Rondo Allegro (17 page)

o0o

At year’s end (Nivôse, Year XI), M. Dupree called his
company together. “After all these auditions, I have, at last, found a pearl
hidden in the midden.”

The company laughed, having witnessed some of those terrible
auditions. “A new soprano. This is Therese Rose. She has been singing in the
cafés for a year or two, and so she needs to learn our ways. I know you all
will help her.”

With abundant, curling black hair and dark eyes, Therese
Rose was arrestingly pretty. She looked down demurely, her long eyelashes
casting extravagant shadows on her smooth cheeks.
She looks no older than I am
, Anna thought.
Maybe younger
. It was an odd thought, to no longer be the youngest
singer.

Therese moved to the farthest chair and sat down modestly as
M. Dupree ran his hand over his shiny bald head, and continued. “So. We have reached
the farthest northern point. We have done well, eh? But now it is time to turn
south, and I ask you, my fellow citizens, artists all, east or west?”

“East,” said the older soprano, Lorette, who had relations
in Bretagne.

“West,” Jean-Baptiste Marsac murmured, with a faint,
apologetic smile at Lorette. “East, all the rumors have it, the Corsican is
going to war, either Holland or Austria or Italy once again.”

Of all the company, only M. Dupree recognized Marsac’s
aristocratic upbringing in that use of ‘the Corsican’ for Bonaparte. But as
always, he kept his thoughts to himself.

“I agree.” Philippe tossed his long golden hair back and set
his fists on his narrow hips. “I’ve now lost two brothers to Bonaparte’s
adventures in Egypt, and I do not intend to follow. If we go east, we risk
falling into the hands of the conscript officers, and I for one have no wish to
come to a sanguinary end in a foreign grave.”

“
Peste!
It is too
true,” declared Paul Bisset, their baritone, who favored parts that required
powdered hair to hide the fact that his own was thinning. “Three times have I
been spoken to by officers looking for recruits.” Though he was on the far side
of forty, Paul, son of a line of blacksmiths, was a fine figure of a man.

“I hear they have two good theatres in Caen,” Therese said,
then blushed and looked down at her lap.

“Go on,” Madame Dupree said encouragingly. “Tell us more?”

“I don’t know more. But Caen is said to be beautiful in
spring.” She cast quick glances at the men at either side.

“So it is,” Paul said, smiling back.

“I’ve heard that.” Philippe gave her the pleasant nod he
reserved for beauty.

“Very well,” M. Dupree said, picking up a music score and
using it to fan his round, red face. “I do not want half my company recruited
for cannon-fodder. West it is. I have bespoken transport; I will instruct
Pierre to obtain maps along with fodder. We leave on the morrow.”

They parted to pack. Anna found Mademoiselle Rose walking
next to her. “I trust
you
will show
me the way.” Long eyelashes lowered over beautiful dark brown eyes, and the
newcomer looked down shyly. “M. Dupree says you are a genius!”

Not knowing how to respond to that, Anna murmured what she
hoped sounded encouraging.

Therese smiled, clasped her hands, then uttered a stream of
questions about Anna’s impressions of the cities she had seen so far. Gradually
her questions became more particular—and Anna’s responses correspondingly
general.

They parted at their lodging, Anna entering her chamber with
an uneasy expression.

Parrette looked up from packing their trunks. “What is
amiss? Are we delayed?”

“No,” Anna said. “It’s this new soprano. She seems friendly,
but the way she asked about the company.” She made a face. “Is it gossip, to
say that I think she wanted gossip?”

Parrette shrugged. “Short of suspecting a worse motive,
maybe she wants to understand the people she has come among? Does she want the
guidance of a friend? Madame Dupree tells me she is just turned eighteen.”

“Then she
is
younger than I.” Anna moved to the window, and looked out at the stretched
lines crossing the tiny courtyard. Washing flagged in the sunny breeze. “I
never thought of myself as a guide.”

Anna wandered away, thinking for the first time about
friends. Her mother had encouraged her budding friendship with the Wynne
sisters at legation parties. They had been great fun—much preferable to the
royal children—but they had gone away again, just before Mama died.

The closest Anna had come to friendship since then had been
Hyacinthe, who was kind to everyone, and in a sense Lise. Now they, too, were
gone.

A friend would be
welcome
, Anna thought wistfully.

o0o

By the first of March they’d reached Caen, where they took
over a small hotel in trade for informal entertainment, to bring lagging custom
to the common room. A couple of the younger dancers were happy to dance and
flirt, and Paul had a repertoire of bawdy sea songs that had proved to be
immensely popular.

Anna and Therese Rose began a habit of walking to rehearsals
together, singing their scales together, and rehearsing together, as Therese
was to begin as understudy, as well as singing the very minor female roles.

Therese seemed to hang on Anna’s opinions. “I am by nature
so modest and retiring,” she often said. “And you are so brilliant! I can learn
so
much
from you!” And then would
come the confidences. “I prefer your voice, oh, to infinity, to Lorette’s or,
hush, even to Madame’s.” She touched her finger to her lips and smiled
winsomely.

Gradually, as the days fled by, her confidences began to
broaden to include the rest of the cast. “Do not tell the others, but I would
die if I strode about with my arms swinging, in that peculiar manner Lorette
has. I know it is a breeches role, but . . .” Or, “Don’t you
think that Madame is a little shrill in the upper range? Perhaps my ear is odd.
You, with your
perfect
ear, probably
think I am much worse.” And she’d lay out for compliments that Anna readily gave,
for Therese sang as prettily as she looked.

Their performances in Caen promised to be as successful as
Amiens, until the night M. Dupree came banging on Anna’s door.

She struggled out of bed, her heart beating in her throat.
All she could think of was fire. Without even pulling a wrapper over her
nightrail, she opened the door to find M. Dupree outside, his candle flame
flaring wildly, throwing extravagant shadows over his distraught expression.

“Madame is lying in early,” he exclaimed. “The babe is on
the way. You must sing
Nina
tomorrow.
We cannot possibly postpone. We desperately need the money to replace the lame
horse. It is criminal, how much they are charging for the oldest, lamest nag.
It’s the cursed army, snapping up everything with four legs . . .”

Anna nodded, but she didn’t hear the pent-up stream of
words. Her heart continued to thunder, but from a different cause. To lead! For
the first time in her life, she would sing a major role!

Parrette appeared, candle in hand. “Go back to bed,” she
ordered Anna, after M. Dupree departed. “You are going to need your strength.”

Anna obeyed, but sleep evaded her until she fell into
restless dreams: walking on stage just to realize she had no notion which act
it was—she was wearing her old dance hose and skirt, and the audience roared
with laughter—she opened her mouth, but no sound emerged, and the crowd roared
its scorn.

It was a relief when the sun at last rose. Very soon after
breakfast, M. Dupree, even more tired than Anna, called for a hasty rehearsal. “Not
you,” he said anxiously to Anna. “Only warm your voice. Preserve it for
tonight.”

Anna was so excited that she did not perceive the implied
warning. For the first time, everything on stage revolving around her.

M. Marsac, as her lover Lindoro, was tender and solicitous;
the truth was, he found Anna increasingly interesting. As she drifted
gracefully about the stage, he recalled overhearing that she was already wed.

Good. He would take no woman to the altar unless her blood
matched his in purity. A married woman, especially one whose ambitions and
talents matched his, could make no demands, and might divert him in this
tiresome existence while he waited for the proper order to be restored.

That morning he used all his energy to encourage Anna, and the
rest of the cast followed his lead.

Everyone wished her well, Therese Rose the most
enthusiastic. “I will do anything to support you, I would
die
for you,” she exclaimed. “We shall rehearse every note
together.”

“But I am to preserve my voice,” Anna murmured.

Therese threw up her hands. “Shh!” She brought them to her
mouth, her eyes wide. “I forget. Everyone laughs at how empty my head is! Do
not sing, do not even speak! I will remain by your side, and answer for you.”

Anna thanked her, but felt she would be better resting, and
retired. She managed to sleep, but by the time she had put on her costume and
began humming to warm her voice, her wrists and knees had gone watery with
apprehension.

The clock inexorably advanced, and Anna first walked upon
the stage as principal singer.

As soon as the violins began the familiar overture,
assurance settled her nerves like the first fall of snow.
Light heart, tight ribs
, she said to herself and filled her lungs.

She began to sing. One by one the company joined her, everyone
alive to cues . . . but as the opera progressed, she was aware
of a sense of strain. She fought to keep her notes pure, but she sensed that
she failed to reach the far corners of the gallery, and indeed, before long she
perceived whispers and restless rustles that sounded to her louder than pistol
shots.

In desperation, during the mad scenes she flung her arms
wide, and began to dance wildly. The rustles ceased, and she caught sight of
Ninon in the wings, brows raised and mouth pursed. Anna knew that she was not a
great dancer, but nerves drove her to a frenzy and she leaped and twirled as if
movement could furnish the lacking sound.

The audience quieted again—and then she discovered the cost:
she had lost her breath. Desperately she sucked in breath and pressed her fists
to her ribs, aware that at least it was a proper motion for the character. But
her voice was flagging.

She sensed the other singers moving in closer and bringing
their voices up, until at last it ended. The audience applauded, and she bowed,
breathing hard.

The curtain fell, and Philippe sighed with relief. “At the
least they didn’t throw dung.”

“We’ll have to remember to move further downstage, hein?”
Lorette asked, patting Anna kindly on the shoulder. “Perhaps less dancing?”

“Beautifully done,” M. Marsac murmured, taking Anna’s hands.
“I never expected to play Lindoro to so accomplished a Nina.”

He smiled down at her with extra meaning, and once again the
warmth of attraction bloomed behind her ribs. “Truly? Oh thank you, thank you.
Are you certain I was not weak in my aria? And what about the second act . . .”

“It was all quite lovely. You have earned a fine supper. I
located a little café that miraculously has survived the ructions. I would be
honored if you would accompany me.”

Her nerves chilled. It was flattering, but was this going to
be Auguste all over again? “I confess I am so tired I cannot keep my eyes open
anymore,” she said.

“Another time, then,” he said, and saluted her hands with
his lips, light as a butterfly touch.

“Oh, that is so romantic,” Therese said, approaching as M.
Marsac walked away. “What did he say? I can never get him to talk to me, or
even to notice me.”

“He was very kind,” Anna said, aware of her tight throat.
“But as I told him, I am very tired. Good night.”

“Sleep well, and dream of besting la Catalani, who I am sure
you will be replacing.” Therese kissed her fingertips to Anna.

Anna walked away, still a little giddy. But then she
stopped. Would they be rehearsing again in the morning?

She started back past props and stage paraphernalia, slowing
at the sound of voices. She caught her name. Therese was saying, “. . . wonderful,
as graceful as a swan, but oh, M. Dupree, I cannot but hope her voice might be
stronger. It was so weak, they were cupping their ears right below us in the
second row. If she needs to rest her voice, I could gather my courage and—”

“You are not yet ready, Mademoiselle Rose,” M. Dupree said
as Anna froze where she was. “You still betray bad habits, or bad teaching. If
Mademoiselle Bernardo cannot carry through the week, we will have to transpose
the two arias for Lorette, who cannot reach the upper registers…” Anna backed
up two, three steps, whirled, and withdrew, a sick feeling gnawing her inside.
Why could Therese not have said those things to her face?

Perhaps—a horrible thought—she was busy entrusting
‘observations’ about Anna to others. Was friendship impossible?

Her mother had taught her deference, Mrs. Billington had
taught her to be light, her father had taught her to love music, and the
maestro to sing it, but no one had ever taught her about friendship. For some,
it seemed as easy and effortless as breathing. For her, it was as elusive as a
rainbow.

By the end of the week, she felt the beginnings of strain
in her throat earlier each day, even though Jean-Baptiste Marsac led the other
singers in uniting to support her flagging voice.

Anna was not aware of how much the elusive tenor was
gradually gaining influence over the others. He made an effort to hide his
origins, but the habits of youth are not easily overcome. His fastidious care
to his clothing and person, and even his aloof countenance, fascinated the
company. The more the women admired him, the more interest the men took in him.