Anna gazed at him, and Parrette sensed a little of her guilt easing. Parrette’s private conviction was that M. Dupree was accepting the destruction of his theatre with publicly-expressed panache, which would impress the men. But she decided not to tell Anna that, as she did not want Anna’s self-blame to smother her ire against those villainous soldiers.
Anna apologized once again, looking pretty and sorrowful, as she was watched by Jean-Baptiste Marsac. He, in turn, was watched narrowly by Lise, who had been trying unsuccessfully to catch his eye.
“Everyone knows that.” M. Dupree lowered his voice. “And so many richly enjoyed the story of that arrogant young dog getting his uniform ruined. But we also know that Bonaparte’s pets can do what they wish in Paris—the Gros Talons, the Cuirassiers, are even worse—and the First Consul will look the other way.” He wiped his handkerchief over the gleaming dome of his head, and then smiled fondly across the room at his wife. “The old place was a ruin anyway. Sit down. I have a plan.”
When he had taken his place again, and laced his fingers with his wife’s, he addressed the company. “Remember what Portiez said: ‘Man is born a spectator.’ Now, as some of you know, young Nicolet has been wanting to run his own offshoot of the Gaîté. My theater was old, yes, but the location is excellent! What I propose is that I lease the land to Nicolet for three years, during which we tour the country.” He patted his wife’s hand. “In the country, no one will care if Madame is in the family way, for it has been many years since they have had anything from Paris except marauding soldiers.”
“The country?” Lise exclaimed, arms crossed. “As well be dead!”
“What does it pay?” Lorette asked.
“Who knows?” M. Dupree lifted his shoulders. “Whatever it is, we share equally, like good republicans. It will be the better as we cannot take the full company. Almost all the clowns refused to leave Paris, so you dancers will all have to act in the farce. You know it is not difficult. Philippe has been promised that the tumbling clowns will gain a bit extra, as it is a double role. All I ask is that you think it over. If you wish to travel with Dupree, be here tomorrow at midday. I will know more then. I go to Nicolet from here.”
The crowd began to disperse. Anna and Parrette turned away, Anna stunned by this sudden change.
Hyacinthe caught her arm. “Do you think to go, then? What will he say?”
“He?” Anna said blankly, thinking of Auguste.
“Monsieur le husband, of course.”
“He is the last person on earth whose words I would heed.” Anna tossed her head, too indignant to notice M. Marsac gazing at her with an arrested expression.
But Lise noticed his sudden interest.
“What are you thinking?” Hyacinthe asked Lise, whose brooding gaze rested on the enigmatic tenor.
“Of them all, only Jean-Baptiste will ever make something of himself,” Lise said slowly. “He never talks about where he comes from. He never talks at all, beyond what is necessary. Yet out of the entire set of men, it is he who knows effortlessly how to strut like a prince on stage, how to command a room as pharaoh. But he despises us.” She dipped her chin toward the rest of the dancers. “And so, to go with these imbeciles into the country? Faugh. I will never leave Paris. It is time, perhaps, to see if my cousin Minette can be flattered into getting us an audition at the Feydeau.”
Anna was sorry to hear that, for she had come to like both dancers. But she shrugged at Lise’s observations about the tenor. She was done with men, and welcomed the chance to leave Paris. She had her singing to think of, and if the soldiers were to tarnish her name in the way that Madame de Pipelet had whispered had happened to her friend Madame Simon, perhaps it was better to get away.
As soon as Anna and Parrette reached the street, Anna shaded her eyes from the heat waves shimmering off the new pavement, and said, “I am going to the Tuileries to consult with Maestro Paisiello.”
“Go,” Maestro Paisiello said an hour later, as thunder reverberated across the sky.
Anna was dismayed that he did not even pause to consider.
“Go,” he said again. “Use this opportunity to work on your stage presence. I have taught you enough, I believe.”
“Have I so disappointed you, then?”
The maestro looked from those earnest brown eyes to his music, to hide his thoughts. By her own effort, she had emerged a butterfly from the promising chrysalis, but it was a common butterfly after all. She had a beautiful voice, she moved beautifully on stage, but in the end she was not possessed of the voice of genius and power that he sought and so rarely found.
However, he believed that the opera was her passion, as it was his, and he could not find it within himself to hurt her. “It is not you, it is politics,” the maestro finally replied, as lightning flared in all the windows. He sighed. “I am beginning to think that the Proserpina might not be ready until next spring. I cannot tell you how much trouble . . . but then, you have troubles of your own, so I will keep my peace!” He sighed again, and shook his head, sending up a little snow storm of powder.
Anna walked slowly outside, as the first big raindrops splattered in the noisome mess in the gutter down the center of the street. The stench was terrific, the flies maddening. She ran as quickly as she could, reaching the Foulon breathless moments before the storm burst in earnest.
She found Parrette haggling with a dancer over some stitchwork. Parrette looked up, her face flushed. The dancer tried to twitch the garment out of Parrette’s fingers.
“Not unless you pay,” Parrette said fiercely.
The dancer ran downstairs, her feet thumping. Anna sat on the little stool, peeling off her muddy shoes as she gulped in the thick, humid air.
“And so? The maestro, he says what?” Parrette laid the costume on top of Anna’s trunk.
“There is nothing to keep me here. What is your thought?”
Parrette wiped her brow with her apron. “Madame Dupree’s dresser refuses to leave Paris. While you were at the Tuileries, she tried to hire me away from you. I said no. She promised me my own earnings, if I will become a sort of costume mistress.”
“Does that mean you are now to do all the sewing?” Anna asked doubtfully. “No one person could manage all that work.”
Parrette shook her head, her mouth compressed, but Anna sensed pride in the angle of her chin, the cock of her elbow as she rested one work-worn hand on a bony hip. “Only for the dancers, if they cannot do their own, and I can charge them, though it would only be a pittance. The dressers are to come to me, and I will show them how to make the gowns smart. Everything I have learned? They noticed. I have gained a reputation.” She permitted herself the smallest smile.
“One you have earned, twice over,” Anna stated approvingly.
Later, they met Lise on the landing. She tilted her head and leaned insouciantly on the rickety wooden stair rail. “So you decided to go?” On Anna’s nod, “Perhaps it’s wise. Auguste talked wildly about raising a claque, though there was not much enthusiasm.”
Not knowing what to say, Anna decided silence was best, and shrugged as carelessly as she could.
“Still. There are other theaters. The chasseurs do not go to them all. There is nothing outside of Paris. Nothing.” Lise yawned as she straightened up. “And you are young and so stylish that people think you are beautiful. You could snare a general, with a little effort.”
Anna hid her surge of revulsion. “But all these new uniforms, the talk of new regiments, what if they march to war?”
Lise waved a hand to and fro. “Don’t you listen to anything? There is peace, now. The officers have little to do besides look resplendent on a horse, and spend their money on us. Go if you must! Go lose yourself in the country. You may as well be dead. La!” She yawned again, went inside her room and shut the door.
o0o
Two things happened before the Company Dupree left Paris.
First, M. Dupree thought Anna would make a capital Séraphine in Le S
ueur’s La Caverne, which was relatively easy to mount in spite of the fact that they could probably not offer the split stage that La Caverne had made famous.
Second, a short time after they gathered at the Egalité for last instructions, everyone looked up in surprise when a tall, elegant, light-haired figure walked in.
“Ninon!” Philippe hailed with obvious relief. “Now at least I’ll have one danseuse worth the name.”
Ninon’s lip curled.
Most of the female dancers looked appalled, and a few mutinous.
Catherine said, “So your general tired of you, eh?”
Ninon turned slightly, whipped her arm around and slapped Catherine so hard she fell off her bench.
“Zut! I want no broken bones,” M. Dupree said, waving his hands. “I will not have mob behavior in my company.”
Ninon shook back her honey-colored curls. “Then tell this imbecile to shut her mouth.”
Blonde Eleanor helped her cousin Catherine up. Both shot angry looks at Ninon, who sat down beside Philippe, her little smile triumphant. Lise might be gone, but her rival had returned to take her place as leader.
M. Dupree sighed. Dancers! But one must have them: it was said that the common man would not come to the theater if he did not have pretty girls to look at. He finished his instructions.
Two days later, they set out in a cavalcade up the Seine, Madame Dupree in a fine coach that had been taken from some aristocrat during the Terror. It had been furbished up a bit, the coat of arms on the panel scratched out and the tri-colors painted over.
Behind that rolled an ancient berline shared by the female singers, and another by the men. After that followed a series of carts carrying props and clothes. Parrette rode with the latter, so that she could oversee the disposition of the baskets, bags, and boxes.
Madame Dupree’s uncle’s second cousin, in the army, had been stationed in a chateau abandoned by aristocrats fleeing the guillotine. M. Dupree leased this chateau from the local Prefect, which was no longer in use by the army now that there was peace. The company—severely reduced—planned to work up a suitable repertoire, while Madame recovered from those sickly early months of pregnancy.
They reached their chateau ahead of a thundery sky. Everyone had expected fine furnishings and comfort, but discovered the shell of a once-beautiful building. The tapestries had been hacked and stabbed, and most of the fine furnishings used as firewood. They slept on discarded mattresses and even folded tapestries, set directly on the beautiful parquet floors grooved by the cavalry’s spurs. The next day they had to scrounge for furnishings.
The third day, the diminished orchestra caught up with them, and they were able to begin work. In the morning, Anna joined the dancers as always, careful to remain in the back.
Ninon led the morning practice at a smart pace, her comments excoriating. Anna struggled all over again, and was not surprised to feel the familiar ache throughout the rest of the day. Ninon, Anna realized, really was a better dancer than Lise.
Anna felt the immediate benefit in heightened awareness, gauging space the way the dancers did. Anna was the only singer who never tripped up her fellow singers, banged elbows, or got in anyone’s way.
The fourth night, some of the dancers asked for a cart so they could visit the local village.
Anna was surprised when Jean-Baptiste Marsac turned to her as they were putting their music in the trunk. “Were you going to join the others?” he asked. “There might be dancing.”
Anna shook her head. She knew from the dancers’ gossip that many were going not to see if there was entertainment, but to flirt with the locals.
“Another time?” he asked with a winsome smile, his gaze steady.
Anna smiled back, aware of the warmth of attraction. The instinct to smile, to bridle, to encourage him to smile back had to be squashed, squashed, squashed.
She said politely, “Perhaps,” and excused herself, resolving grimly to avoid him as much as possible.
o0o
After the Revolutionary government had rescinded all the old licenses and controls, stating that every citizen had the right to start a theater, any works by authors five years dead had been declared free to be staged.
But as many discovered, wanting to be on stage and doing it successfully were two very different prospects. The French performers shared grim memories of revolutionary audiences who had voted their disapprobation with baskets full of rotten vegetables (if not worse), or even stormed the stage to entertain themselves by ripping apart the props and chasing the performers off.
Good performances met with wild enthusiasm, especially in the country, which had been starved for real entertainment during the long years of armies shooting and looting up and down the countryside.
Summer faded into autumn, M. Dupree offering free performances to the villagers in trade for foodstuffs. La Caverne proved as popular as ever, but so also did Paisiello’s Nina, which the older members of the company all knew, and of course Anna had been trained in.
After the last performance of Nina, a satisfied M. Dupree called the company together and said, “By week’s end, we will begin our travels.”
The tour began as a resounding success.
The Company Dupree had engaged to stay in Amiens for only a week, but proved to be so popular that they were held over for a month. They could not charge much—and there were a great many citizens who managed to get in without paying even an assignat—but the seats were full, and the audiences appreciative.
And a steady stream of would-be entertainers clamored to be auditioned: these M. Dupree had to make time for, lest he be slandered as an elitist, but he took care to hold auditions in the common room of the local inn. There he could rely on the patrons, ever ready for free entertainment, to express their derision for those who had more ambition than talent.
By the end of the year, they had advanced triumphantly all the way north to Lille, word running ahead and guaranteeing an excellent reception. While the company rehearsed, Parrette went about the city, talking and listening: here, so very close to England, she expected to get better news of Admiral Nelson’s fleet—and perhaps her son’s ship, Pallas—than had been reported in the Paris newspapers.
She was told by a friendly cheese-seller to ask the fisher folk. A morning at the dock furnished the dispiriting news that Admiral Nelson was rumored to be living in a palace in England, and his fleet scattered, everyone having opinions on where.
She reported her lack of success to Anna.
“At least there is peace,” Parrette said as she sewed, tucked, draped, hemmed.
Anna agreed, as always, talking in Neapolitan whenever the subject was England or English matters. “While it is true that Michel might be anywhere, at least there is less chance he is being fired upon by cannon.”
Neither brought up the obvious question: how long would that last? The docks had also been full of rumors about Napoleon’s plans for an invasion flotilla, abandoned only temporarily, some insisted.
o0o
At year’s end (Nivôse, Year XI), M. Dupree called his company together. “After all these auditions, I have, at last, found a pearl hidden in the midden.”
The company laughed, having witnessed some of those terrible auditions. “A new soprano. This is Therese Rose. She has been singing in the cafés for a year or two, and so she needs to learn our ways. I know you all will help her.”
With abundant, curling black hair and dark eyes, Therese Rose was arrestingly pretty. She looked down demurely, her long eyelashes casting extravagant shadows on her smooth cheeks. She looks no older than I am, Anna thought. Maybe younger. It was an odd thought, to no longer be the youngest singer.
Therese moved to the farthest chair and sat down modestly as M. Dupree ran his hand over his shiny bald head, and continued. “So. We have reached the farthest northern point. We have done well, eh? But now it is time to turn south, and I ask you, my fellow citizens, artists all, east or west?”
“Eas
t,” said the older soprano, Lorette, who had relations in Bretagne.
“West,” Jean-Baptiste Marsac murmured, with a faint, apologetic smile at Lorette. “East, all the rumors have it, the Corsican is going to war, either Holland or Austria or Italy once again.”
Of all the company, only M. Dupree recognized Marsac’s aristocratic upbringing in that use of ‘the Corsican’ for Bonaparte. But as always, he kept his thoughts to himself.
“I agree.” Philippe tossed his long golden hair back and set his fists on his narrow hips. “I’ve now lost two brothers to Bonaparte’s adventures in Egypt, and I do not intend to follow. If we go east, we risk falling into the hands of the conscript officers, and I for one have no wish to come to a sanguinary end in a foreign grave.”
“Peste! It is too true,” declared Paul Bisset, their baritone, who favored parts that required powdered hair to hide the fact that his own was thinning. “Three times have I been spoken to by officers looking for recruits.” Though he was on the far side of forty, Paul, son of a line of blacksmiths, was a fine figure of a man.
“I hear they have two good theatres in Caen,” Therese said, then blushed and looked down at her lap.
“Go on,” Madame Dupree said encouragingly. “Tell us more?”
“I don’t know more. But Caen is said to be beautiful in spring.” She cast quick glances at the men at either side.
“So it is,” Paul said, smiling back.
“I’ve heard that.” Philippe gave her the pleasant nod he reserved for beauty.
“Very well,” M. Dupree said, picking up a music score and using it to fan his round, red face. “I do not want half my company recruited for cannon-fodder. West it is. I have bespoken transport; I will instruct Pierre to obtain maps along with fodder. We leave on the morrow.”
They parted to pack. Anna found Mademoiselle Rose walking next to her. “I trust you will show me the way.” Long eyelashes lowered over beautiful dark brown eyes, and the newcomer looked down shyly. “M. Dupree says you are a genius!”
Not knowing how to respond to that, Anna murmured what she hoped sounded encouraging.
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