Emilie's Voice (4 page)

Five

Early in the morning about a week later, there was a knock on the door of the Atelier Jolicoeur that was loud enough to hear all the way up on the top floor of the building. Madeleine was busy clearing up from breakfast, and so Marcel went down to answer it. He returned with a letter in his hands.

“What could it say?” asked Marcel. “We shall have to take it to the market to have it read.”

“No, Papa! Let me try to read it myself!” said Émilie. She looked at the writing on the outside of the folded paper. “It’s for me! and it says, ‘
Son al-tesse
Mademoiselle de Guise requests the honor of the’ something … ‘the presence of Mademoiselle Émilie Jolicoeur in her s-s-salon, December eleven, at six o’clock in the evening.’”

Marcel watched his daughter struggle over the words on the page. He was astounded. She could read. This fact obscured for him the even more astounding one that she had been invited to the most glittering salon in Paris. When she finished, Émilie danced around the room with joy, her exuberant movements filling every inch of space in their tiny apartment.

“I shall need a new dress, Maman!” Émilie said, breathless.

“There, what did I tell you, Marcel? Nothing but expense. And for what? We have no money for this dress. You shall have to stay at home with us.” Madeleine’s voice was sharp and she closed the cupboard door so hard that the dishes inside rattled.

Marcel watched the light go out of his daughter’s face as if someone had thrown a bucket of slops over her. Never did he feel more sorry that his business did not thrive, that he could not provide more material comforts for his family. He shot a look at Madeleine and met her implacable gaze. “Surely there is something we could do without, just so Émilie could have this opportunity?”

“What could we do without? Supper?” Madeleine faced her husband without flinching.

“I could sell something, maybe one or two of my tools.”

“No, Papa!” Émilie ran to him and took his hand. “It’s not so important. Maybe I don’t need a dress to go.”

“What, and be laughed at by those idle folk?” Madeleine walked over and stood very close to her husband.

Marcel could feel her anger leap across the space that separated them. She blamed him for their poverty, he knew. He had taken a great risk with violins, an instrument that was not yet popular with his usual customers, at a time when things were just starting to go a little better for them.

“It does not matter,” Émilie said.
“Au revoir.”

Silently Marcel accepted Émilie’s kiss and watched her put on her cloak and leave the apartment; he wondered what she would say to her teacher.

Émilie had to pick her way slowly to the Hôtel de Guise that morning because the cobbles were coated with a thin layer of ice. Her slow progress gave her time to think of how she might break the news to Charpentier that she would be unable to perform at the princess’s salon. By the time she arrived, she was frozen through and still did not know what to say.

“Good morning, Mademoiselle Émilie!” Charpentier said when Émilie walked through the door, shivering. “Come over to the fire and warm yourself. Did you receive anything by messenger today?”

Émilie untied her cloak and hung it on the peg by the door. She did not want to tell Charpentier her news. She could read the mischievous excitement in her teacher’s eyes and was sorry she would have to spoil everything. “Yes, I had an invitation, from Mademoiselle de Guise. But,” Émilie paused. “I cannot go.”

“Why ever not?” he asked.

“Because I have—because my parents—” Émilie bit her lip and looked down at the floor.

“What is the matter?” asked Charpentier, taking a step closer to her.

Émilie could feel his presence, could feel the warmth of his gesture even before the hand he reached out to her touched her chin, lifting it so that she would have to look into his eyes. “Because I simply can’t!” she said, turning around quickly so that she would not have to face her teacher.

She heard Charpentier clear his throat. “That is too bad, Mademoiselle Émilie, because I had decided, in honor of your hard work and perseverance, that we should take a trip to the dressmaker’s today, and order you a silk gown, appropriate for such a grand event.” Émilie turned back to him. He was smiling. “It is a gift, from me.”

She wished that she could run to him and throw her arms around his neck. He had made her so happy. But he was not her father; he was her teacher, and so she stood where she was and tried to think of something to say. The best she could do was “Thank you, Monsieur.”

“And so I understand that you will, after all, attend the princess’s salon?”

Émilie smiled.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Put your cloak back on. We’ll take a fiacre and be back in time for your singing lesson!”

Charpentier felt a little glow of warmth that he had been able to provoke such a reaction of pleasure and gratitude in his student. While they walked to the stand to hire a carriage, Charpentier thought back over his conversation with Sophie, the pretty maid who had led Émilie and her father just a little astray when they first came to the Hôtel de Guise, concerning which dressmaker to engage for the purpose of making Émilie’s first silk gown.

“You wish to buy a gown for a lady?” The tone of her voice, and the look in her eyes, had disconcerted Charpentier.

“It’s for Émilie.”

“Ah! The little songbird! Have her lessons been progressing well?” A smile played at the corner of Sophie’s lips. But she must have sensed his embarrassment, because without teasing him further she recommended a dressmaker in a different part of the Marais, on the other side of the rue St. Antoine.

Charpentier still felt vaguely ill at ease about buying Émilie a gown. He understood that it must appear strange for him to take such an interest in a young girl on the brink of womanhood. But he could not worry about that now. After a short walk, they arrived at the carriage stand. When he saw Émilie’s eyes shining, Charpentier realized that she had probably never ridden in a fiacre before. The idea that he was giving Émilie such an experience, introducing her to the simple pleasure of being transported without effort from one place to another, made him forget all about the uncomfortable conversation with Sophie. He did not stop to question himself as to how much pleasure the sight of her fair skin, clear blue eyes, and pale blond hair gave him. All he knew was that they would have an outing, that they would drive through the beautiful, snow-frosted streets of Paris as if they had no cares.

It was difficult going on the icy, muddy roads, but despite that, Émilie would not have wanted to walk. There was something rather nice about sitting next to Charpentier, and she didn’t mind at all when a sudden lurch of the carriage threw her against him and he gently righted her and smoothed down the warm rug that he had wrapped over her legs. Émilie felt very high up, and from this vantage point everything looked quite different. The winter sun glinted off the snow, nearly blinding her with its brilliance and casting enchantment over even the humblest objects. She shamelessly peered in all the shops they passed, catching glimpses through small, frosty windows of merchants smiling and haggling, showing off their costliest wares. A few hearty souls had spilled out onto the street despite the cold and were warming their hands on makeshift fires. The arcades in the Place Royale were as busy as ever. Cold weather didn’t seem to deter those with money to spend from seeking ways to part with it. Since she had no money of her own and had only ever entered a shop with her mother for the purpose of purchasing something absolutely necessary, this spectacle was a treat. There were glove makers and milliners, carpet weavers and importers of porcelain, shops devoted to ladies’ fans made of lace and ivory and painted and jeweled, ironmongers who made cooking pots and door knockers, silversmiths and goldsmiths, tea shops and confectioners. The smell of bread baking at the boulangerie reminded her that she had left her home that morning without finishing her breakfast.

If only my father could see me! she thought. And then she thought of him, alone in his atelier. Émilie’s smile faded when she pictured Marcel without her there to keep him company. She wished, at that moment, that she could be in two places at once, that she could stay as she was before, and yet fly forward into the world to greet whatever new adventures it held.

After about twenty minutes of lurching and jostling, Émilie and Charpentier arrived at the little boutique not far from the river that Sophie had recommended, where an elderly woman who seemed to sprout brass pins from all over her body greeted them and led them into a room that was draped with rich brocades, cut velvets, cloth of gold and silver, and delicate voiles. Émilie’s eyes wandered over the rows upon rows of ribbons and laces, from the simple to the almost inconceivably grand. She tried to imagine a room full of people dressed in all these elegant materials. The idea that she would be one of them, wearing a gown made of silk and trimmed with lace, almost took her breath away. She could hardly stand still long enough to be measured accurately. But when Charpentier told her she could choose what sort of gown to have, Émilie looked as though she might cry.

“But how can I?” she asked. Everything looked so beautiful, she wanted it all. For a moment she wondered if she could have a dress made of a tiny scrap of every piece of cloth in the store. If she had to choose one or two, she would not be able to have the rest. Émilie had the feeling that not only was this the first time in her life she could choose a fine dress but it might be the last. The responsibility of getting it just right, of squeezing the last drop of pleasure from the experience, oppressed her.

“Is there not a color you prefer? Do you like flowers?” offered Charpentier, trying to be helpful.

“No,” she answered, “I mean, I don’t know what I prefer.” Just then Émilie’s eye rested on a bright scarlet velvet, the kind of material one might see on the seat of a fine carriage. Charpentier, noticing the look in her eyes, glanced at the dressmaker in alarm.

“Perhaps, Mademoiselle, a pale color would look best with your beautiful fair hair and pink cheeks,” the woman said, pulling out a delicate lilac moiré for Émilie’s inspection. Émilie looked beseechingly at Charpentier.

“You might prefer a pale blue, which would match your eyes,” he offered. The dressmaker bowed politely and retrieved an elegant, ice blue silk damask, and quickly hid away the scarlet velvet. After considerable debate and consultation, it was decided that the manteau should be constructed of this stuff, and that the petticoat should have a small flower design in blue and rose, an intertwining lattice of luxurious silk. This difficult decision took well over an hour.

When the proprietress then began to pull out laces and ribbons to show Émilie, her head started to ache with the idea that she must once again choose. Charpentier saw that they might never finish if he left it entirely to Émilie, and so he selected a few trimmings that were not too expensive—much to the disappointment of the dressmaker. All that remained was to choose the ribbons for her hair, since a pinner, which would envelop her head and wrap around her throat, would be too cumbersome for a concert.

Among the many pretty ribbons the dressmaker brought out was one of deep blue cut velvet, about two inches wide. It had a pattern of roses stuck on a meandering, thorny stem. Émilie touched it, stroked it, and held it to her cheek. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

“We’ll take a length of that too. You can wrap it up for today,” said Charpentier. The lady curtseyed, smiling. It was one of her most expensive trimmings.

Charpentier saw how his little student’s eyes lit up when she realized she was being allowed to have the coveted ribbon right then and there, and he suddenly felt a pang of regret. Was he so certain that this life he had planned for Émilie was the best for her? Could she not have spent her gift singing for her own family, without having to make the leap from one world to another?

“You are not pleased?” asked Émilie as she turned to Charpentier. His face was pensive, and he wore a slight frown.

Charpentier tried to shake himself out of his melancholy mood, for Émilie’s sake. “Of course I am pleased. But you do not need any finery to be the most beautiful girl in all Paris.” Charpentier rose suddenly from the stool he had occupied for the duration of their visit and turned away. “It’s time we were leaving.”

“The dress will be delivered in five days’ time,” the dressmaker said, after Charpentier signed his name in her big ledger book.

Just as Charpentier was helping Émilie into her cloak and bidding adieu to the dressmaker, the door to the shop opened, letting in a blast of icy air and a bundled-up young woman. Her nose was quite red from the cold, and she was so covered up that it was almost impossible to tell who she might be. Only a curl of strawberry blond hair that teased itself out from beneath the hood of her cloak might have given her away, if Charpentier had noticed. It was Sophie, who, knowing exactly where teacher and pupil would be, decided to time her own visit to collect a black crape gown for Mademoiselle to coincide with theirs. She was consumed with curiosity about what might happen on their excursion. She soon realized that they had not seen her, and therefore she decided not to make her presence known. Sophie turned away from them, pretending to occupy herself with some laces in a corner. She had seen enough, however, to give her a little thrill. Charpentier had tied the bow of Émilie’s cloak in a protective, concerned manner. Sophie would be able to regale the servants with a very juicy bit of gossip.