Emilie's Voice (5 page)

Émilie and Charpentier left the shop, somehow managing to find a carriage to take them back to the Hôtel de Guise. The crowds had thinned a little, the winter sun had dried the cobbles so that the horses did not slip so much, and the trip was faster: it took only about ten minutes. Although Émilie would forever remember the magic of the journey to the dressmaker’s that day, she could not have told anyone a single thing about the trip back.

Charpentier stole a glance at Émilie when she was turned away from him. He noticed the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Émilie had changed. How did it happen? Charpentier had some idea of his own role in the process, but he had not expected that in some critical way the tables would be turned. He was a little afraid of his own creation.

Perhaps it’s for the best, he thought. He knew that Émilie would soon spread her wings and leave his protection; he only hoped that she would carry him with her at least part of the way to artistic success. What a rare treat for the guests of Mademoiselle de Guise, he thought, a little sadly. The scene was set, indeed, for the most brilliant of débuts.

Six

Émilie could hardly believe her eyes. The image in the mirror looked back at her strangely, so familiar and yet completely different. Who was that elegant young lady in the blue silk gown, with her hair draped over her ears in cascades of curls? Surely more had changed than simply her outward appearance. It just wasn’t possible that this creature she could not take her eyes off was the same one who used to sing to her father as he built violins in his workshop. It seemed that more than a number of months had passed, and that she was much farther than a mile from her home. The weeks of hard work were like a dream. She was almost dizzy with excitement. All her efforts—to polish her voice, to learn to read music, and yes, to learn to read words on a page—were about to pay off.

That is, if she could get over this one small problem.

“You cannot wear these shoes with this dress!” Sophie, who had developed a soft spot for the young singer and had volunteered to help Émilie get ready for her big début, stood back with her hands on her hips and a frown on her forehead and scolded her. She had already spent hours doing Émilie’s hair, threading the lovely, velvet ribbon—the one Émilie had chosen at the dressmaker’s the other day—through the poufs and curls she had stuck in place with sugar syrup. Now she discovered that the only shoes Émilie owned were rough leather boots.

“Perhaps I don’t need to wear shoes,” Émilie said.

Sophie looked at her as if to say, “How can you be so naïve?” and then whirled around and left her alone in the room.

Émilie shivered. While Sophie was there helping her dress and gossiping about the guests, it was possible to think only of how she looked. She could focus on the way the silk caught the light of the candles when she turned, and how the blue velvet ribbon set off her pale hair so becomingly. But once she was on her own, the reality of what was ahead began to dawn, and Émilie started to think about her coming performance. She so wanted to do well, for Monsieur Charpentier’s sake. The thought of her tutor reminded her that she should warm up her voice, and so she began, slowly and quietly at first, moving from note to note, up and down the scales and arpeggios, gradually pushing higher and higher and lower and lower. She tried to remember everything he had taught her, about how to breathe, how to make the music live. Émilie paused to clear her throat. That was when the young gentleman, who appeared out of nowhere and now stood in the doorway, started clapping.

She jumped.

“Charming,” said the stranger, who was elegantly turned out in a yellow velvet coat with gray petticoat breeches. His light brown hair fell in curls around his shoulders, and he would have been handsome, if it weren’t for the fact that his eyes were of so pale a gray that they looked almost unearthly. He did not introduce himself, and Émilie wondered how a guest had found his way to this private part of the building. As he turned to leave, the gentleman almost bumped into Sophie.

“Well, well! Mademoiselle Sophie, if I am not mistaken?” the stranger said, inclining his head just slightly.

Sophie glared at him, not bothering to curtsey. The gentleman patted her on the cheek and then left.

“Who was that?” asked Émilie.

“Only Monsieur de St. Paul. He’s Mademoiselle’s godson. He comes here when he wants something from her. He’s always turning up in the oddest places. But never mind that, I’ve found you some shoes.” She smiled triumphantly as she removed from beneath her manteau a pair of the most beautiful satin slippers Émilie had ever seen, pale blue with a delicate flower pattern embroidered with little jewels and seed pearls on the toes. She tried them on. They fit her perfectly.

“Where did you get them?”

“It would be better if you didn’t know. Just remember to bring them back before you leave. I could get into trouble if you don’t!”

Émilie was about to protest that she didn’t want to be the cause of any difficulties, and that she’d rather go barefoot than get Sophie in trouble, but at that moment there was a polite tap on the door. It was Charpentier. When he saw Émilie, the words of greeting that were on their way out of his mouth stumbled over themselves and came out as nonsense.

“What he means to say is, you look absolutely lovely,” said Sophie, laughing.

Émilie curtseyed to her teacher and smiled. He held out his arm, pausing for breath before arranging his thoughts in an orderly line again.

“Will you do me the honor, Mademoiselle Émilie, of accompanying me to the salon of the Duchesse de Guise?”

Whatever idea Émilie had of the luxury that surrounded Charpentier at the Hôtel de Guise was completely transformed the moment the composer led her into the grand salon all decorated for a party. Although the sun had set two hours before, the great hall with the staircase was ablaze with light, the effect of thousands of candles, in sconces and chandeliers, and torches held aloft by liveried servants. About two hundred guests already milled around, and there was a sea of vibrantly colored silks, miles of lace, and jewels that caught the light and refracted it into showers of brilliant, multicolored points. Although it was December, there were fresh flowers everywhere, from Mademoiselle’s hothouses in the country, and their scent made Émilie almost dizzy with its richness. Servants passed around trays of glasses filled with wine, and in one room there was a long table that overflowed with fruits and dainties. Charpentier whispered to her the names of several of the more illustrious guests, but she was so awestruck that she barely heard a word.

Before Émilie knew where she was, Charpentier had led her into the grand ballroom, which was strewn with small groups of ladies and gentlemen. Gone were the dust sheets, and every surface gleamed with polish. He nodded politely to several people he passed but did not stop, instead taking Émilie directly to Mademoiselle de Guise herself. The princess was seated at the center of the liveliest group. Although she was quite elderly and dressed in the light gray of mourning, she was bedecked with jewels and her hair was dyed black and done up in the latest fashion. Émilie thought she had kind eyes.

“Mademoiselle,” said Charpentier, with a low, courtly bow, “may I present Mademoiselle Émilie Jolicoeur.”

Émilie curtseyed deeply, as she had been taught. Charpentier nudged her and whispered, “Close your mouth.”

“Monsieur Charpentier tells us that you can sing, Mademoiselle Émilie,” said the grand lady. “Perhaps you would relieve the tedium of my discourse by favoring us with a selection?”

The ladies and gentlemen around the princess looked Émilie up and down with frank curiosity, waiting for her to take her place by the harpsichord. Émilie was a little embarrassed by the scrutiny, but the familiar sight of Charpentier seated at the keyboard calmed her. He played the introductory measures.

“What a dear little creature!” a woman standing near the princess said, quite loudly considering that the music had already started.

Émilie began her song, an air that Charpentier had composed specially for the occasion.

“Rather small, though, don’t you think? Do you suppose she powders her hair? It’s so fair!” a gentleman whispered audibly.

Émilie continued, wishing she could stop her ears so that she would not become distracted. Her tentative beginning was not forceful enough to cut through the chatter. Her voice felt pinched, as if she couldn’t get enough air to hold the notes. With panic rising into her chest, she looked over to Charpentier, who smiled at her and mouthed the word
breathe!
at her. Émilie closed her eyes and tried to pretend she was all alone. Her voice grew and soared through the room, blossoming into its fullest beauty.

All fell silent. Even the servants ceased their constant rushing to and fro. To Émilie, it felt as if the room had fallen away, and she floated on a white cloud in a clear, blue sky. By the time she opened her eyes at the end of her song, she hardly knew where she was anymore. The sight of the crowd around her, completely motionless and watching her intently, astonished her. Then as if some secret signal had been given, the assembled company erupted in applause and shouts of
“Brava!”
and
“Bis!”
Émilie was at first startled, then pleased, and Charpentier smiled at her and then rose and kissed her hand.

Mademoiselle’s guests expressed their appreciation loudly and long, except for one person: St. Paul stood in a far corner of the room, the faintest suggestion of a smile on his face. His arms were folded across his chest, and he leaned against a pillar, watching as his godmother kissed Émilie on the cheek and pressed a small velvet bag into her hand. Soon after, the nobleman left, unnoticed by any of the other guests.

Émilie sang a few more times over the course of the evening, and the audience was enchanted. She wished that she and her tutor could have performed their duet, but he refused, saying that he did not want the guests to hear any voice but hers that night. When it was time for her to go, at one in the morning, Mademoiselle de Guise sent for her own coach to take her home, with its four black horses, its footmen in livery, and soft, velvet cushions. Émilie felt very grand.

Monsieur Charpentier held the door open for her and she climbed into the carriage. “I’m very proud of you,” he said taking her hand for a moment. The gentle pressure of his fingers sent a little thrill through her, and Émilie looked down in confusion. It was then that she noticed the borrowed slippers, still on her feet. She paused for a second knowing that she should go back and return the shoes to Sophie, but she didn’t want to spoil the moment. It was something, to be handed into a vehicle that had been summoned just for her. Until they heard her destination, the footmen would think she was a fine lady. For just a moment, she believed it herself.

I can return the slippers tomorrow, she thought, as the coach lurched forward and finished its arc around the courtyard, and then passed through the gate and turned left onto the rue du Chaume.

Before long, Mademoiselle de Guise’s carriage stopped in front of Émilie’s door. The footman helped her out, and Émilie saw him sneer at her humble surroundings. She was determined not to let him ruin her evening, so she walked to her door with her chin held high.

When Émilie thought about that moment months later, she felt ashamed that she had been so proud. If she had not been concerned about what Mademoiselle’s servants thought, about what they would tell the other domestics at the Hôtel de Guise when they returned, she would have walked carefully, looking down, and she would have seen the large puddle that lay directly in her path to the door. But because she did not do so, Émilie stepped right into the middle of it, breaking through the thin film of ice that had formed over it once the sun went down. Émilie drew her breath in sharply. For an instant she balanced with her other foot in the air, trying to find a way to step clear of the puddle. But dry ground was too far away, and she ended by standing with both feet in two inches of freezing cold water, which her long skirts quickly wicked up, soaking her to the knees.

“Damn!” she whispered. She heard the coachman snicker. Trying to act as if nothing had happened, Émilie sloshed the rest of the way to the door, longing to turn around and stick her tongue out at the impudent servants. She fumbled for her key, which she had hidden in her bodice, not wanting to look like a housekeeper with it dangling around her waist, and so it was somewhat awkward to retrieve. When at last she got it, the lock on the door stuck. “Damn, damn! Just open, will you!” Émilie’s feet were so cold she could no longer feel them. But after a moment or two the door finally gave way. She slammed it behind her and leaned against it, listening to the sound of coach wheels and clopping hooves slowly dying away, struggling against the urge to cry. The borrowed slippers were surely ruined—not to mention her beautiful gown, a precious gift from Monsieur Charpentier.

Émilie walked through the dark workshop, leaving wet footprints behind her and picking up the fine wood dust with her heavy, dragging skirts. She opened the door to the stairs at the back and began the long climb.

When at last she arrived and let herself in, the fire in the grate had only a glow of forgotten warmth in it, and her teeth chattered audibly. Both Marcel and Madeleine were asleep, but not deeply. It was her father who awoke first and parted the curtains around their bed.

“How was it—” he began, stopping at the sight of her. “Émilie, child! You are cold!”

“I’ll be all right. I just want to go to sleep,” she said.

Marcel’s exclamation roused Madeleine.

“Did they pay you?” Madeleine sat up in bed and beckoned Émilie to come closer.

Émilie’s throat felt a little scratchy, so she didn’t want to talk. She was so tired it felt like an enormous effort to walk across the small room to her parents’ bed. When she got there, she simply dropped the velvet bag of coins into her mother’s outstretched hand, then returned to her corner and let her damp dress drop to the floor. As she stepped out of the gown, Émilie saw the extent of the damage to the slippers and could no longer hold back her tears, which trickled down her cheeks, picking up color from the rouge Sophie had so expertly applied to them hours before. Her lovely evening was spoiled. Émilie slipped under her blanket, but not before she had unthreaded the pretty ribbon from her hair and tucked it under her pillow. By the time Marcel came over to make sure her covers were warm enough, she was already in a deep, exhausted sleep.