looked heavenward. The chapel warmed to the sounds, absorbing and reflecting in perfect proportion the harmony created by the voices joined in song.
Monsieur Charpentier kept his eyes closed while he sang. He faced away from the nave, toward the altar. The voice that blended with his came from behind him, and washed over him, finding its way into his body, awakening his deepest memories. Time seemed to disappear. The union was perfect.
When the service was over two hours later, a priest gave the benediction and the devout listeners filed out of the chapel, led by the king and the widow Scarron. Charpentier kept his eyes on Madame de Maintenon. She walked with undisguised pride at her monarch’s side, still clad all in black. Now, though, in addition to her pearl rosary, she wore at her neck a magnificent diamond brooch in the shape of a singing bird.
When the worshippers were all gone, he looked over to the rood screen. There, indistinctly, he could see the shape of a nun. She raised her hand and touched the screen, then turned away, following the other m
embers of her order back to the convent.
The chapel was empty. Charpentier gathered up the music from the stands and returned to Paris.
Acknowledgments
My heartfelt thanks to Adam Chromy, my agent, who believed in me; to Amanda Patten, my editor, who worked with me; to Peg Haller, my copy editor, who saved me from a few embarrassing mistakes; but most of all to Charles Jackson, my best friend and partner in life, who put up with me.
ÉMILIE’S VOICE
Émilie’s mother, Madeleine, is reluctant to let her take singing lessons. In fact, for most of the story she has only negative things to say about Émilie’s good fortune. Why do you suppose she is so gruff with her daughter? Do you blame her for what happens to Émilie?
Émilie is consistently portrayed as being very innocent and naïve. Do you think this is a positive character trait? Why or why not?
What is it about Émilie that Charpentier falls in love with? Or is he just enamored of her voice and beauty?
Why do you think François agrees to help Émilie write to Charpentier, when it could get him in serious trouble?
Madame de Maintenon purports to be a pious woman who wants nothing more than to save the king’s soul. Do you think her scheming is truly for religious purposes? What other motives might she have?
When the Marquise de Montespan tells Émilie that she is obviously in love with Charpentier, how does Émilie react? Do you think she finally realizes the nature of her feelings for him, or is the marquise correct in assuming that Émilie is only in love with the idea of love?
Émilie’s Voice portrays the royal court of King Louis XIV as a hotbed of scandal, scheming, and sexual mischief. How does this contrast with the concept of staid nobility, reverence, and religion? Does the royal court have a modern counterpart?
Imagine yourself living at court in Versailles, where “invisibility is worse than death.” Do you think you would enjoy it? Could you survive in such a treacherous environment?
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