Finding Emilie
Page 1
Finding
Emilie
OTHER FICTION
Penelope’s Daughter
The Four Seasons: A Novel of Vivaldi’s Venice
NONFICTION
Until Our Last Breath:
A Holocaust Story of Love and Partisan Resistance
Gallery Books
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Laurel Corona
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First Gallery Books trade paperback edition April 2011
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ISBN 978-1-4391-9766-0
ISBN 978-1-4391-9767-7 (ebook)
“Common sense is not so common.”
—Voltaire
For Jim and Lynn, in gratitude for their uncommonness
Content
A Note From The Author
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
The Adventures of Meadowlark and Tom
Afterword
Acknowledgments
Pronunciation Guide and Who’s Who
Gallery Readers Group Guide
ON SEPTEMBER 3, 1749, shortly before her forty-third birthday, Gabrielle-Emilie le Tonnelier de Breteuil, the Marquise du Châtelet, gave birth to a baby girl, Stanislas-Adélaïde. Six days later, already back at her translation of and commentary on Newton’s Principia Mathematica, Emilie du Châtelet complained of a headache, and within hours this charismatic and brilliant woman of letters was dead. This is a work of fiction about the daughter she left behind.
What actually happened to her baby, whom she named Stanislas-Adélaïde? Historical records indicate that she died of unknown causes before her second birthday, a fate shared with more than a quarter of the infants born in that era. She is buried beside her mother at Lunéville, France. We know little about Emilie’s other daughter and first child, Gabrielle-Pauline, who moved to Italy after her marriage at sixteen. Sad but true: even if Emilie’s baby had survived, we likely would know equally little about her.
In short, if Stanislas-Adélaïde had lived, it still would have been necessary to invent her. But what to invent? She was an inconvenient child about whom no one was likely to care much; and with no mother to protest on her behalf, she would almost certainly have gone directly from her wet nurse to a convent, where she would have lived out the rest of her days. I preferred to imagine the life Emilie du Châtelet would have wished for her second daughter—one in which she had the chance to follow her own dreams and her own mind, and to live a life as full and unique as Emilie’s had been. That story is the one I chose to write.
On another note: the stories of Meadowlark and Tom, which are authored by Lili (as Stanislas-Adélaïde is called in the book) and appear as small excerpts throughout, can be read in full at the end of the novel.
“Judge me for my own merits, or lack of them, but do not look upon me as a mere appendage to this great general or that great scholar, this star that shines at the court of France or that famed author. I am in my own right a whole person, responsible to myself alone for all that I am, all that I say, all that I do. It may be that there are metaphysicians and philosophers whose learning is greater than mine, although I have not met them. Yet, they are but frail humans, too, and have their faults; so, when I add the sum total of my graces, I confess I am inferior to no one.”
Emilie du Châtelet
Lorraine, Palais de Lunéville, I September 1749
To Florent-Claude, Marquis du Châtelet-Lomont
Commercy, Lorraine
My Dear Brother-in-Law,
Your last letter caused me such great distress that I have been unable to write until now. The post is leaving soon, and much as it pains me to dispense with the usual civilities, I will get directly to the matter at hand.
Your wife—who, I do not need to remind you, bears your name and that of my late husband—comports herself in a way that is truly beyond endurance. Shortly after my arrival two weeks ago, I laid out for you in great detail the affronts to propriety inflicted upon our most gracious host at the hands of your wife and the people she chooses as friends. I can only suppose that, being Polish, the duke does not understand our ways, although I cannot imagine that before he was deposed as king of even such a backward country, he would have permitted behavior as scandalous as I have witnessed here in Lunéville.
And what, my dear brother-in-law, do you have to say in response? “I have never been able to control my wife, and I find my happiness, and hers, is better served by not trying to do so.” What kind of an answer is that for a retired army general, from one of the most respected and admired families in France? And surely I do not need to remind you that any true happiness comes in service to god’s will, with which your wife seems entirely unacquainted despite her protestations to the contrary.
The sight of that reprobate Monsieur de Voltaire walking beside her in the garden and holding her parasol—for at the end of her lying-in she needs both hands to support her enormous stomach—has only been made worse in the last two days by the arrival of Monsieur de Saint-Lambert. That he is present at this time is shocking in its audacity, since surely you must be aware of the rumors arising—I shall put this as delicately as I can—from his journey to Cirey to visit your wife at a time consistent with the swollen condition I have described.
Perhaps it will be enough for you to ask for leave to return to Lunéville immediately. Though I am aware that your recent appointment as Grand Maréchal de Logis requires you to be in attendance to the duke at all times, I cannot imagine how such a journey would work a true hardship on the court. Since it is impossible for me to believe that such behavior was permitted while the court was in residence here, I can only assume that your wife has taken advantage of the duke’s absence, and of course yours as well, to behave as if there are no rules at all.
That she has not taken to bed, and continues to work long hours in her study, is ample evidence of her lack of concern for her familial and social obligations. And on that last matter, her toilette, or rather lack of it, is sure in time to cause insolence among the servants. Though she always troubles herself to wear her diamonds, she rarely has her hair arranged suitably, and she often receiv
es visitors with no further preparation than putting an apron over her dressing gown.
I would also like to discuss with you the future of the child, for Madame la Marquise speaks only of science, and seems to have made no plans at all for after the birth. I have no doubt you are sincere in lauding her for the attention she paid your children when they were young, but at forty-three, she has quite obviously changed. In fact, just last night at supper, she—laughingly, no less—told us that learning, gambling, and greed are the only pleasures left in life for a woman of her advanced years. I am sure she hardly intends—
The man has come for the post and I can say no more.
I remain your devoted sister-in-law,
Philippe-Charlotte, Baronne Lomont
Lorraine, Palais de Lunéville, I September 1749
To Florent-Claude, Marquis du Châtelet-Lomont
Commercy, Lorraine
My Dear Monsieur le Marquis,
I write to tell you how splendidly Emilie, your magnificent wife and my dearest friend, is managing these last days before the birth of your child. She is such a wonderful example for me, since, as I can now safely announce, I am expecting my first, which will be born in four months. I so hope the two are both boys, since it would be such a joy to see them playing together on visits to your estate at Cirey. Of course, I would prefer a little girl to dress up like a doll, but since the first order of business is to produce an heir, I will do my best to accede to my husband’s wishes.
Oh dear, I realize I am writing the wrong kind of letter to a former general and gentleman of the court, but since there is no time to start anew, please ignore my silly ramblings.
Emilie still manages to walk daily, although slowly and not for very long. It is so pleasant being away from Paris, where appearing in public in such a state would be viewed as the height of vulgarity. Duke Stanislas has been a most gracious host to let us stay behind at his palace at Lunéville for Emilies lying-in, and I assure you we have been watching over her most carefully. I imagine you have heard that the duke is quite serious about setting up a library and laboratory like the one she and Monsieur Voltaire created at Cirey, and she cannot stop talking about the exciting scientific progress that is possible when cost does not have to be so brutally considered.
I suppose she has written to tell you that Monsieur Voltaire arrived shortly after the court left for Commercy, and he was most disappointed to have missed the chance to see you, and to offer his plays for the court’s entertainment. That will have to wait until Emilie is safely beyond childbirth and we can travel there to join you.
Perhaps the duke would not say this to you as Emilie’s husband, but just before he moved the court to Commercy, he told me he found it quite remarkable that you allowed another man to live openly with your wife all these years and, knowing the nature of their relationship, still intercede for him whenever his pen gets him into trouble. And of course, as you know, when anything puzzles that dear man, he always asks, “Is it the French way?” as if that could satisfactorily explain even something as odd as a two-headed cow. Of course, when his question touched on the rather unusual role of Monsieur Voltaire in your wife’s retinue, Emilie and I burst out laughing, though she stopped in seconds from the pain.
Her pain is worse in the last week, I must admit, since the baby has dropped so low and still refuses to come. Nevertheless she sits at her desk, full of anxiety about not finishing her book, and though I try to tell her that something as important as the deepest principles in nature can wait for a baby to be born, she shakes her head quite assuredly, and that is the end of the subject. I must reveal to you, monsieur, that when she speaks about her work, her face darkens—so unlike how it would light up in the past—and she admits she has premonitions that I will not discuss here for fear that putting them down in words may bring them to life.
In the evenings we perform plays in her bedroom—or rather all of us except Baronne Lomont, who keeps to herself from lack of enjoyment of our company. Though Emilie is too uncomfortable and weary to take part, she still enjoys these immensely, clapping and making remarks so bawdy, they would give no delight if they did not come from someone so charming. She cannot pull herself up to the card table in the parlor, so she rests on a daybed we have positioned nearby. She demands that Voltaire lift his hand over his shoulder so she can have a look at his cards, and when she likes them, she doubles his wagers with her own money. Last night it was Monsieur Saint-Lambert who had the honor of sitting in Voltaire’s usual seat, since he is our newest arrival and Emilie is clamoring, as usual, for his undivided attention.
We wake up hopeful each morning and go to bed at night praying to be awakened to news that the hour of her deliverance has come. With a fourth child we are told it should be an easy birth, but there are, of course, difficulties that come with age, and no one can recall other such births to use for comparison.
It is time for me to go to my dear friend. She is grateful for my help with her work, since it is so difficult for her to fetch what she needs. I hope to write soon with joyous news.
Your devoted,
Julie, Madame de Bercy
Lorraine, Palais de Lunéville, 4 September 1749
To Florent-Claude, Marquis du Châtelet-Lomont
Commercy, Lorraine
Esteemed Monsieur,
I write in haste to inform you that today your wife was safely delivered of a daughter. The labor took only two hours and the baby appears healthy. She was taken immediately to the parish church for baptism, and then sent out to nurse. She is named Stanislas-Adélaïde and, to everyone’s satisfaction, she resembles her mother.
I remain your devoted sister-in-law,
Philippe-Charlotte, Baronne Lomont
Lorraine, Palais de Lunéville, II September 1749
To Florent-Claude, Marquis du Châtelet-Lomont
Commercy, Lorraine
Dearest Monsieur le Marquis,
I know of no other way to get over this wretched moment than just to say what must be said.
Your beloved wife Emilie died suddenly last night, six days after giving birth. I expect you will put down this letter now and only pick it up later when you have had your first round of tears, but before you do, please let me say that this is also the worst moment of my own life. I can barely write I am so full of grief, and my tears have ruined several starts at this letter already. When you are ready to read again, I fear you will simply have to forgive the stains I am sure will fill its pages.
We do not know the cause. She did not complain of illness and in fact had set up a lap table so she could work on her papers in bed. Sometime around midday yesterday she complained she felt hot, but she did not appear exceedingly so, considering the brutal weather we have been having. Though we reminded her that cold was the worst possible remedy for fever, she insisted on having her favorite syrup in water with chunks of ice. Immediately after finishing it she put her hands to her temples, complaining of a sudden, excruciating headache and gasping for breath.
The physician whom the duke so graciously allowed to stay behind until the delivery gave her a hot tisane, which calmed her considerably. He sent for the best doctors from Nancy, who arrived shortly after nightfall. By then the pain and labored breathing had recurred several times, and we were all terribly frightened. She was given opiates and when she began to relax, the doctors told us the air would be better if there were fewer people in the room.
Monsieur Voltaire and Baronne Lomont left with the doctors and the rest of Emilies company to have supper in an apartment across the courtyard. I was preparing to go with them, but Emilie wanted me and Monsieur Saint-Lambert to stay behind.
We spoke with her until she fell asleep, and then we went out into the hall so we could talk without disturbing her. After no more than a few minutes, we heard the most terrifying groans coming from her room. When we reached her bed, her covers were strewn as if she had been thrashing about, but our precious Emilie was completely still, and her eyes were rolle
d back in her head.
Monsieur Saint-Lambert had the presence of mind to put his hand to her chest to see if she was breathing. God save us all, I cannot describe the feeling in my heart when he said she was no more. He closed our darling’s eyes, and we held each other in silence while the chambermaid ran across the courtyard to tell the others.
Within a few minutes we heard the cries of the other guests as they mounted the stairs. Oh, dear monsieur, such a doleful scene I pray I will never witness again! Voltaire flung himself upon her, sobbing that he had lost the better half of himself. When he left the room, he was shaking so badly he fell down the stone stairs, or perhaps he flung himself—it isn’t clear—and he is now limping and rather battered about the face. He said terrible things to Saint-Lambert, accusing him of killing Emilie by his carelessness. As for Saint-Lambert, he has locked himself in his quarters and his valet reports the most terrible moans and laments coming from within.
It is left to the women to do what the situation demands. Baronne Lomont and I will shortly begin the sad process of laying out the body. We have sent for permission to raise a floor stone in the new parish church of Saint-Jacques so she may be laid to rest in a place she found so bright and lovely. But since the weather is so hot we must proceed quickly. Please, please, come yourself as soon as you can, and send word if you can ride here in time for the burial. We all need to share our profound loss with you and cover you with tears.
As ever, your devoted,
Julie de Bercy
Lorraine, Palais de Lunéville, 13 September 1749
To Florent-Claude, Marquis du Châtelet-Lomont
Commercy, Lorraine
My Dear Brother-in-Law,
We regret that it was necessary to commit your wife’s body to the ground before you had leave to return, but as you said in your last letter, there is no reason to hasten for the dead, and there will be enough time later to do what is required of you. Madame de Bercy and I appreciate the trust you put in us to act in the best interests of the child, since your new position in the duke’s service obviously precludes involvement yourself. I regret I had to make it forcefully clear to Madame de Bercy that a woman with child for the first time is scarcely in a position to take responsibility for another infant before the birth of her own. Madame de Bercy is of a nature far more sentimental than practical, and her tearful pleas not to send the child immediately to a convent, as you suggested, have worn me down to the point where I have agreed to bring Stanislas-Adélaïde back to Paris and serve as her guardian for the time being. Please do not come to Lunéville in search of us, for we are departing for Paris tomorrow.