by Judith Rock
‘Welcome back to the classroom, mon père,” Charles said warmly. “You look very well.”
“Yes, thank you, I am. And you continue to escape our plague?”
“So far, thank all the saints. But Frère Brunet has told me that poor Charles Lennox is in the infirmary now.”
“Terrible timing to lose him now from rehearsals! But better now than later, I suppose. If our students keep dropping like flies, how can we rehearse? We must pray none of the rest get it.” Shaking his head, the rhetoric master took his place at the lectern, Charles standing behind and a little to one side. Jouvancy swept the class with his eyes. “Rise, messieurs.”
Everyone stood and took off their hats, and Jouvancy prayed. He gave thanks for the life of St. Aurelian, whose day it was; commended the class’s speaking, acting, and dancing to God; gave thanks for the king’s recovery and his own; prayed for the recovery of the ill, especially their classmate Charles Lennox; and nodded at everyone to sit.
“Today we begin working harder on our August sixth tragedy and ballet performance.” Jouvancy ducked his chin, swept the room with a wholly spurious glare from under his eyebrows, and gave the class his usual dire warning about the shortness of time. “I beg you to remember that the sixth of August is less than two months away. You will have to work like Trojans to be ready! Like soldiers building fortifications! Beginning on July the seventh, all three hours of our afternoon session will be given to rehearsing. Until then, we have only the second two hours, and this first hour for classroom work. Let us begin now with whatever you have prepared for the class hour.” He turned questioningly to Charles.
“Cicero, mon père. Recitations.” Which should hardly have needed saying, Charles thought with a mental sigh. It was nearly always Cicero.
“Excellent.” Jouvancy smiled happily at them. “We will see now how you do.”
The faces looking back at him registered every feeling from complacence to panic. Jouvancy divided the class in half, and he and Charles took fifteen boys each. Charles settled his group on the back benches, sat down facing them, and steeled himself to listen to them recite in turn the thirty-two parts of Cicero’s speech in defense of the poet Aulus Licinius Archias. In fact, the recitations, from memory, were not bad, Charles only correcting pronunciation here and there or supplying forgotten words. Each boy spoke twice, and then the first two spoke again, to make up the thirty-two parts. The only trouble was that Montmorency, already scarlet with embarrassment at needing Charles to supply nearly all his words, was one of those who had to speak a third time. But as he stood up, the hour bell rang and a very quiet sigh of relief whispered through the rest of the group like a breeze. With his own inner sigh of thankfulness, Charles told the students to move the benches to the side of the room and get the old costume hats they used for rehearsal. Then he went to consult with Jouvancy, who stood on the dais while his own group moved benches.
Shining with the excitement he always brought to the beginning of rehearsals, despite his dire prognostications of chaos and disaster, Jouvancy took the tragedy script from the lectern. “I will take the Erixane cast at this end of the room, and you and Maître Beauchamps will form your usual ballet ‘stage’ at that end. What do you hope to accomplish today?”
“I’ll complete the casting,” Charles said, taking the ballet livret from the chair where he’d left it. “And see what Monsieur Beauchamps has done while we were-”
Charles broke off as heels rapped over the floor and Maître Pierre Beauchamps swept into the room as though onto a stage. His morose skinny servant slouched behind him, carrying the wooden case that held Beauchamps’s violin. Jouvancy and Charles went to greet Beauchamps, who made them a perfect bow.
Since Jesuits created the ballets but didn’t teach the dances, every Jesuit college hired a dancing master from outside to prepare students for performances. Beauchamps, though, was more than a dancing master. He was probably the best dancing master in Europe and certainly the best dancing master in France, director of the Royal Academy of Dancing, dance director of the Royal Academy of Music, and Creator of the King’s Ballets. At Louis le Grand, he not only taught each ballet’s dances but often wrote and directed the ballet music. Having him as the college dancing master was like having St. Peter for the parish curé.
“Welcome back,” the dancing master said. “I rejoice to see you in better health, Père Jouvancy.”
“I thank you,” Jouvancy said austerely. “I trust you are well, also.”
“Always, always.” Smiling broadly, Beauchamps turned to Charles. “I trust you enjoyed Versailles, maître?”
Knowing that Beauchamps had spent years at court as both the king’s dancing master and fellow performer, Charles chose his words carefully. “It was certainly another world.”
Beauchamps’s mouth quirked at one corner. “What a very politic summing up.” He stepped to the center of the room.
“Bonjour, messieurs.” The dancing master bowed to the students.
“Bonjour, Maître Beauchamps,” the class said in unison, and bowed in return. Then, at a nod from Jouvancy, the boys took off their scholar’s gowns and hung them on the hooks provided, since rehearsing in only their jackets, shirts, and breeches made it easier to move and easier for directors to see and correct mistakes.
As the ballet cast marked the edges of their “stage” with old costume hats, Jouvancy reclaimed Beauchamps’s attention. “Maître du Luc will observe what you have done in our absence and approve it.” He paused fractionally. “Or not.”
Beauchamps breathed in slowly through his nose and twitched at the ivory lace cascading from his blue coat cuffs. Jouvancy was making it more than clear that he had not forgiven Beauchamps for going to Italy in January and absenting himself from preparations for the February show that had ushered in Lent.
“I’m sure all will go well,” Charles said quickly, restraining himself from stepping physically between the two. “Shall we begin, mon père?” With a brilliant smile at Jouvancy and without waiting for an answer, he ushered Beauchamps toward the other end of the room.
“What a diplomat you have become,” Beauchamps murmured. “Do we owe this to your experience as a courtier?”
“I hope not.”
Charles called the ballet cast to order and told the boys who had already been assigned roles and were learning their dances to go over their steps in silence. Those not yet cast, he called together at the side of the dancing space, and he and Beauchamps looked them over. Or rather, Charles looked them over. Beauchamps looked only at Bertamelli. The little Italian, guilt apparently forgotten, stood at the front of the group quivering with hope for good roles. Which he would certainly have, being the best student dancer. Like most of the others, Bertamelli would have several parts, since La France Victorieuse had no single star role but many small entrées in each Part. Unless, Charles thought wryly, the rector took Bertamelli’s roles all away when he found out about Bertamelli’s trip to the tower. No reason, though, to tell Beauchamps that, not yet.
Seeing that Beauchamps would be no help until Bertamelli was dealt with, Charles said, “What roles do you want to give him, maître?”
“Hmm? A pity this ballet has no star part. Though he’s too small yet to play heroes. And may always be. But, blessed Terpsichore, the talent in that small body is blinding. I’ve worked with him a great deal while you’ve been gone.” The dancing master’s eyes glowed, all his usual irony vanished. “I’ve rarely seen such a gift.” His face sobered and he sighed. “You’ll have to let him go, you know. He can’t waste himself here.”
“I know. God made him for the stage. We’ve talked about it.” Charles had once been a very good dancer himself, and he knew what he was seeing when he watched the little Italian. “I only want him to stay with us until he’s a little older and better able to manage himself in the world.”
Beauchamps grunted. “A little while. But not long.” He held out his hand for the ballet livret. “I had thought to give him
Deceit in the first Part, Mercury and one of the Harlequins in the second, Eole, master of the winds, in the third, and one of the Furies in the fourth.”
“No larger role in the fourth Part?” Charles said in surprise.
“He must also learn to be one of an ensemble. And the Furies’ jumping and turning will suit his abilities.” Beauchamps handed back the livret. “Shall I take him aside and tell him?”
“Yes, do.”
With something uncomfortably near wistfulness, Charles watched Beauchamps call Bertamelli from the waiting group and walk him to the other side of the makeshift stage. One hand rested protectively on the boy’s shoulder, and Bertamelli looked up at him with worship in his huge black eyes. Well, Charles thought, he himself had had some dancing. And in a way, he still had it. But there’d been a time when he’d wanted what Bertamelli was going to have.
Putting the past back where it belonged, Charles went to work, paging quickly through the livret and casting the rest of the students. Finally, only the younger Polish boy and Montmorency were left. Alexandre Sapieha was the brother of Michel with the broken nose, who was still in the infirmary. Fifteen to Michel’s seventeen, Alexandre was already as big as his brother. As he stood waiting in front of Charles, he cast dark looks at Montmorency. Montmorency glared back with his good eye, his other being still swollen shut from his fight with Michel. So, Charles thought, Montmorency and the two Sapiehas had better be in different troops of soldiers in the ballet’s third Part, France Victorious over Her Enemies by Arms. Charles hoped that solution wouldn’t lend too much spirit to the fighting between the troops.
“Very well. Monsieur Sapieha,” he said, “in the ballet’s third Part, you will be in the first troop of French Heroes. Then you will be a German soldier and then a Dutch one.” He made quick notes in the livret and when he looked up again, Sapieha was scowling at Montmorency. “Monsieur Sapieha?”
The boy turned stolidly. “I wait, maître.”
“You are looking at Monsieur Montmorency as though you want a broken nose to match your brother’s.”
Sapieha’s white-blond brows drew together as he tried to unravel that. Latin was the required language for speaking in the college, and students were supposed to know some Latin before they came to Louis le Grand. But the Sapiehas’ Latin was shaky and, to French ears, practically indistinguishable from Polish.
“I would not have the broken nose, maître.”
“If you keep fighting, you and your brother will be sent home to Poland in disgrace. Is that what you want?”
Sapieha chewed his lip and then grinned. “My father will kill us.”
“No doubt. And is this quarrel worth such a fate?”
“Is matter of Polish honor,” the boy said grimly.
“I see.” Charles wondered if he’d been this obsessed with honor at fifteen.
“Montmorency insulted our Prince Alexandre! He called him a mewling child. He said he hoped Alexandre would die! Alexandre does not want your old French princess, he is desolate about this marriage. It is she who should die!”
“No one should die, Monsieur Sapieha, and you are not to wish it or say it. The French princess is only a year older than you, and she is very beautiful. She does not want the marriage any more than your Prince Alexandre does,” Charles said, more hotly than he meant to.
“No?”
“No. Think about that. Monsieur Montmorency is only feeling for the French princess what you feel for your prince,” Charles said, wishing that were true. “Back to our business now. In the fourth Part of the ballet, you will be a gardener. And a Fury. Furies are very angry, and you can put some of your wish to fight into your role.”
Sapieha brightened. “I hit Montmorency while I dance?”
“No,” Charles said very slowly, articulating with his whole mouth. “No fighting. None.”
“Oh. But I will still like being Fury. Being furious. I thank you. It is-” Sapieha frowned, biting his lip. “-beautiful!” he finished triumphantly.
“We shall hope so, monsieur,” Charles said wearily. “Go and wait with the others.”
Sapieha joined the group on the makeshift stage, where Charles had set Walter Connor to sort the dancers into their entrées for Part one. Charles gestured Montmorency to come, ignoring the rainbow spectacle of the boy’s bruised face.
“In Part two’s entrée of the sculptors and the statue, Monsieur Montmorency, I want you to be the statue, the statue of the king. Then, in the-”
“No.”
Charles breathed slowly in and out. “I beg your pardon?”
“I cannot be the king. I am no longer the king’s man.”
“Do not repeat that. I will do us both the favor of pretending I didn’t hear it.”
Montmorency repeated it.
Feeling a twinge of near hysteria, Charles said, “You only have to pretend to be a statue. Pretend. It doesn’t matter how you feel about whom the statue represents.”
Montmorency peered owlishly out of his good eye. “No.”
Charles’s patience evaporated along with his scruples. “Have you forgotten our interesting conversation about unpracticed headsmen, Monsieur Montmorency?”
“They won’t behead me for refusing to be a statue!”
“They beheaded your illustrious ancestor for refusing to be loyal to the king.”
The boy drew himself up to his full six feet. His brown eyes were bleak with misery. “I cannot-”
“Think of it as suffering for chivalry’s vows.” Charles said desperately. And added coaxingly, though he knew he shouldn’t, “After all, knights used to go through terrible trials. Think of Tristan and all he suffered for the love of Iseult.” He waited, hardly daring to breathe, while Montmorency laboriously thought about Tristan and Iseult.
“Oh. Yes. Then I will be the statue.”
“Good. Now in the third Part,” Charles rushed on, before the boy could reconsider, “you will be in the second troop of French Heroes. The second, remember that. And in the ballet’s fourth Part, a sea god. The chief sea god, who stands on a shell.” Whenever he could, he stood Montmorency on something and kept him still, since he was incapable of all but the simplest dance steps. He sent Montmorency to join the others. Whatever it takes, he told himself. Whatever it takes to get him quietly finished with school and gone. Then it will be up to his mother to keep him from catastrophe.
For a little while, the rehearsal went forward with reasonable progress and no crises. Beauchamps finished teaching the steps for the Harlequins’ dance, which included nearly the whole cast, and went to get his violin. Charles, who had been helping him place the dancers, took the chance to sketch the placement in the livret.
Most dancing masters carried their little violon du poche, the small instrument used for teaching, in a long pocket on the inner side of their coat skirts. But Beauchamps disliked anything that deranged the fit of his suits, and he had his instrument carried in the box by his servant. The man flipped his greasy gray pigtail out of the way and handed Beauchamps the violin. Beauchamps went back to the silently waiting dancers and positioned the violin under his chin. Then he glanced up and erupted into fury. He tossed the violin at the servant, who leaped to catch it, and stalked through the frozen scatter of boys.
“So you became a choreographer in the last three minutes, Monsieur Bertamelli, and have changed my dance?” He glared down at the little Italian, who had left his place in the front and was standing beside Montmorency in the stage left back corner of the ensemble where Beauchamps had tried to hide his gracelessness. “This is not where I placed you.”
“He forgot his steps, maître,” Bertamelli whispered piercingly to Beauchamps. “I saw him trying to remember and didn’t want him to be yelled at so soon.” He patted the scowling Montmorency on the arm.
“Do not presume on your talent, Monsieur Bertamelli. You are neither a choreographer nor a dancing master. Go back to your place.”
With a warning glance at Montmorency, Bertamell
i scurried to the front of the ensemble, leaving Charles wondering what was going on between the two. Whatever Bertamelli might do elsewhere, Charles had never known him to come even close to disobeying during a rehearsal. Unless-surely this new piece of unlikely behavior had nothing to do with Bertamelli’s visit to the tower? But Montmorency knew Margot, and Bertamelli had gone to meet Margot’s servant…
Charles dragged his attention back to the rehearsal. The cast made its first stumbling attempt at the Harlequins’ dance and then moved on to the soldiers’ dances. With the help of Beauchamps’s servant, Charles brought the chest full of wooden swords from the top of the stairway down to the cave where scenery and props were kept. Eyeing Montmorency and Sapieha, he issued a stern warning about using them for anything but rehearsing the dances, and then handed them out. He took one for himself and gave one to Beauchamps, and they began teaching the two troops of French Heroes how to use them while they danced.
Charles hated war, but he liked sword dances-the sweep and swing of the arm, the majestic thrusting and turning of the dancer/swordsman. Most of the students had been taught to use real swords, and Charles saw with surprise that even Montmorency wasn’t doing badly. In fact, it looked as though the boy might be quite a decent swordsman. They were all sweating and happy when Jouvancy called the first break, a few minutes for rest and water between the first and second rehearsal hours.
The cast obediently put their swords down on the stage and went to the side table where pitchers and pottery cups stood. Charles had water, too, and then watched Jouvancy talking earnestly to Beauchamps, his earlier resentment apparently forgotten. Since his return from Versailles, Charles had been nursing an idea for an addition to the ballet livret. Now, when the rhetoric master was pleased at being well and back to work, seemed a good time to suggest it. It was a daring idea. But if he presented it as he’d planned, there was a chance that Jouvancy and Beauchamps would see only its surface, leaving the deeper meaning for the audience to see. With a sense of girding his loins, Charles walked down the room.