Therese smiled, clasped her hands, then uttered a stream of questions about Anna’s impressions of the cities she had seen so far. Gradually her questions became more particular—and Anna’s responses correspondingly general.
They parted at their lodging, Anna entering her chamber with an uneasy expression.
Parrette looked up from packing their trunks. “What is amiss? Are we delayed?”
“No,” Anna said. “It’s this new soprano. She seems friendly, but the way she asked about the company.” She made a face. “Is it gossip, to say that I think she wanted gossip?”
Parrette shrugged. “Short of suspecting a worse motive, maybe she wants to understand the people she has come among? Does she want the guidance of a friend? Madame Dupree tells me she is just turned eighteen.”
“Then she is younger than I.” Anna moved to the window, and looked out at the stretched lines crossing the tiny courtyard. Washing flagged in the sunny breeze. “I never thought of myself as a guide.”
Anna wandered away, thinking for the first time about friends. Her mother had encouraged her budding friendship with the Wynne sisters at legation parties. They had been great fun—much preferable to the royal children—but they had gone away again, just before Mama died.
The closest Anna had come to friendship since then had been Hyacinthe, who was kind to everyone, and in a sense Lise. Now they, too, were gone.
A friend would be welcome, Anna thought wistfully.
o0o
By the first of March they’d reached Caen, where they took over a small hotel in trade for informal entertainment, to bring lagging custom to the common room. A couple of the younger dancers were happy to dance and flirt, and Paul had a repertoire of bawdy sea songs that had proved to be immensely popular.
Anna and Therese Rose began a habit of walking to rehearsals together, singing their scales together, and rehearsing together, as Therese was to begin as understudy, as well as singing the very minor female roles.
Therese seemed to hang on Anna’s opinions. “I am by nature so modest and retiring,” she often said. “And you are so brilliant! I can learn so much from you!” And then would come the confidences. “I prefer your voice, oh, to infinity, to Lorette’s or, hush, even to Madame’s.” She touched her finger to her lips and smiled winsomely.
Gradually, as the days fled by, her confidences began to broaden to include the rest of the cast. “Do not tell the others, but I would die if I strode about with my arms swinging, in that peculiar manner Lorette has. I know it is a breeches role, but . . .” Or, “Don’t you think that Madame is a little shrill in the upper range? Perhaps my ear is odd. You, with your perfect ear, probably think I am much worse.” And she’d lay out for compliments that Anna readily gave, for Therese sang as prettily as she looked.
Their performances in Caen promised to be as successful as Amiens, until the night M. Dupree came banging on Anna’s door.
She struggled out of bed, her heart beating in her throat. All she could think of was fire. Without even pulling a wrapper over her nightrail, she opened the door to find M. Dupree outside, his candle flame flaring wildly, throwing extravagant shadows over his distraught expression.
“Madame is lying in early,” he exclaimed. “The babe is on the way. You must sing Nina tomorrow. We cannot possibly postpone. We desperately need the money to replace the lame horse. It is criminal, how much they are charging for the oldest, lamest nag. It’s the cursed army, snapping up everything with four legs . . .”
Anna nodded, but she didn’t hear the pent-up stream of words. Her heart continued to thunder, but from a different cause. To lead! For the first time in her life, she would sing a major role!
Parrette appeared, candle in hand. “Go back to bed,” she ordered Anna, after M. Dupree departed. “You are going to need your strength.”
Anna obeyed, but sleep evaded her until she fell into restless dreams: walking on stage just to realize she had no notion which act it was—she was wearing her old dance hose and skirt, and the audience roared with laughter—she opened her mouth, but no sound emerged, and the crowd roared its scorn.
It was a relief when the sun at last rose. Very soon after breakfast, M. Dupree, even more tired than Anna, called for a hasty rehearsal. “Not you,” he said anxiously to Anna. “Only warm your voice. Preserve it for tonight.”
Anna was so excited that she did not perceive the implied warning. For the first time, everything on stage revolving around her.
M. Marsac, as her lover Lindoro, was tender and solicitous; the truth was, he found Anna increasingly interesting. As she drifted gracefully about the stage, he recalled overhearing that she was already wed.
Good. He would take no woman to the altar unless her blood matched his in purity. A married woman, especially one whose ambitions and talents matched his, could make no demands, and might divert him in this tiresome existence while he waited for the proper order to be restored.
That morning he used all his energy to encourage Anna, and the rest of the cast followed his lead.
Everyone wished her well, Therese Rose the most enthusiastic. “I will do anything to support you, I would die for you,” she exclaimed. “We shall rehearse every note together.”
“But I am to preserve my voice,” Anna murmured.
Therese threw up her hands. “Shh!” She brought them to her mouth, her eyes wide. “I forget. Everyone laughs at how empty my head is! Do not sing, do not even speak! I will remain by your side, and answer for you.”
Anna thanked her, but felt she would be better resting, and retired. She managed to sleep, but by the time she had put on her costume and began humming to warm her voice, her wrists and knees had gone watery with apprehension.
The clock inexorably advanced, and Anna first walked upon the stage as principal singer.
As soon as the violins began the familiar overture, assurance settled her nerves like the first fall of snow. Light heart, tight ribs, she said to herself and filled her lungs.
She began to sing. One by one the company joined her, everyone alive to cues . . . but as the opera progressed, she was aware of a sense of strain. She fought to keep her notes pure, but she sensed that she failed to reach the far corners of the gallery, and indeed, before long she perceived whispers and restless rustles that sounded to her louder than pistol shots.
In desperation, during the mad scenes she flung her arms wide, and began to dance wildly. The rustles ceased, and she caught sight of Ninon in the wings, brows raised and mouth pursed. Anna knew that she was not a great dancer, but nerves drove her to a frenzy and she leaped and twirled as if movement could furnish the lacking sound.
The audience quieted again—and then she discovered the cost: she had lost her breath. Desperately she sucked in breath and pressed her fists to her ribs, aware that at least it was a proper motion for the character. But her voice was flagging.
She sensed the other singers moving in closer and bringing their voices up, until at last it ended. The audience applauded, and she bowed, breathing hard.
The curtain fell, and Philippe sighed with relief. “At the least they didn’t throw dung.”
“We’ll have to remember to move further downstage, hein?” Lorette asked, patting Anna kindly on the shoulder. “Perhaps less dancing?”
“Beautifully done,” M. Marsac murmured, taking Anna’s hands. “I never expected to play Lindoro to so accomplished a Nina.”
He smiled down at her with extra meaning, and once again the warmth of attraction bloomed behind her ribs. “Truly? Oh thank you, thank you. Are you certain I was not weak in my aria? And what about the second act . . .”
“It was all quite lovely. You have earned a fine supper. I located a little café that miraculously has survived the ructions. I would be honored if you would accompany me.”
Her nerves chilled. It was flattering, but was this going to be Auguste all over again? “I confess I am so tired I cannot keep my eyes open anymore,” she said.
&n
bsp; “Another time, then,” he said, and saluted her hands with his lips, light as a butterfly touch.
“Oh, that is so romantic,” Therese said, approaching as M. Marsac walked away. “What did he say? I can never get him to talk to me, or even to notice me.”
“He was very kind,” Anna said, aware of her tight throat. “But as I told him, I am very tired. Good night.”
“Sleep well, and dream of besting la Catalani, who I am sure you will be replacing.” Therese kissed her fingertips to Anna.
Anna walked away, still a little giddy. But then she stopped. Would they be rehearsing again in the morning?
She started back past props and stage paraphernalia, slowing at the sound of voices. She caught her name. Therese was saying, “. . . wonderful, as graceful as a swan, but oh, M. Dupree, I cannot but hope her voice might be stronger. It was so weak, they were cupping their ears right below us in the second row. If she needs to rest her voice, I could gather my courage and—”
“You are not yet ready, Mademoiselle Rose,” M. Dupree said as Anna froze where she was. “You still betray bad habits, or bad teaching. If Mademoiselle Bernardo cannot carry through the week, we will have to transpose the two arias for Lorette, who cannot reach the upper registers…” Anna backed up two, three steps, whirled, and withdrew, a sick feeling gnawing her inside. Why could Therese not have said those things to her face?
Perhaps—a horrible thought—she was busy entrusting ‘observations’ about Anna to others. Was friendship impossible?
Her mother had taught her deference, Mrs. Billington had taught her to be light, her father had taught her to love music, and the maestro to sing it, but no one had ever taught her about friendship. For some, it seemed as easy and effortless as breathing. For her, it was as elusive as a rainbow.
11
By the end of the week, she felt the beginnings of strain in her throat earlier each day, even though Jean-Baptiste Marsac led the other singers in uniting to support her flagging voice.
Anna was not aware of how much the elusive tenor was gradually gaining influence over the others. He made an effort to hide his origins, but the habits of youth are not easily overcome. His fastidious care to his clothing and person, and even his aloof countenance, fascinated the company. The more the women admired him, the more interest the men took in him.
Not everyone felt that influence. Anna was entirely taken up by the burden of her leading role, and even if she had not been, she remained wary of male attention.
That wariness now extended to Therese Rose. Despite Therese’s showers of compliments, Anna could feel how eagerly and avidly she was watched, and when she glimpsed Therese talking to Lorette or one of the others, Anna wondered if some of her utterances began with, “Do not breathe a word, but . . .” followed by pungent observations about Anna.
She tried to shrug off her sense of hurt, and she exerted herself to act toward Therese exactly as always, but she no longer felt any desire to share her opinions. Therese was pretty, and sang well, and could be good company, but Anna no longer trusted anything she said.
o0o
At the end of the week, they set out as the snows began to melt. Anna rejoiced in the hills and valleys showing the first fuzz of buds, and the flit, swoop and dive of the swallows returning for spring.
The first sign of trouble was a burned village, the unrepaired ruin and relatively fresh gravestones the more shocking amidst the green shoots of spring.
Within a month they knew that the west was a mistake. The destruction of the Vendee was far worst than any of them had conceived: everywhere were the signs of poverty. Common folk made shift to live, and few were merchants, burned shops with broken windows marking village streets like gaping holes between teeth.
Nobody seemed to have money for rebuilding, much less for entertainment. M. Dupree’s auditions dwindled to those desperate to live, then quit altogether. Shelter became increasingly difficult to find, and one by one their musicians began to melt away, until they were left with two violins and two woodwinds, all four relations of someone in the company. Tempers were short.
Late one day, they were turned away for the fourth time from quarters that even new little Helene, daughter of a laundress, would have scorned back in their Paris days, a storm broke overhead.
M. Marsac pushed to the first carriage, stuck his head in the door, and shouted against the roar of the rain, “A local says there is a chateau nearby.” He pointed up an adjacent road.
M. Dupree was too distressed to wonder why no one had offered him this information, though he was the one soaking wet from getting in and out of the carriage. “We will try to find it,” he said. “Tell the driver!”
The chateau had once been magnificent, but had been used as target practice for artillery, and the entire roof had collapsed. However, the stable had largely survived. Once they discovered this, M. Dupree took one look at his weary wife, his infant son in the arms of the newly hired nurse, and said, “Settle in. I will ride back down to the village, and offer entertainment in exchange for food.”
There was one area of the stable that was somewhat less filthy than the rest, where the lambs had once been sequestered. This was taken over by the Duprees, and the rest had to make shift as best they could.
Marsac looked around the stable in distaste.
He was not about to reveal that he had once visited the place as a boy; by indirect suggestion he got the men to brave the chateau in hopes of discovering an outbuilding left intact.
The women elected to remain in the stable, in spite of the rustle and scratching of rats in the dark corners, rather than brave the storm in the fast-gathering darkness. When the men departed with the last of the lanterns, they shoved their trunks into a rough square barricade, and set four of their precious candles on the trunks at each corner.
Darkness closed in as they shared out the scant remains of stale bread and drying cheese. For a time there was general chatter, but as the long night stretched out ahead, some fought yawns: the squeaking from beyond the candle nimbus made Anna shiver.
“I will not lie down,” Parrette said, sitting bolt upright on her trunk with her worn winter cloak pulled tightly around her, and her voice thin with disgust. “I will not have rats eating my fingers or attacking my face in my sleep.”
“I will never shut my eyes again,” Eleanor proclaimed dramatically, and was fervently agreed with by Catherine and little Helene.
Anna silently agreed. Yet as time wore slowly on, measured only by the melting candles in their pools of wax, her eyelids burned and she caught herself nodding.
Each time she pulled herself upright the effort took more strength.
Midway through the night, when the air was coldest, Ninon rose. “Peste! Let us rehearse the changes in the dance,” she said to the other dancers, cast a sidelong look Anna’s way, and turned her back.
Anna had no intention of accepting that silent rejection. But when she joined the others in the candlelit square, Ninon turned on her, hand upraised. “Sit down.”
Anna, cold and cramped, protested. “I have always practiced with you. No one minds. I stay in the back.”
“You can stay away altogether, unless you start to carry your share.”
“My share?” Anna repeated, and several of the dancers looked confused. Others smiled privately, a sign that warned Anna of something unpleasant that had been discussed in secret.
Sure enough. Ninon tossed her artfully curled golden locks, crossed her arms, and said, “If you want to dance with us, then you can take your part in the farce now and then, just like the rest of us.”
Anna stared at her in surprise.
What was this really about? The farces were ancient, everyone knew that, always bawdy, the details merely adapted to the times: these days, the cuckolds and butts of the jokes were invariably aristocrats. The females were still coquettes, only their dress had changed from hoops and silk and feathers to republican rags or the extravagant costumes of the Merveilleus
es.
Anna knew what Ninon really wanted. The acting was easy. Not much was required in the way of dance in the farce. The women were on stage mainly to act as objects for the male clowns’ lascivious buffoonery.
The problem came afterward. While the male part of the audiences had no problem believing that the male clowns were playing roles, they seemed to regard the females as coquettes whether on stage or off. The singers were able to get on and off stage without being molested, perhaps protected by the grandness of tragedy. The dancers, especially those in the farces performing their roles within arm’s reach of the audience, had to guard against pinches and fondles, or being grabbed and kissed.
Even though the Terror had ended when Monsieur Talien took his mistress’s dagger to Robespierre, the easing of Thermidor had not reached all parts of the country. The shadow of the Terror lay in the dancers’ minds when they had to fend off unwanted advances from drunken butchers, farmers, carters, and the like. Everyone was afraid of being shouted down as an elitist. They knew that mobs could form between one heartbeat and the next.
Anna studied the dancers’ faces as the candles wavered and streamed in the stuffy slow-moving air. Who are you to be spared our hardship? those unblinking gazes seemed to ask.
Anna faced Ninon. “Someone will need to walk me through the part.”
Ninon’s eyelids lifted, revealing her surprise. So she thought I would cry off, Anna thought.
“Helene can do that,” Ninon said. “It is simple enough.”
“In the morning, then?” Anna turned to Helene.
The younger girl yawned, and nodded. “Easy.”
Ninon lifted an ironic hand, and Anna took her place at the back. Counting softly, their footsteps rustling over the dusty ground, the dancers began their daily routine. Anna sank gratefully into the familiar rhythms. All night they danced, and when they tired, sat and talked about anything and everything. Nothing of consequence: mostly reminiscences, beginning with the delicious seafood at Le Procope, laughing visits to the cafés with dashing men, and then walking back in the hour before dawn, and buying fresh, hot bread from street vendors just starting their day. When their voices got hoarse and their limbs heavy, they forced themselves up, which would cause the advancing rats to scatter. Nerves jangling, they would dance again.
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