“Go ahead, shut the door,” the maestro said to the waiting footman. “We must talk over the opera. When Mademoiselle is ready to return, you shall see her emerge.”
And when the door was shut, he said more softly, “I do not pretend to understand, except that there are politics, dear girl. Politics. They say that the First Consul becomes ever grander, that he even has set his sights upon a crown.” He sighed. “No, I shall not say that. I desire nothing more than to stay out of politics!”
He threw up his hands again, dislodging another snowfall of powder from his wig, then bent confidentially toward Anna. “Tell me, my dear. How does Mademoiselle Georges sing? The First Consul expects me to put her in Proserpina, but from anything I can find out, she is a mere child. Is she a prodigy, a Billington, a Catalani?”
Anna glanced at the door, then said truthfully, “She is a very pretty girl, but she is an actress.” She stopped there.
The maestro sighed as he took in her averted gaze, and glanced down at the table littered with papers. “You are reluctant to say what we both know. It is not only the First Consul, but his sister, who professes to be my patron, pushing this Georges on me, I expect because she wants to make trouble in the First Consul’s marriage.”
Anna could not prevent a blush.
The maestro noticed, and patted her hand. “You are still an innocent, then?”
Anna shrugged sharply, aware that she had copied the gesture from Lise. “Who has time for anything else?”
“It is just as well. Just as well,” Paisiello said on a sigh. “So. Mademoiselle Georges. It is no worse than royal demands, then, if no better. Oh, that patrons would hand over the wherewithal, and then get themselves out of the way! Do I tell them how to conduct their wars? I do not. If he insists, then I shall have to strengthen the chorus, and give her pastoral melodies. Simple.”
He made a dismissive gesture, and bent toward Anna. “And so we come to you. I find you here in Paris, and you appear to have overcome your scruples about employment.”
“So I have,” Anna said.
“What then is your goal?”
Anna straightened up, unaware of the significant changes the maestro observed in her countenance. “I intend to become the best singer in Paris,” she said.
“Bon!” He clapped his hands. “That is exactly what I want to hear. I want you as my Cyane. Come into the rehearsal hall. I am relieved to find you have fattened up a little, and I approve the way you carry your head. You are no longer such an awkward little colt, oh my! Not at all—I scarcely should have recognized you! Now I must hear you sing. I trust you have worked on your breathing, for I am determined that you shall work hard . . .”
8
In France, they were now back to the Gregorian seven days, though it was still considered the Year IX, and not 1802.
Anna was busier than ever, between her dance lessons and the ever-changing Proserpina, and her occasional private concerts late at night after her theater work in the role of one of Dirce’s Handmaids in Cherubini’s Médée. This opera had been so popular when produced five years ago that it was being staged again at the rickety Théâtre Dupree, Madame Dupree singing the title role.
For a third . . . there was a very, very handsome officer in the Consular Guard.
As spring ripened into summer, more and more glorious uniforms appeared to be strolling the boulevard.
Paris was taking on a decidedly martial air, but the change was gradual, at least to the young actresses, dancers, and hopeful performers who failed to take an interest in politics or foreign affairs. All their attention was for an admiring pair of eyes above gleaming epaulettes, a debonair pelisse, high, glossy boots encasing a fine pair of legs, and above all, the careless largesse of the soldier who lives for the moment.
During one of Anna’s evening walks along the Boulevard, they were joined by a raffish set of young officers who each bought the pretty singers and dancers a rose from a street seller, after which the two groups joined and wandered to a café popular with performers.
As always, Lise took the lead. Hyacinthe and Eleanor did their best to fascinate with the play of eyelash, and shrug of round shoulders. Their tiny puff sleeves drifted carelessly to the top of their pretty arms. Anna, the youngest, was also the quietest; her pleasure was divided between the balmy air, scented with the fragrance of linden, the charming lights set out by all the cafés, the general mood of hilarity, and also those admiring glances from dashing men.
Gradually she became aware of a steady blue gaze. She began to steal peeks at the handsome young officer, until one day their eyes met, and he smiled.
After that, she was aware of him while everyone else chattered on. It was a strange feeling, as if she were alone on stage. As if a candle glowed beneath her skin. When the evening ended, Anna joined those returning to the Foulon, but when she glanced back, the tall blond officer raised his fingers in salute.
Blushing fiery red, Anna turned quickly, but she was laughing as she caught up with the others.
To the whispered delight of the dancers, the front rows of the pit at Théâtre Dupree were taken over by a set of young officers of the Consular Guard. M. Dupree watched them with a nervous air from off the wings, mopping his shining head. The officers were boisterously loud in their praise whenever their favorite girls appeared on stage.
One night, after the officers had been there for five straight performances, Anna stood in the wings behind Hyacinthe and Catherine, waiting for her cue, as all three peered past the footlights at the young men in the first three rows.
“He is very handsome. Very! Such an air, and his mustache, just enough. Not like the monstrous ones some of the officers wear.”
Lise drifted up to join them, peeked, then raised her thin, arched brows. “You detest the mustaches, cherie? I find them gallant.”
“Bah! Have you tried to kiss a man with one? It is like kissing an old goat in the field. Worse, that stinky pomade!”
A careful toss of black ringlets, and a sniff. “Tchah! For diamond ear drops, I will hold my nose against the pomade.”
The orchestra struck up the notes preceding Anna’s entrance. She straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath, conscious of the tightening of her upper ribs. She was also conscious of her toes pointing, the curve of her wrists, the angle of her head as she took the small sliding steps onto the stage that mimicked the floating grace of Madame Josephine, the First Consul’s elegant wife.
From the first row came a shout, “Toast!” and “Brava!”
Anna tried not to smile as she began her opening song, but her mind was less on her breathing then on the surprise gift of pink roses that had arrived earlier and was now sitting in her tiny dressing room, filling the stuffy air with their heavenly scent.
As the performance progressed, she could not resist the occasional glances at that first row, where epaulettes glittered on broad shoulders. Ah, there he was: one of the tallest, his hair gilt in the reflection of the many candles. She shivered when she remembered the roses, and the little card with that delightful inscription: To Anna, who sings like an angel.
She was conscious of giving her best performance, smiling all the way through to her bows; her partner in the performance, the newly hired tenor, Jean-Baptiste Marsac, watched her speculatively for the first time.
When she returned to remove her costume, she found Parrette frowning at the flowers. “Parrette, what is wrong? You aren’t angry with me?”
“Not at all, me! It is just that this great thing crowds us right out,” Parrette said, waving at the bouquet. “And no doubt will shed petals all over that I shall have to sweep up.”
“I will carry it to the Foulon myself. And put a cloth under it to catch petals.” But Parrette’s brow was still furrowed. “Surely you do not grudge my singing gaining an admirer?”
“If I was sure it was your singing,” Parrette grumbled.
Anna laughed.
After the performance, she carefully laid aside
her Greek-styled costume and pulled on a smart new gown of striped muslin, trimmed at the little sleeves and high waist in contrasting ribbon. She gaily wished Parrette a good night, and when she reached the street, she linked arms with Hyacinthe and Eleanor, making it about ten steps before they found themselves surrounded by a number of tall chasseurs of the Guard of the Consul, resplendent in their tight uniforms gleaming with gold braid, extravagant bear-lined pelisses swaying with martial panache.
“Mesdemoiselles,” one cried, and Anna turned.
He was taller than she remembered, his blond mustachio curled fiercely. Half-shut blue eyes gazed appreciatively down at her, sending a champagne fizz through her veins as he bowed over her hand.
His warm lips brushed her skin. “Ma chère Anna,” he said lazily, “will an angel deign to grace mere mortals with her attention?”
Anna blushed hot all over. She scarcely knew what to say; Lise took her arm, tugging. “Come, Anna! They are holding a table for us at the Trois Arlequins.”
Anna had never before had her own admirer. As the chasseurs paired off with dancers and actresses, her tall companion walked beside her, his sword rattling at each step of his high, glossy boots. “You know my name, but I do not know yours,” she ventured.
“Auguste,” he said.
“Auguste?” she prompted, though in Paris people used first names as often as last. Post-Revolution Paris was inconsistent about honorifics.
“Ah,” he exclaimed. “Slain through the heart, hearing my name upon those lips!”
They crowded into the popular café. When they discovered that their favorite spot had been claimed, the chasseurs swaggered to the best table, hands to the hilts of their swords as they shoved the young men in civilian dress away from the little chairs, then bowed with extravagant audacity at their female companions.
The waiters, scenting trouble, hastened to bring the best champagne. Anna, unused to the heady drink, blinked as candlelight gained auras, and tricks of light caught in bright, admiring eyes. Edouard was the tallest; Guillaume the one who sang in a pleasing tenor, though the words were so idiomatic Anna didn’t quite catch them all. From the way the men laughed, she suspected Parrette would not translate for her.
Then Piers called for yet another bottle.
“. . . the bad old days,” Edouard said, as he began pouring more champagne all around. Anna stared fixedly at the golden liquid, the tiny bubbles rising, then puffing into air, causing a faint smell that tickled the inside of her nose. How could it do that? It seemed like magic The entire evening seemed like a fairy tale.
“…but the worst were the names,” Piers said, his face flushed. “Do you know what my mother changed my name to, after the Declaration? Eh? Fevridor. Yes, Fevridor, I ask you! Not even a month I prefer! My youngest brother had it worse, though: Dix-Août.”
“My cousin is Crainte. There is not much romance in ‘Fear’! He goes by Luc, now.”
“That’s nothing. The butcher at the end of our street? He named his twins Droit de l’Homme Tricolor and Mort aux Aristocrates. ‘Right to a good beating for being intolerable,’ and ‘Death to patience,’ that’s what we called those brats!”
Everyone laughed, and Guillaume pounded the table with his fist. “Wager! I’ll lay you hundred my sister has it worse. She was born in the Year IV. Amour Sacré de la Patrie et le Constitution, is what our mother called her! Now, if any part of that name crosses your lips, she swears a fate most sanguinary!”
“I’ve met her. I’ll not take that wager,” Auguste said, and everyone laughed.
Anna found their laughter so funny that she was still fizzing with giggles when she felt Auguste’s strong hand slide around her waist. Her blood heated. She blinked downward, enjoying the sensation of being held by a man, but why were his shirt cuffs so frayed beneath the splendid blue coat with its brave gold braid?
The evening came to a summary end when, pooling their last coins, the men could not come up with the price of another bottle. At first it looked as if there might be trouble, but the waiters, long experienced, had assembled in a mass, outnumbering by a factor of four the tipsy soldiers. Finding themselves surrounded by brawny young men in aprons who carried kitchen knives or cudgels, the chasseurs each linked arms with their fair companions and Edouard led the way out.
Talking and laughing, the party strolled back along the boulevard. Anna, reaching fresh air at last, found to her dismay that the world was slowly revolving, and her lips had gone numb.
She liked the feel of Auguste’s steady arm holding her upright, and when he pulled her close and kissed her, the candle beneath her skin flared to firelight. She did not even mind the smell of pomade.
But the dizziness made her stumble. “I need to go home,” she slurred. “I feel sick,” she added, as the dizziness made her weave on her feet.
When she hiccupped, and pressed a hand to her middle, Auguste smilingly turned her over to Hyacinthe, who was no steadier on her feet. “L-l-l-la,” Hyacinthe slurred. “How I ador-r-re the cafés in summer!”
“Me, too,” Anna murmured, and hiccupped again. “But perhaps not so much champagne.” She hiccupped a third time.
Hyacinthe did not notice. “Lise wants a fiery lover, but I! I love to sip, and to flirt, and the lights…” She bit her numb lips, then said carefully, “Lise laughs at me for being a bore. But some day I want a husband of my own. In a tiny house. With a garden. I shall grow my own cabbages. But not yet! Not while I am young!”
Anna paused on the stairs, swaying. “That is my own sentiment. Except I cannot marry.”
Hyacinthe blinked. “You cannot?”
“I am already married.”
“You are? Married, and not a widow? For I do not see Citizen Spouse.”
“I know not if I am wife or widow.” Anna thought this very funny, and laughed.
Hyacinthe laughed because Anna was laughing, and each leaned against the other for support, laughter begetting laughter until Anna hiccupped, and sucked in air. “Oh, I am dizzy. I think I am going to be sick.”
“Not upon me!”
“Oh-h-h-h,” Anna sighed.
“Then he must be in the army,” Hyacinthe said, as they struggled up the stairs together.
“Navy. A sea captain in the English navy,” Anna corrected, and she found that funny, too. Hyacinthe laughed with her, until Anna frowned with difficulty. “Oh. The English, no one likes them. You must not tell anyone.”
“Me? I am silent as the tomb.”
It took a very long time to mount the endless stairs, where the scandalized Parrette bustled Anna out of her new gown and forced her into a cold bath.
“You should never let yourself be weak,” Parrette scolded in Neapolitan, as the walls in the Hôtel Foulon were so thin. “This is exactly how foolish women get themselves into trouble!”
“There was no danger,” Anna mumbled. “And I returned with Hyacinthe.”
“She! She could not protect you from a rabbit, nor herself either. Look at you! This gown, it reeks of champagne. And so drunk that if one of them decides to attack you, you cannot even walk!”
“They wouldn’t. The chasseurs were so very gallant . . .”
Blissfully unaware of Parrette’s continued scolding, Anna fell asleep in the middle of having her hair brushed out.
The next morning her head ached abominably. It seemed that every little noise Parrette made stabbed through her ears into her brain. Her stomach revolted, but Parrette, pitiless, forced her to rise, and to eat, for there was rehearsal.
“I won’t dance this morning,” Anna mumbled.
“Morning? Tchah! It is near one. Time for opera rehearsal. It would never do to lose your position with the Duprees.”
“I was very good last night—did you not hear the acclaim? I can miss a rehearsal, I think!”
“I heard a lot of men who want one thing,” Parrette stated. “And if they don’t get it, will move on to the next set of fools whose heads they can turn with flattery.”
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Anna blinked owlishly at Parrette. “You hate men.”
“I hate the way men will behave,” Parrette retorted.
“You know nothing of love.”
“I know much about what silly girls think is love. Listen, Anna. You did not listen to me when you married, and I understood, for your heart was with your good Papa. But you had better listen now. I was not quite fifteen when my father proposed I marry Duflot to settle a debt. I took one look and liked him fine, his curling black hair, his strong white teeth, the way he strutted down the street. I tumbled straight into love. Or so I thought, until two days after my wedding, when he first took a stick to me because another man had beat him at cards. I soon learned I knew nothing about love, nothing. And that was before I learned he already had a wife!”
She paused and eyed Anna, who tossed her head and smiled at her bouquet.
Anna was remembering those blue eyes looking down at her so admiringly, and the strong arm around her, and sighed at the faint echo of warmth through her, in spite of the throbbing of her head. “Now I understand the songs I sing.”
“Faugh.” Parrette threw up her hands. “There is no talking to a head full of clouds!”
That night, the first row contained more soldiers than before, which caused M. Dupree to look thoughtful.
Anna was cast down. All she saw was that Auguste was not among them. He had lost interest—she had done something wrong—she was no good—the world had gone gray and bleak.
Her performance reflected her mood. After the first act, M. Dupree looked into her face, asking, “Are you ill? Let me fetch my sovereign remedy,” and bustled off to pour a small amount of neat whiskey into a glass.
Anna understood that her singing was bad, and pride roused her out of her gloom. The whiskey burned her throat, making her shudder. She straightened her back and sang better. After the performance, M. Dupree, at least, was happy. “It always works,” he said smugly, nodding at his hoarded bottle.
She left directly after the performance and made her way back to the Foulon, weary and feeling sick. When she sank into her chair, Parrette was waiting. She took one look at Anna’s listless face and gave her little nod. “Just as well.”
Rondo Allegro Page 9