Rondo Allegro (19 page)

Therese began to wonder if she had made an error. She
attempted to insinuate herself into ballet practice one morning, to find Ninon
standing arms crossed before her.

Therese knew that Ninon kept discipline among the female
dancers, using not only her sarcastic tongue but her ready fist. She took one
glance at those strong arms, those narrowed eyes, and beat a hasty retreat.

In the days that followed, Marsac treated Anna with a
hauteur that surprised her a little, but that she accepted with an inward shrug
and a sense of relief.

She had other things to think about, such as her discovery
about trust. The dancers, who were the lowest in the hierarchy, and who had the
least of material value, possessed a mutual trust so naturally that no one
seemed aware of it.

On stage, they trusted one another in their movements, so
quick and potentially dangerous: they relied on each other to know where to be,
and where not to be. They trusted one another in the little tricks of survival,
sharing what they had, and banding together whether to ward off marauding men
or rodents.

Trust, Anna was coming to believe, was stronger than mere
riches.

o0o

They headed inland at last.

“I will say this much for Anna,” Ninon commented as they
packed up after another village performance. “She doesn’t prance about like
some duchesse.”

“Her voice is purer,” Helene said admiringly. “Like a silver
bell.”

Eleanor yawned. “Do you think it’s true, what Lise said
about her being married to an English sea-captain?”

Behind the dancers, Jean-Baptiste Marsac paused in folding
his stage cloak.

“English?” two dancers exclaimed, and behind them, Marsac
echoed silently,
English?

Ninon shrugged. “I don’t believe a word that she-devil Lise
ever spoke.”

“Lise got it from Hyacinthe,” Eleanor said defensively.

“Hyacinthe!” Ninon threw her hands skyward. “An idiot as
well as a blabbermouth! Far more likely Anna’s husband was captured or killed
by
an English sea captain. If she is
even married. I wouldn’t trust anything that pair of reptiles ever said.”

The dancers hefted their baskets and moved away, Ninon
predicting what she hoped was Lise’s lack of success in Paris, as Jean-Baptiste
retreated in the opposite direction, his expression thoughtful.

o0o

They traveled inland toward Burgundy, and as they began
once again to see real theaters, Anna was finding it more difficult to ignore
Jean-Baptiste Marsac.

They often performed together; his performance, if rarely
inspired, was never less than note-perfect. From the safety of distance she admitted
admiration, for in spite of the dire travel conditions he always managed to
stay clean, his nails beautifully trimmed, his clothing fresh. But there was a new
appraisal to his glance, a lingering caress in his touch that caused her heart
to thump with interest—and with warning. Admiration was not trust.

“There is Lyons!”

A city! At last! Pierre Dupree rode ahead and found them
lodgings at an abandoned cloister now owned and run by a consortium made up of
former washerwomen. Pierre brought with him the latest news, the first item of
which was that the First Consul was going to war against England.

Anna had noticed Parrette’s silence as they approached her
birthplace.

As they settled into the dirty, nearly-bare cell where once
a nun had lived and prayed, Parrette looked about her, hands on her hips.
“Disgusting. This place has obviously not been cleaned since the last postulant
was murdered by that devil’s hind-end Fouché.” She made a spitting motion with
her lips.

Anna ignored that. “Parrette, if you want time to seek your
family, I can look after my costumes.”

Parrette shrugged up her bony shoulders. “They are either
dead or long gone. Nothing here for me but memories, and most of those are
bad.”

At least the old damage was being cleared away. Lyons, the
former City of Light, had begun a massive reconstruction campaign, on the
direct order of the First Consul. Pierre brought back news that in Paris,
Bonaparte had recently ordered Corneille’s
Polyeucte
resumed at the Theater Français.

Theater was popular again. M. Dupree found himself besieged
by no fewer than three theater owners, and Marsac was able to secure private
bookings as a soloist for select company.

What’s more, the principal violinist found a number of
musicians who had been more or less in hiding since the bad days of the
Revolution, which meant they would have a full orchestra again.

The only shadow on their happiness was the martial tread of
conscripts daily progressing down the main boulevard: Bonaparte had caused an
order for 60,000 conscripts to be raised.

Everyone knew what that meant.

M. Dupree, successfully interpreting the trepidation of
their male members, at the end of autumn once more took the company to the
road, promising them a milder winter in Provence, at which time they would
consider what to do next.

Everyone in the company, from the old prop master, M. Dupree’s
uncle, down to the babe, was tired of bad roads, bad food, bad beds, and the
never-ending struggle against rodents and lice. But M. Dupree had leased the
land under his burnt theater for three years, and they had two more ahead
before they could expect to return to Paris.

Pierre Dupree found them winter quarters at the abandoned
university in the beautiful town of Avignon. One night, as the mistral blew ice
over the ancient monuments, M. Dupree burst into the former library. With its
huge fireplace almost warming the room, it had become a salon for the company.

“Look what I have achieved!” He brandished a carefully
wrapped package.

As everyone started up, he declared, “It is the libretto and
score for
I riti d'Efeso
!”

Exclamations all around—Farinelli’s
dramma eroico
had debuted in Venice the year before, and they had
all read reviews. Now they would hear the actual music.

Under cover of the noise, Jean-Baptiste Marsac said to Anna
under cover of the general hilarity, “May I beg the interest of an Agenore in
whether you will sing Argia?”

Therese was right there. “Oh, would she not be
perfect
in the
travesti
role, Clearco of Macedon?” And with all the enthusiasm of
one who had been harboring all the ambition of an Argia, Therese clasped her
hands. “Anna, you are so wonderful that I believe that you are equal to
anything.”

“I shall sing whatever I am asked,” Anna said in her
politest manner. “Whether King of Macedon or maid.” After which she found an
excuse to leave the room.

When Jean-Baptiste made a motion to follow, Therese stepped
in his way. Asking him what he had heard about
I riti,
she gazed up at him from under her lashes.

The next day, M. Dupree announced that he and Marc Gris had
hired some new clowns for the farce roles, whom Marc would be training. This
news raised a general cheer. As for the new opera, Lorette would sing the
travesti
role, and Anna would take
Argia. Therese was still doing tiny roles and understudy.

o0o

When spring brought balmy air over the Mediterranean, the
company arrived in Nice. Parrette promptly went out to buy newspapers and
fashion periodicals. The former she brought back to peruse in private, in her
never-failing hope to read something of Michel’s ship. In her secret heart, she
also hoped to discover the whereabouts of Captain Duncannon: until he was known
to be dead, he was Anna’s husband.

The fashion magazines were shared generally, sparking a
great deal of discussion, for under the First Consul’s direction, fashion was
changing again.

“Silks! Silk, lace, everything made in France,” Madame
exclaimed.

“Everyone says Bonaparte is going to crown himself King of
France at last,” Lorette put in.

Some scoffed. They had been hearing that for ages, but
Pierre said, “It’s true. What’s more, the rumor is passing around the military,
and
they
always have the latest.”

Madame frowned into the middle distance, and then rose
briskly. “Do you know what that means? It means that
Nina
is going to require restaging. The Count must look like a
courtier!”

Of them all, only Jean-Baptiste Marsac was silent, shock
pooling into chill in his heart.

How could these fools not notice the most important piece of
news of all? Bonaparte had secretly sent soldiers to cross the Rhine and
capture the Duc d’Enghien, hope of the royalists. They brought him back to the Château de Vincennes, where
they shot him.

Marsac looked around grimly at his fellow performers. Commoners
all, they did not pay this astounding item of news the least heed. Their only
interest in politics was as it impacted the stage.

Jean-Baptiste was exactly the same age as the duke,
thirty-one; they had known one another when youths, learning military matters
under the Commodore de Vinieux. Until now, he had been content to while away
his days in the guise of a performer. He played a role in life as upon stage,
always expecting the upstart Bonaparte to be thrown out and the Bourbons
restored at last.

And he had expected the Duc d’Enghien to be leading the army
of restoration.

There would be no stopping the Corsican upstart now,
Jean-Baptiste thought, barely able to contain his bitterness. There was no
recovering lost land, lost revenues, lost titles. It was time to quit looking
no further than his own idle pleasure, occasionally earning extra here and
there to augment his need for shirts and shoes and hats.

He must begin planning for something larger, something
suitable for a man of birth and blood—as much as was possible in this new,
benighted France.

He gazed across the room at Anna, who sat upright, her curly
head and graceful neck outlined against the window. Whatever her reason for
demeaning herself in those farces, it was apparent that she still held herself
aloof from hairy butchers and garlic-breathing cobblers. She was clever,
finding strength in numbers, as the democratic rabble had.

Perhaps he had underestimated her.

The night of their opening, as they peeked out at the
audience, one of the dancers pointed at the nearest box. There sat a very
imposing personage, judging by the orders and medals decorating the broad sash
he wore over the breast of his splendid coat, and the gold braid on his
uniform.

“Who is that?” Eleanor whispered to Catherine, who spread
her hands.

Madame rustled up, fanning herself. “Did you see?” she
asked, eyes wide. “That is the elder brother of Prime Minister Godoy! He is on
his way back to Spain from Paris.”

Excitement was high: a new piece, a new city, and a very
distinguished guest. Everyone gave of their best. The company took four bows,
and as the curtain came down, they saw M. Dupree enter the royal box, bowing
repeatedly.

Very soon he came backstage and, heedless of various states
of undress, assembled the company.

We,” he announced proudly, “are summoned to perform in
Madrid, before Prime Minister Godoy, and the king and queen!”

Reactions divided quite sharply, to M. Dupree’s surprise.
All of the women, from Madame with her fractious son to little Helene the
dancer, loathed the notion of leaving France.

The men were enthusiastic at the prospect of getting farther
away from possible conscription. This included the new musicians, who were grateful
to be playing, after all the ructions of the past ten years.

Jean-Baptiste considered the matter coolly. Perhaps there
might be a place for a company directed by a French aristocrat in Spain,
especially one who had performed before their king? That was a possible future,
at least until France regained order.

M. Dupree said to his wife, “Once we do return to Paris,
would not our name gain considerable luster if our placards could state that we
had performed by invitation before King Charles of Spain?”

Madame stood before her husband, arms crossed under her
considerable bosom. “Perhaps. But in that case,” she stated, “we
must
all have new clothes. We simply
cannot wear muslins before their majesties. It must be all silk, with real
lace. And velvet against winter.”

Lorette sighed, and the dancers all exchanged looks. If
Madame had given in, they had no hope: to Spain they were to go.

o0o

The journey to Madrid started with several sharp
disappointments, beginning with the discovery that the invitation did not come with
the wherewithal to travel.

Second, M. Dupree had assumed that everybody in Spain spoke
French, the way he had been told everyone else in Europe did, even the English
roas’ biffs
. When they climbed aboard
the Spanish-owned boat that was to take them midway along the east coast of
Spain, it was to discover Spanish being spoken all around them.

One of the sailors spoke Italian. Due to most operas being
written in Italian, M. Dupree knew enough to question the fellow, bringing the
third disappointment, a strong recommendation to hire guards as well as a
translator.

“Banditti,” the sailor said succinctly.

But it was too late to go back.

When they reached the walled city of Castellón de la Plana,
the warmth of the sun was most welcome. Madame Dupree assembled the company in
the coffee room.

“I have been thinking about the news. Clothes in the new
mode are very well.” Madame turned to Anna. “But! Mademoiselle Bernardo, it is
said that you grew up in a palace. The days for hiding such antecedents are
over. Crowns, court, curtseys are to be the custom again.
You
can teach us. It is also true that the king of Spain is brother
to the king of Naples. Surely the etiquette is the same?”