Emilie's Voice (30 page)

When the process was complete and Émilie had eaten a little of the food, Marie indicated that she was to follow her and led her through the endless corridors in the direction of Madame de Maintenon’s apartments. It was only then that Émilie began to tremble. She would have given anything to be on her way to Clagny instead.

All too soon, they arrived. The widow Scarron looked exactly the same, almost as if she had not moved from her spot since the last time Émilie was brought to her apartments.

“You have grown. And suffered, I can see, which was only to be expected when you so flagrantly ignored the wishes of His Majesty.” Madame de Maintenon gave Émilie time to reflect on what she had just said, walking slowly around her austere parlor and letting her fingers touch the spines of the books ranged neatly on the shelves. “You caused many people pain. When we thought you had taken your own life, we wept for you as if you were our daughter.”

“I beg your pardon, Madame, but it was not my wish to deceive anyone by not dying,” Émilie said.

The widow Scarron ignored Émilie’s remark, and turned from her to get something that was on the table beside her. Émilie recognized it as the velvet box the king had given to her, the box that had contained the diamond bird. So the widow had received it. And yet here she was, no doubt prepared to accuse Émilie of stealing anyway. Sophie would be upset if she knew.

“You remember this, of course?” said Madame de Maintenon. “You thought, perhaps, to profit by the king’s magnanimous gesture?”

Émilie was about to contradict her, but she could see that it would be futile. The lady had prepared her lecture and was not to be deflected from delivering it.

“The king was greatly wounded by your behavior when I told him the entire story. Indeed, your removal of this precious object,” she opened the box and held it out to Émilie so she could see the glittering bird, “and your betrayal of his hospitality is a breach that is punishable by the most severe means. But the king has a generous heart.” Madame de Maintenon closed the box, replaced it on the table, and turned toward Émilie again. “His Majesty has decided that he will allow you to determine your own fate. I assure you, this is something he does not grant to many.”

Émilie remembered, now, how deliberate everything about this woman was. She never did anything quickly. The widow Scarron judged the exact measure of each of her gestures, planned every syllable and its proper inflection, and probably already knew what the eventual outcome of it all would be. Any hint of emotion, any chink in the armor Émilie thought she detected would have been revealed to her purposefully, as a trap, to catch her off her guard. The idea that she, Émilie, was to have any say in her future was absurd, when Madame de Maintenon was involved.

“His Majesty has instructed me to give you two choices. Once you choose, you must live by your decision, which will determine how you pass the remainder of your days on this earth.”

Émilie could not take her eyes off the widow Scarron’s fingers, which played with the pearls of her rosary, bunching them up and then letting them fall in soft clinks against each other.

“The first of the two choices the king offers you is the usual punishment for such treachery as yours, treachery that results in calling the good name of our divinely appointed sovereign into question. Many whose crimes were less serious have suffered that fate, and, should you choose it, you must consider yourself fortunate not to have forfeited your life. The punishment I speak of is to have your tongue cut out of your head so that you can spread no more lies that portray His Majesty as anything less than he is, the supreme, infallible ruler of France.”

Émilie went pale and swallowed. She pressed her lips together protectively, suddenly acutely aware of the tongue that lightly touched the backs of her teeth.

“You may choose this fate,” continued Madame de Maintenon, “after which you would be allowed to return to your husband and live in peace for the rest of your days.”

Émilie’s head began to buzz. She could feel the blood rush to the tips of her fingers and the ends of her toes.
Run!
her body said to her. But there was nowhere to go. And besides, her legs felt like posts that were stuck into the floor. Her muscles were stiff and weak at the same time from resting for so long, and she was having trouble simply standing.

“In his great magnanimity, and in recognition of your extraordinary gift, His Majesty the King offers you another choice, which would not deprive you of the ability to speak—or to sing. You may choose another path.” Madame de Maintenon drew closer to Émilie and looked her directly in the eyes. “Be aware that this is a very great privilege, to be allowed to choose your punishment for such a grave offense.” She backed away from Émilie again and then turned so that she no longer faced her and said, “You may join the Carmelite sisters, where you will live in seclusion and silence, save on those occasions when you raise your voice to the glory of God. You will then be required to sever all ties with your family and friends, living only to serve the Lord.”

Émilie looked down at the floor. The frantic pace of her heart began to slow. So that was it. The battle was over her voice.

“You have twenty-four hours to consider your decision. At the end of that time you will come to me and inform me what that is. After you have done so, I will take you before the king, to make your apologies to him. It was his special wish that no mention be made of this choice, else others would expect to be so handsomely treated.” At that, the widow Scarron nodded to one of her footmen, who left the room. A moment later Marie came and took Émilie back to her chamber on the floor above.

Once more alone, the widow Scarron knelt at her prie-dieu. “Please, my Lord, make her choose the right path. Make her choose to be your servant, to enter the convent, and preserve that voice which is so delightful to His Majesty. If you bear me any love at all, hear me now. Amen.”

Thirty-two

Émilie stood in the middle of her room under the eaves in the old château. At first she opened her mouth and tried to make the muscles in her throat work without producing any sound. But she had forgotten what happened when she sang—or perhaps she had never really noticed before. Very quietly and slowly, she hummed one of Charpentier’s melodies, drawing out each note as long as she could, feeling how it was to let the sound resonate in her body. Émilie closed her eyes, concentrating on the back of her throat, on the precise feeling of the opening that was only achievable with the full use of her tongue. Her mouth tingled, her lips buzzed.

After a few minutes of this quiet, blind practice, Émilie went to her mirror. She formed words without making any sound at all, just to see if she could tell what they were simply by looking at the shapes her mouth made. She looked ridiculous.

Still gazing at her image in the mirror and making not a sound, she pretended to sing. Her mouth opened in a parody of speech, holding its shape for unnatural stretches of time. She tried to make the right expressions to go with the music she heard in her mind but which did not emanate from her body. She looked like a child pulling faces.

The idea of not having a voice—it was inconceivable. But the alternative. How would that be? Separated from Marc-Antoine forever, never to see his loving eyes, never to feel his gentle embrace. She gazed at herself in the mirror. She was pretty. Her eyes were clear and blue, her cheeks soft and round, but firm. She ran her fingers gently over her forehead, her eyebrows, her eyelids, her cheekbones, down her nose, along the line of her chin, noticing how everything fit together, harmonized. And the warm cast of her skin was set off perfectly by her light blond hair.

Slowly, she let her hands continue down from her face. Émilie stroked her throat, feeling the place where music came from, then measured the narrow circumference of her swanlike neck with her fingers. Gently, tenderly, she let herself enjoy the softness of her own skin, just as her husband had on those nights they had been together.

And what of the days? What of their dreams to sing together? It pained Émilie to think of how sad Marc-Antoine would be. She knew that her voice was important to his career, but she also knew that, even if she could not sing, he would still love her. If only she could have had her baby. That would have given their life together some purpose, some meaning. If she chose the first punishment, how would it be if she were unable to talk to him, unable to make music, and, as the doctor had told her, unable to have his children? Would a life like that be enough for either of them?

Émilie lost all track of time. After a while she heard a light tap on the door. She called out, “Come!”

Marie entered with her supper on a tray.

“Where is François?” Émilie asked. The girl curtseyed politely and made a gesture indicating that she did not know.

Still she did not speak. Here I stand, Émilie thought, a woman condemned, with less freedom than she has. I am less than she, and yet still she does not speak. “Can you not talk?” Émilie asked.

The girl’s downcast eyes and expression of sadness answered the question.

“Why not?”

In some part of her, Émilie did not really want to have the answer, not now, when there was nothing she could do about it. But her morbid curiosity got the better of her. She waited, patiently.

Marie opened her mouth. Inside was the jagged stump of a tongue.

Émilie made it to the washbasin just in time to vomit into it. Marie picked up the bowl and then left Émilie alone once more.

François was not surprised that the blame for all that had happened landed on him. He did not really expect Madame de Montespan to leap to his defense, although he knew it was because of her that he had been sent to Pignerol and not the Bastille or the Châtelet. Although he was confined, the room was hardly less comfortable than his quarters at Versailles, and he didn’t have to work. True, the food was not as good, and already he had developed a nasty cough because of the damp, but they let him have books, and paper and quills and ink.

He had expected this, after he wrote the letter to Marcel, and after he went to see Charpentier at Madame de Montespan’s behest. He had even packed a little bag with his most important belongings, because he had not known if he would have time to think about it when they eventually found him out. It was all very civilized. The guard bowed to him, he remembered. It was that young Hugues Martin, whom he had known since he was just a boy. They had a nice chat in the coach on the way to the prison.

François did not regret his actions. In fact, he felt very much at peace, knowing that, for once, he had done as his conscience dictated.

“Monsieur, your letters.”

They gave him a valet too—which was more than he had ever had at Versailles. “Thank you, Henriot.” Probably the usual petty gossip from court. One of the lady’s maids wrote to him daily, glad of the opportunity to spread the dirt about everyone. François unsealed and opened the letter.

François covered his eyes with his hand. In his retirement, the tears came very easily.

It was evening, and the one candle he was allowed each day had almost burned down. François held the paper over the flame and watched as it caught fire, suddenly illuminating his cell, casting his shadow against the stone walls.

It had not been worth it, after all. He had not saved her. And now there was nothing else he could do.

What really rankled in St. Paul’s stomach was that Madame de Maintenon didn’t even have the courtesy to give him the news in person.

“Will you want your pistols, Monsieur, or just the sword?” The valet, Jacques, was busy packing up as many of St. Paul’s belongings as would fit in a small, wooden trunk.

“The pistols are not very practical where I’m going. Perhaps I can sell them.”

St. Paul was stretched out on the small bed in his quarters at Versailles. If he hadn’t been sent away—banished, really, although they didn’t call it that—his godmother would have taken him in. At least they were giving him twenty-four hours to make his arrangements. He had to leave the country. The image of Colbert’s unyielding face was still vivid. The finance minister told him that he could either go on a mission on behalf of the king to the colonies in the New World, or spend the rest of his days in prison. All for trying to please his sovereign!

The mistake, thought St. Paul, was in thinking he could outwit the widow Scarron. He wondered if everyone at court realized how much she had the king under her thumb with all her pious nonsense. It was all so much easier when God wasn’t brought into the picture.

“Forgive me, Monsieur, but what of my own things ought I to bring?”

St. Paul sat up. “You? You’re not going with me, Jacques. What would you do in Louisiana?” They had bought his passage on a merchant ship and kitted him out with a musket. Other than that, all he had to fend for himself with was a piece of paper that entitled him to some property in America. Doubtless some useless tract of swamp, infested with poisonous snakes.

The old valet stopped his packing and looked at his master. “But Monsieur, the gentlemen in my family have served the gentlemen in your family for five generations.”

“I’m told there’s no need of valets in the New World.” St. Paul frowned when he thought about dressing himself and taking care of his own personal needs. “They only booked passage for one.” That was a lie; he was told he could bring one servant, and he chose his strapping coachman instead of old Jacques.

With his arthritic hands, the aging servant carefully folded St. Paul’s brocade waistcoat and laid it on the top of the pile of clothes already neatly stacked in the trunk.

“You’ll find another position. The Duc du Maine told me the other day that he was looking for a valet. With any luck, you might even get paid.” St. Paul stood, reached into his waistcoat, and took out a small pouch of coins. “This should tide you over until you’re settled.”

The valet took the pouch and bowed, then turned and walked out of the room. When the door closed behind him, St. Paul let out a long sigh. The light poured in through the window, revealing only the absence of belongings, and the wooden trunk that held everything he owned. At least there would be no interfering marquises in Louisiana, he thought. By all accounts it was a man’s world. And there were fortunes to be made, he had heard.

The door opened and three palace guards entered. One of them hoisted the trunk onto his shoulders and led the way. The other two stood on either side of St. Paul and walked him out of the château.

Among those looking out of the windows when St. Paul climbed into his carriage attended by the guards was Lully. He watched the men tie the trunk onto the back of the coach, and then St. Paul and one of the guards climbed inside. The other guard sat on the box next to the coachman, who urged the horses to a trot right away. Lully stayed at the window until the vehicle was out of sight of the château. Then he stepped away from the window and walked to his desk. He took a fresh sheet of paper from the tidy pile and, using a straight edge, drew staves on it carefully. At the top of the sheet, he wrote the title, “
Psyche
, Act IV.” It was his new
tragédie lyrique
, and now Émilie, not Mademoiselle St. Christophle, would be the lead.

The court composer smiled and sat down at his spinet. After writing a few notes on the paper, he picked them out on the keyboard. Back and forth he went, from quill to ebony and ivory, until in about half an hour he had covered one of the sheets of manuscript paper. When this was accomplished, he replaced his quill in its rest, put the cover on the inkwell, and stood.

After placing his best wig on his head, Lully rang a little bell that was answered by Pierre. When the valet arrived, he ran to the composer and wrapped his arms around the man’s thick waist.

“Not now, my love,” said Lully, pushing him away. “I have an appointment, with the king.” He extended his arms directly in front of himself and waited while Pierre placed six rings on his fingers. When this process was finished, the young man held the door open and Lully passed through it. It was time to go and lead the ensemble for a minuet, something to take the king’s mind off pressing issues of foreign policy. That was his job, after all. None of this was for him. King Louis XIV was the only person alive for whom Lully would gladly have died. Or for whom he would, without hesitation, betray another.