Emilie's Voice (2 page)

Two

The next day, about a mile from the Atelier Jolicoeur, the young composer Marc-Antoine Charpentier clasped the top of his long conductor’s stick and rested his chin on his knuckles, propping up the weight of his weary head. He sighed, lifting his eyes to take in his surroundings. Three enormous crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling at regular intervals, swathed in white muslin like elegant spiders’ nests. The furniture—all of it in the most ornate style, with gold and ormolu decoration, rare veneers in delicate marquetry, and Italian marble tops—was covered with linen sheets. The parquet floor, known throughout Paris as a superb example of the craftsman’s art, was dusty and dull. Without the glow of candles, the great salon of the Hôtel de Guise was positively drab. Marie de Lorraine, whose titles included Princesse de Joinville, Duchesse de Joyeuse, and Duchesse de Guise (making her entry into a room sound like a whole parade of nobility), had not yet arrived from her retreat at the Abbey of Montmartre. Without the mistress in residence, no one did more than the minimum work required to keep the place from running down altogether. And were it not for the upcoming fête, Charpentier would have no reason to venture into this part of the great house, but as composer in residence would work quietly in his own comfortable apartment, churning out devotional music for the princess’s mourning over the loss of her nephew Alençon, last of the great line of Guise.

It was spring, but there was still a distinct chill in the air. Charpentier was rehearsing the house musicians, and all six members of the ensemble rubbed or blew on their hands whenever they were not actually playing. Often they cast irritated glances in the direction of the empty fireplace. Charpentier did not know how his viol players could move their fingers, and as he stood before them in silence, he reminded himself to be patient.

Chill or not, it was necessary that they be at their best for the fête, which was to take place in a week. “Really, gentlemen, it is not so very difficult,” he said, trying not to sound as irritated as he felt. “It is only necessary to play the notes as written and leave the embellishment to Monsieur du Bois. We must give him an opportunity to show off the new violin.” A murmur of disgruntled acquiescence went through the band. Charpentier began to beat the time again,
one
-two-three,
one
-two-three. It was better than before. He let them continue, while his mind wandered. He imagined that he was seated at a harpsichord on the stage of the Guénégaud. Before him was a huge cast of singers and twenty musicians. There was beautiful scenery, with machines to change it between the acts. The costumes were rich and varied, and the voices … The music swelled and ebbed; sometimes the drama moved the audience to tears and sometimes it made them laugh. When it was over, the crowd roared with rapture. And then, just when he felt invincible, just when he was certain he was poised for great success, he turned, and—

“Monsieur Charpentier?” It was Alexandre, the leader of the ensemble. They had finished the minuet, but still Charpentier marked the beat, lost in thought.

Charpentier cleared his throat and smiled sheepishly. “Thank you, gentlemen. I think that will be all for today.”

With undisguised relief, the members of the orchestra gathered up their instruments and left the room. Charpentier took the sheets of manuscript paper from the music stands and made his way back to his own apartment in another wing of the house. He was grateful that the princess, who had ties to his family that went back many generations, had offered him employment when he returned from his travels abroad. He had hoped for a court appointment, but none was forthcoming. Jean-Baptiste Lully, the court composer, saw to it that none but he received the favors of Louis XIV. It was Lully who reigned over music in France, in the name of the king. Charpentier had heard that he had his own handsome quarters at Versailles and St. Germain, and a large hôtel of his own in Paris. Somehow, while Charpentier was away in Italy, this voracious—and talented—composer had achieved a stranglehold on music in the capital and wherever else the king happened to be. He had even persuaded His Majesty to issue a proclamation limiting the number of musicians anyone could use in a performance, so that only Lully himself could mount an opera.

These bitter thoughts followed Charpentier all the way to his apartment. Although his quarters were ample and his duties light, Mademoiselle de Guise’s beneficence did not extend to considering him anything more than a glorified servant. But that was only what Charpentier expected. In Mademoiselle’s household, almost every musician was also a valet, or a maid, or a cook. Even in Italy, where music was the prince of all the arts, composers were merely pieces of property, like paintings or jewels. He was fortunate to be required only to compose and perform, not to polish the silver or open the doors.

Italy. The thought warmed Charpentier while he sipped his hot soup and gradually shed the bone-snapping chill of the morning’s rehearsal. He could so easily conjure up the astounding voices he had heard in Rome, where the castrato reigned supreme. Men who were not men, who had undergone painful mutilation to retain their boyish high voices, were the most sublime singers in the world. Something about the unnatural prolonging of that temporary voice gave it a poignancy that was unmatched. The best of the castrati could sing with more control, sustain notes longer, and sing with more power than even the finest natural soprano. No one in Paris came close to producing such a sound. Yet the French considered a castrato an offense against the grand design of God—especially now that religion was so popular at court.

When Charpentier finished his dinner, he searched through the untidy pile of papers on the spinet and found the parts for his cantata, “Flow, Flow, Charming Streams.” It was time to return to the ballroom to rehearse the singers. There were only three of them, as Lully’s ordinance dictated. Only enough to entertain a party. Not enough to sing an opera.

As Charpentier approached Marcel’s atelier in the middle of the afternoon a few days later, still brooding over the disappointments of his career, he heard something unusual. At first he simply folded it into the processes of his imagination, assuming that he had become so obsessed with the idea of finding the perfect voice that he had developed the ability to imagine it in his head. But as he drew nearer to the luthier’s workshop, Charpentier realized that what he heard was no fantasy.

He walked into the Atelier Jolicoeur and removed his hat. Émilie was in her customary place, on the floor amid the wood shavings, and so Charpentier could not at first see the source of this extraordinary voice. He looked questioningly at Marcel, who put his tools down quickly.

“Good afternoon, Monsieur,” Marcel said. “Émilie, say hello to Monsieur Charpentier.”

The singing stopped abruptly, and Charpentier’s attention was drawn to the side of the worktable, where he saw a young girl whom he knew to be the luthier’s daughter unfold herself from the floor. There was a faint blush in her cheeks and she looked down. The sunlight that streamed in through the window made the wisps of her fair hair glow like a halo. Her voice, which had sailed out onto the street so pure and strong, now merely whispered an embarrassed greeting. Her awkward curtsey made Charpentier smile.

“You’ve grown, Mademoiselle Émilie,” Charpentier said.

“Why don’t you run and help your mother prepare the soup for dinner?” said Marcel.

Without a word, Émilie skipped off to the door at the back of the workshop. Charpentier could hear her running up the stairs, a perfect decrescendo. And then he stared at the space Émilie vacated for a long while, certain that it had all been a trick of his imagination.

“The Amati copy is finished, Monsieur,” said Marcel.

“Yes, yes,” Charpentier said. “I’m sure it is lovely. But I’d like to speak to you about something else.” Charpentier looked toward the door that led to the Jolicoeurs’ apartment. He could not believe what he had just heard. It was a voice in a million, and all the time it had been only a mile away from him where he worked at the Hôtel de Guise. Suddenly it did not matter how skillfully the luthier had crafted his violin. It was not the product of his hands, but the product of his marriage that interested Charpentier now. And so he turned the conversation away from the violin and toward the luthier’s daughter.

Three

By the time Marcel came up for supper, Émilie was bursting to find out how Monsieur Charpentier liked the violin. She had strained her ears to hear him try it out, but no sweet tones wafted up the stairs. Émilie wondered what they could have been talking about for all that time. Something told her when she left that she was really still down there, that they were even—possibly—talking about her. The way the composer looked at her unsettled her deeply. She could hardly meet the gaze of his lively gray eyes. So when her father walked through the door, she ran to him, ready to ask for some explanation. But he just smiled and patted her on the head, turning away from her before she had a chance to ask her question.

“Did Monsieur Charpentier come for his violin?” asked Madeleine.

“Yes. We’ll talk about it later,” responded Marcel, as he kissed his wife on both cheeks.

Émilie sighed and helped her mother put the dinner on the table. Once they were all seated, she plucked up her courage to ask her father about the violin. “Didn’t he like it? Monsieur Charpentier?”

“What? The violin you mean. Yes, he did,” said Marcel, without elaborating.

“I did not hear him play it,” she said.

“No,” said Marcel, between mouthfuls of potatoes. “But he paid his money nonetheless.”

Émilie knew enough about the process of making and selling violins to realize that this was very unusual. The only way to tell if a violin was any good was to play it. But she did not know what to say, or how to question her father, without seeming impertinent. Before long they finished their dinner, and then all retired with the dying fire. But Émilie knew she would never be able to sleep.
We’ll talk later
usually meant that her parents had something to say that they did not want her to hear. Those words were a sort of code that she had long since learned to interpret. The first time, she had heard her mother crying over her last, lost infant. Another time, she had heard her parents discuss whose son might make a good match for her when she reached the marriageable age of fourteen or fifteen. And then there had been the time when she had heard her father try to convince her mother that the expense involved in making violins, a new instrument that was not yet popular with the gentry, would pay off handsomely in the end. So although her eyes sprung open every time she tried to close them, Émilie made an effort to pretend she was asleep, forcing her breathing to be louder and more regular, and moving now and again as though she were deeply asleep and dreaming. Yet all the time she was completely awake, listening for that important conversation they did not want her to hear.

After what seemed an eternity, but which was probably only half an hour, Marcel and Madeleine began to speak in whispers.

“Monsieur Charpentier has offered to give Émilie instruction in singing,” Marcel said.

Émilie almost gave herself away by gasping but quickly turned the sound into a deep breath, like those sleepy sighs she sometimes heard her mother utter in the very depths of night.

“And how much does he think he will charge us for this? I suppose he wants his violin for nothing!”

“No, he does not. As I said, he paid me for it, in cash. I think it was a sort of pledge,” Marcel said.

After a pause, Madeleine said, “I cannot do without her, you know!”

Émilie could not hear them for a moment or two, but soon they spoke again in whispers she could just discern.

“Think of the opportunity for our daughter! She has a very great gift, and she could better herself, performing in the great hôtels for the rich. There is money to be made.”

“Better herself? A pretty young girl of no family to speak of and no fortune? I know what she would become! She’s a good girl. I do not want her spoiled.”

“This is too important to decide in a moment. Let’s see what happens after tomorrow.”

With that, the conversation ended.
Monsieur Charpentier wants to teach me to sing properly, so that I may entertain the wealthy in their fine houses in Paris!
Like a chant, the thought echoed in her head. Émilie fell asleep dreaming of rooms full of cakes, silk gowns, and glittering jewels.

When she awoke the next morning, Émilie leapt out of bed, ran to her mother, and threw her arms around her waist. “Good morning, Maman!” she said.

Madeleine gently disengaged her and turned away. “No time for that. It’s a busy day today,” she said. Then she attended to the delicate process of making the tisane, the herbal concoction they drank every morning that, so Madeleine believed, was the way to ensure a long and healthy life.

Marcel was already sitting at the table, looking as though he had not slept well and staring into the fire that crackled and popped noisily in the sleepy household.

“Will you go for a walk with me today, Émilie? To deliver Monsieur Charpentier’s violin?” he asked.

“I thought Monsieur Charpentier took the violin yesterday,” she said.

“I have to make one or two adjustments this morning,” he answered.

Émilie smiled at her father. Of course she would go. From that moment, she could hardly sit still, she was so excited about this alteration in their daily routine. She knew it must be related to her parents’ conversation in the middle of the night before. Otherwise there would be no need for her to go along. Her mother would never let her take a walk with her father instead of staying home and helping her with the chores. Mostly Émilie was only allowed to go out when there was some great celebration, to see the magistrates in their costly robes, or to watch displays of fireworks over the Hôtel de Ville. At those times all Paris was out, dancing around bonfires, the city itself dressed up for a holiday. But most days it was just hard work. And today was Tuesday, which was laundry day. Even better. Émilie would be excused from the most grueling chore of the week.

Once the breakfast things were cleared away and the floor swept, she grabbed her cloak from the peg by the door, flew down the steps to the workshop, and stood in front of her father, trembling and expectant. She waited for him to set aside his tools and remove his leather apron so that they could go for their walk. He washed his hands in the basin, picked up Charpentier’s violin, which he had wrapped in cloths and tied with string, then motioned Émilie to follow him out the door.

“Where does Monsieur Charpentier live?” asked Émilie.

“Somewhere very grand,” Marcel answered, smiling at his daughter.

The beauty of the morning, with its clear blue sky and fresh, frisky breeze, suited Émilie’s mood exactly. Always staying within ten feet of her father, she found ways to gambol like a fawn as they made their way through the streets of Paris. They crossed the Place de Grève, and Émilie was too happy to notice the workmen cleaning up around a scaffold that had been used for a public execution only the day before. Father and daughter both stopped and made the sign of the cross before St. Gervais-St. Protais, after which they continued down the rue St. Antoine, a street that was wide enough for Émilie to spread her arms like a bird and skip ahead of Marcel, without risking injury from the crush of passing fiacres and sedan chairs. From time to time she would stop and whirl around like a windmill, laughing gaily. But she had to stop when they turned up the much narrower rue du Chaume.

“Émilie!” Shortly before they arrived at the Hôtel de Guise, Marcel called his daughter to him. “You must act like a young lady,” he said, smoothing back a few wisps of her hair that had shaken loose from her plait when she was skipping ahead. “You don’t want Monsieur Charpentier to change his mind, do you?”

“About the violin?” she asked.

Marcel laughed. “I have a surprise for you. But you must be a very good girl to deserve it.”

“A surprise?” she asked, almost forgetting that she was not supposed to have heard her parents’ conversation the night before. But Émilie suddenly looked around her and noticed that the surroundings had changed. “Does Monsieur Charpentier live near here?” she asked. There were no mean little artisans’ cottages in this neighborhood, or rows of houses squashed together and divided into small apartments for the working folk, but fine buildings, with grand entrances that led to cobbled courtyards, with walled enclosures that hid private gardens. She could see the blossoming trees poking above the high stone walls.

After passing beneath a magnificent arch, she and her father entered a courtyard. A footman who stood at attention by the door stopped them.

“We are here to see Monsieur Charpentier,” Marcel said.

The footman looked down his nose at them. “Use the servants’ entrance, if you please. It’s on the rue des Quatre Fils.”

Marcel smiled ruefully at Émilie. “I suppose Monsieur Charpentier assumed I would know.”

They found the door easily enough, just around the corner on a tiny side street. It was only a simple wooden one, and there was no footman on hand to sneer at them. A kitchen maid, her hands wet and soapy, answered their knock.

“Could you tell Monsieur Charpentier that Marcel and Émilie Jolicoeur are here to see him?” Marcel asked, removing his cap.

“Tell him yourself,” the maid said. “Down the corridor and up the stairs.”

Émilie grasped her father’s hand. It was cold and sweaty. Nonetheless, he led her on in the direction the maid indicated. It seemed as if they walked a mile before they came to a staircase. Once they reached the top of the stairs, they were faced with a new dilemma. Which way, and which door was Charpentier’s apartment? Marcel scratched the top of his head. Émilie squeezed his hand.

From far down the corridor and around a corner came the sound of light footsteps approaching. Marcel drew himself up and cleared his throat, ready to ask directions of whoever it was who came into view.

To Émilie’s delight, it was a very pretty young woman, dressed in what seemed to her to be the height of fashion. Her gown was silk, not homespun, and her hair was done up in curls and ribbons. When she saw the two of them standing at the end of the hallway, she stopped in her tracks.

“Excuse me, Mademoiselle,” said Marcel, bowing slightly.

The lady walked toward them. “What have we here! Did you lose your way to the market?”

Émilie blushed. “We are here to see Monsieur Charpentier,” she said.

By then the young lady was right next to them. She exuded a light scent of roses, but when she was up close, Émilie could see where her gown had been mended and patched, and she looked not much older than Émilie herself.

“Do you dance?” asked the lady. Émilie shook her head no. “Do you play?” she asked.

“No,” said Émilie. “I sing.”

“Ah,” said the lady. “Then you must follow me. I’m Sophie Dupin. Sometimes I dance, but mostly I take care of the princess.”

So this elegantly dressed young lady is a servant, thought Émilie. Perhaps I, too, will wear such beautiful clothes!

Émilie and her father followed Sophie through the corridors. She chattered constantly as she led them, winding around and doubling back on themselves. Eventually they arrived at a door.

“Isn’t this where we started?” asked Émilie, noticing the staircase.

Sophie laughed. “Just knock on the door,” she said, and then tripped away from them, giggling.

“Well!” Émilie said, cross that Sophie had played a trick on them. But she soon forgot all about it when Monsieur Charpentier opened the door and greeted them warmly.

“Won’t you sit down?” Charpentier motioned them to take their places in two upholstered armchairs, whose comfort was beyond anything Émilie had ever known. He rang a little bell, and one of the kitchen servants brought them tea and cakes. Émilie stared at the cakes, trying not to lick her lips and swallow too obviously.

“Please, Mademoiselle Émilie, allow me.” Charpentier carefully selected the most delicious-looking treat and placed it on a small plate, which he handed to Émilie.

“Say thank you, Émilie! Monsieur Charpentier will think you were brought up as a savage!” Marcel cast a stern glance in his daughter’s direction and then smiled nervously at Charpentier.

Charpentier laughed. It was a light, musical laugh, not like the hearty guffaw of her father. “Monsieur du Bois is eager to try the new violin …”

While Marcel and Charpentier talked of the fine instrument that the luthier had laid upon the table when he entered, Émilie let her eyes wander over the room. This place was so different from the Jolicoeurs’ apartment on the Pont au Change. Here there were shelves with books, a musical instrument with a keyboard, and a desk piled high with lined paper and ink bottles and quills, some of the sheets bearing what looked like dancing dots and dashes. Although Émilie had spent many hours and days in her father’s workshop, his customers never brought music in with them, and her father could not even read words. The divan in the corner must be where Monsieur Charpentier sleeps, she thought. It had linen sheets on it, and a thick, woolen blanket. Monsieur Charpentier’s quarters were more luxurious, but not cleaner than their apartment. The only place that looked truly tidy was a shelf that contained several notebooks, carefully labeled—although because Émilie could not read, she did not know what they were. Otherwise, everything seemed in a complete state of disarray.