Rondo Allegro (16 page)

“The country?” Lise exclaimed, arms crossed. “As well be
dead!”

“What does it pay?” Lorette asked.

“Who knows?” M. Dupree lifted his shoulders. “Whatever it
is, we share equally, like good republicans. It will be the better as we cannot
take the full company. Almost all the clowns refused to leave Paris, so you
dancers will all have to act in the farce. You know it is not difficult.
Philippe has been promised that the tumbling clowns will gain a bit extra, as
it is a double role. All I ask is that you think it over. If you wish to travel
with Dupree, be here tomorrow at midday. I will know more then. I go to Nicolet
from here.”

The crowd began to disperse. Anna and Parrette turned away,
Anna stunned by this sudden change.

Hyacinthe caught her arm. “Do you think to go, then? What
will he say?”

“He?” Anna said blankly, thinking of Auguste.

“Monsieur le husband, of course.”

“He is the last person on earth whose words I would heed.”
Anna tossed her head, too indignant to notice M. Marsac gazing at her with an
arrested expression.

But Lise noticed his sudden interest.

“What are you thinking?” Hyacinthe asked Lise, whose
brooding gaze rested on the enigmatic tenor.

“Of them all, only Jean-Baptiste will ever make something of
himself,” Lise said slowly. “He never talks about where he comes from. He never
talks at all, beyond what is necessary. Yet out of the entire set of men, it is
he who knows effortlessly how to strut like a prince on stage, how to command a
room as pharaoh. But he despises
us
.”
She dipped her chin toward the rest of the dancers. “And so, to go with these
imbeciles into the country? Faugh. I will never leave Paris. It is time,
perhaps, to see if my cousin Minette can be flattered into getting us an
audition at the Feydeau.”

Anna was sorry to hear that, for she had come to like both
dancers. But she shrugged at Lise’s observations about the tenor. She was done
with men, and welcomed the chance to leave Paris. She had her singing to think
of, and if the soldiers were to tarnish her name in the way that Madame de
Pipelet had whispered had happened to her friend Madame Simon, perhaps it was
better to get away.

As soon as Anna and Parrette reached the street, Anna shaded
her eyes from the heat waves shimmering off the new pavement, and said, “I am
going to the Tuileries to consult with Maestro Paisiello.”

“Go,” Maestro Paisiello said an hour later, as thunder
reverberated across the sky.

Anna was dismayed that he did not even pause to consider.

“Go,” he said again. “Use this opportunity to work on your
stage presence. I have taught you enough, I believe.”

“Have I so disappointed you, then?”

The maestro looked from those earnest brown eyes to his
music, to hide his thoughts. By her own effort, she had emerged a butterfly
from the promising chrysalis, but it was a common butterfly after all. She had
a beautiful voice, she moved beautifully on stage, but in the end she was not
possessed of the voice of genius and power that he sought and so rarely found.

However, he believed that the opera was her passion, as it
was his, and he could not find it within himself to hurt her. “It is not you,
it is politics,” the maestro finally replied, as lightning flared in all the
windows. He sighed. “I am beginning to think that the
Proserpina
might not be ready until next spring. I cannot tell you
how much trouble . . . but then, you have troubles of your own,
so I will keep my peace!” He sighed again, and shook his head, sending up a
little snow storm of powder.

Anna walked slowly outside, as the first big raindrops
splattered in the noisome mess in the gutter down the center of the street. The
stench was terrific, the flies maddening. She ran as quickly as she could,
reaching the Foulon breathless moments before the storm burst in earnest.

She found Parrette haggling with a dancer over some
stitchwork. Parrette looked up, her face flushed. The dancer tried to twitch
the garment out of Parrette’s fingers.

“Not unless you pay,” Parrette said fiercely.

The dancer ran downstairs, her feet thumping. Anna sat on
the little stool, peeling off her muddy shoes as she gulped in the thick, humid
air.

“And so? The maestro, he says what?” Parrette laid the
costume on top of Anna’s trunk.

“There is nothing to keep me here. What is your thought?”

Parrette wiped her brow with her apron. “Madame Dupree’s
dresser refuses to leave Paris. While you were at the Tuileries, she tried to hire
me away from you. I said no. She promised me my own earnings, if I will become
a sort of costume mistress.”

“Does that mean you are now to do all the sewing?” Anna
asked doubtfully. “No one person could manage all that work.”

Parrette shook her head, her mouth compressed, but Anna
sensed pride in the angle of her chin, the cock of her elbow as she rested one
work-worn hand on a bony hip. “Only for the dancers, if they cannot do their
own, and I can charge them, though it would only be a pittance. The dressers
are to come to me, and I will show them how to make the gowns smart. Everything
I have learned? They noticed. I have gained a reputation.” She permitted
herself the smallest smile.

“One you have earned, twice over,” Anna stated approvingly.

Later, they met Lise on the landing. She tilted her head and
leaned insouciantly on the rickety wooden stair rail. “So you decided to go?”
On Anna’s nod, “Perhaps it’s wise. Auguste talked wildly about raising a
claque, though there was not much enthusiasm.”

Not knowing what to say, Anna decided silence was best, and
shrugged as carelessly as she could.

“Still. There are other theaters. The chasseurs do not go to
them all. There is nothing outside of Paris. Nothing.” Lise yawned as she
straightened up. “And you are young and so stylish that people think you are
beautiful. You could snare a general, with a little effort.”

Anna hid her surge of revulsion. “But all these new
uniforms, the talk of new regiments, what if they march to war?”

Lise waved a hand to and fro. “Don’t you listen to anything?
There is peace, now. The officers have little to do besides look resplendent on
a horse, and spend their money on us. Go if you must! Go lose yourself in the
country. You may as well be dead. La!” She yawned again, went inside her room
and shut the door.

o0o

Two things happened before the Company Dupree left Paris.

First, M. Dupree thought Anna would make a capital Séraphine
in Le Sueur’s
La Caverne
, which was
relatively easy to mount in spite of the fact that they could probably not offer
the split stage that
La Caverne
had
made famous.

Second, a short time after they gathered at the Egalité for
last instructions, everyone looked up in surprise when a tall, elegant,
light-haired figure walked in.

“Ninon!” Philippe hailed with obvious relief. “Now at least
I’ll have one danseuse worth the name.”

Ninon’s lip curled.

Most of the female dancers looked appalled, and a few
mutinous.

Catherine said, “So your general tired of you, eh?”

Ninon turned slightly, whipped her arm around and slapped
Catherine so hard she fell off her bench.

“
Zut!
I want no
broken bones,” M. Dupree said, waving his hands. “I will not have mob behavior
in my company.”

Ninon shook back her honey-colored curls. “Then tell this
imbecile to shut her mouth.”

Blonde Eleanor helped her cousin Catherine up. Both shot
angry looks at Ninon, who sat down beside Philippe, her little smile
triumphant. Lise might be gone, but her rival had returned to take her place as
leader.

M. Dupree sighed. Dancers! But one must have them: it was
said that the common man would not come to the theater if he did not have
pretty girls to look at. He finished his instructions.

Two days later, they set out in a cavalcade up the Seine,
Madame Dupree in a fine coach that had been taken from some aristocrat during
the Terror. It had been furbished up a bit, the coat of arms on the panel
scratched out and the tri-colors painted over.

Behind that rolled an ancient berline shared by the female
singers, and another by the men. After that followed a series of carts carrying
props and clothes. Parrette rode with the latter, so that she could oversee the
disposition of the baskets, bags, and boxes.

Madame Dupree’s uncle’s second cousin, in the army, had been
stationed in a chateau abandoned by aristocrats fleeing the guillotine. M.
Dupree leased this chateau from the local Prefect, which was no longer in use
by the army now that there was peace. The company—severely reduced—planned to
work up a suitable repertoire, while Madame recovered from those sickly early
months of pregnancy.

They reached their chateau ahead of a thundery sky. Everyone
had expected fine furnishings and comfort, but discovered the shell of a
once-beautiful building. The tapestries had been hacked and stabbed, and most
of the fine furnishings used as firewood. They slept on discarded mattresses
and even folded tapestries, set directly on the beautiful parquet floors
grooved by the cavalry’s spurs. The next day they had to scrounge for
furnishings.

The third day, the diminished orchestra caught up with them,
and they were able to begin work. In the morning, Anna joined the dancers as
always, careful to remain in the back.

Ninon led the morning practice at a smart pace, her comments
excoriating. Anna struggled all over again, and was not surprised to feel the
familiar ache throughout the rest of the day. Ninon, Anna realized, really was
a better dancer than Lise.

Anna felt the immediate benefit in heightened awareness,
gauging space the way the dancers did. Anna was the only singer who never tripped
up her fellow singers, banged elbows, or got in anyone’s way.

The fourth night, some of the dancers asked for a cart so
they could visit the local village.

Anna was surprised when Jean-Baptiste Marsac turned to her
as they were putting their music in the trunk. “Were you going to join the
others?” he asked. “There might be dancing.”

Anna shook her head. She knew from the dancers’ gossip that
many were going not to see if there was entertainment, but to flirt with the
locals.

“Another time?” he asked with a winsome smile, his gaze
steady.

Anna smiled back, aware of the warmth of attraction. The
instinct to smile, to bridle, to encourage him to smile back had to be
squashed, squashed,
squashed
.

She said politely, “Perhaps,” and excused herself, resolving
grimly to avoid him as much as possible.

o0o

After the Revolutionary government had rescinded all the
old licenses and controls, stating that every citizen had the right to start a
theater, any works by authors five years dead had been declared free to be
staged.

But as many discovered, wanting to be on stage and doing it
successfully were two very different prospects. The French performers shared
grim memories of revolutionary audiences who had voted their disapprobation
with baskets full of rotten vegetables (if not worse), or even stormed the
stage to entertain themselves by ripping apart the props and chasing the
performers off.

Good performances met with wild enthusiasm, especially in
the country, which had been starved for real entertainment during the long
years of armies shooting and looting up and down the countryside.

Summer faded into autumn, M. Dupree offering free performances
to the villagers in trade for foodstuffs.
La
Caverne
proved as popular as ever, but so also did Paisiello’s
Nina
, which the older members of the
company all knew, and of course Anna had been trained in.

After the last performance of
Nina
, a satisfied M. Dupree called the company together and said,
“By week’s end, we will begin our travels.”

The tour began as a resounding success.

The Company Dupree had engaged to stay in Amiens for only a
week, but proved to be so popular that they were held over for a month. They
could not charge much—and there were a great many citizens who managed to get
in without paying even an
assignat
—but
the seats were full, and the audiences appreciative.

And a steady stream of would-be entertainers clamored to be
auditioned: these M. Dupree had to make time for, lest he be slandered as an
elitist, but he took care to hold auditions in the common room of the local
inn. There he could rely on the patrons, ever ready for free entertainment, to
express their derision for those who had more ambition than talent.

By the end of the year, they had advanced triumphantly all
the way north to Lille, word running ahead and guaranteeing an excellent
reception. While the company rehearsed, Parrette went about the city, talking
and listening: here, so very close to England, she expected to get better news
of Admiral Nelson’s fleet—and perhaps her son’s ship,
Pallas
—than had been reported in the Paris newspapers.

She was told by a friendly cheese-seller to ask the fisher
folk. A morning at the dock furnished the dispiriting news that Admiral Nelson
was rumored to be living in a palace in England, and his fleet scattered,
everyone having opinions on where.

She reported her lack of success to Anna.

“At least there is peace,” Parrette said as she sewed,
tucked, draped, hemmed.

Anna agreed, as always, talking in Neapolitan whenever the
subject was England or English matters. “While it is true that Michel might be
anywhere, at least there is less chance he is being fired upon by cannon.”

Neither brought up the obvious question: how long would that
last? The docks had also been full of rumors about Napoleon’s plans for an invasion
flotilla, abandoned only temporarily, some insisted.