Emilie's Voice (9 page)

The crone paused in her laughter long enough to weigh the purse in her hand. After a moment she gave it back to Charpentier, and said, “
Non
, Monsieur. There is not money enough for my nightingale.”

He looked at her and nodded his head. At that moment Charpentier understood not only why the lady would never part with her special bird but why being separated from Émilie had made him feel so entirely bereft. Everything was suddenly clear. Whatever else happened, he must find a way to get his student back from Versailles. Now all that remained was to figure out how.

Eight

Madeleine looked around with satisfaction at the new lodgings. Her eye rested on the louvered shutters that kept the heat in during the winter and shut out the glare of the sun in the summer. One of them was not pushed completely open. She adjusted it, then stepped back and admired her handiwork. Taking pride of place in her parlor were two armchairs with cushions on them. These she moved slightly, so that they were at exactly the same distance from the fireplace, in which a comforting blaze leapt and crackled. Checking to see if the maid was occupied in the other room, she slipped her foot out of her leather shoe and ran her toes over the needlepoint rug on the floor. Then she smiled.

Madeleine had fought for this move. She was tired of living in tiny, cramped quarters under a roof that sometimes leaked and through which the heat from the fire seemed to evaporate in the winter. When she married Marcel, she had thought his trade would bring them prosperity. But he was too slow and meticulous at his work. Although they were not exactly destitute, life was a constant struggle. And just when Madeleine thought she might find a suitable match for her daughter, and there would be one less mouth to feed and at least Émilie might have a hope of a better life, all this nonsense about singing came up. Of course, if she had known what it would lead to, Madeleine might not have been so reluctant to send Émilie off to study with Charpentier. Because she had to admit, it was this alone that had changed their circumstances almost overnight. Every once in a while her unkind treatment of the composer pricked her conscience slightly. But what if Émilie had died? That she recovered was no thanks to him. And now that Émilie was at Versailles, commissions poured in to the Atelier Jolicoeur. Royal favor was like a lodestone, attracting prosperity. Marcel had taken on two apprentices just last month to keep up with the work. Still, he had been reluctant to leave their old, one-room apartment.

“How can you wish to stay here!” Madeleine had shouted, exasperated by her husband’s stubbornness.

“But there are only two of us now. Why do we need more space?”

“It isn’t just the space. Look at this place. It hardly keeps the weather out. We are wealthier now, and I want to have a maid. With a separate kitchen, she could sleep in a corner by the fire, or just come in early in the morning. And we could invite people, in the evening—perhaps even play cards.” Madeleine was starved for leisure after all her years of hard work. It did not seem much to ask.

After a few weeks, Marcel gave in. But he refused to move his workshop, and so life, for him, changed little.

But Madeleine did not need Marcel’s constant presence to enjoy her newfound leisure. She drew herself up to her full height of five feet and patted her hair lightly. The sugar syrup crusted here and there, and she rubbed the strands together to flick the little crystals off. Then she walked to the edge of the carpet and lifted a corner of it.

“Girl! Come here!”

The maid was only twelve years old, but she worked hard, and they didn’t have to pay her very much.

“I told you to beat the carpet. Look at the dust!”

“Sorry, Madame!” she said with a little curtsey.

“Never mind. Tomorrow will do.” Madeleine was expecting her oldest friend, Hortense Bougier, to come and drink tea with her shortly. There would be no time to struggle with the rug, and despite her show of superiority, she would probably help the maid do it the next day. She took some pleasure in showing the young thing the right way to keep a house, as she would have done for Émilie.

The maid returned to the kitchen to prepare tea, and Madeleine wandered around her parlor aimlessly. She was not used to free time. Then she remembered her embroidery frame, and the packet of silk threads she had bought in the market. It would look good for her to be seated there, starting some pastoral scene to replace the plain covers on the chair cushions, when Hortense arrived.

“Beg pardon, Madame.”

“What is it, girl?”

“There’s someone to see you.”

Madeleine expected Hortense, and so she did not rise from her chair. When St. Paul walked into the parlor instead, she stood so quickly that all the threads in her lap landed in a jumble on the floor. It would take her hours to untangle them.

“My dear Madame Jolicoeur,” he said, bowing over her hand and brushing it with his lips. “How snug you are in your new home.”

“Monsieur le Comte, you honor me.” Madeleine knew she blushed, and it annoyed her. She had a gnawing sense of guilt when she remembered how things had been when the count was there every day, so concerned about Émilie. They were usually alone in the apartment; Marcel stayed in his workshop. She still had a delicious memory of the count whispering in her ear, his lips just touching occasionally and sending a thrill right through her. “Would you like some tea?” She motioned him to sit in Marcel’s chair and waved her hand at the maid, who vanished into the kitchen.

St. Paul reached into his waistcoat and took out a small package, wrapped in paper and tied with a silk cord. “Just a token, for our friendship.” He placed it on the table, then perched himself on the very edge of the chair Madeleine had directed him to.

“And how does my daughter?”

“She is fully recovered, I am delighted to say. Is that not a new gown you are wearing?”

Madeleine ran her hands proudly over the silk. They were not so rough now, and did not catch on the smooth fabric as they used to. “I had it made. The silk was left over from the ball gown of a marquise. There was almost enough for a dress—only the sleeves are of flax.” Her nervousness made Madeleine rattle on.

Once she had exhausted the subject of her dress, Madeleine had no idea what to say to St. Paul. They sat facing each other from the two chairs on opposite sides of the room for a minute or two. The count smiled in her direction but did not appear to be looking at her.

They both stood and spoke at the same moment.

“I’m afraid—” “Would you like—”

“It grieves me that I cannot stay longer to enjoy your company. I must call on the Duchesse de Montpensier—a frightful bore, but I’m sure you understand,” said St. Paul, bowing again.

Madeleine curtseyed, and the nobleman left, just as the maid entered the parlor with a tray bearing two tea dishes and a little jug of milk.

“Take it away!” she snapped, sending the girl back to the kitchen. Once she was alone, she opened the package St. Paul had left behind. It contained a lace-edged silk handkerchief that concealed three bright, silver coins. Madeleine stared at the gift for a moment or two, then walked to the fireplace. She put the coins in the earthenware pot that held their savings, and then threw the handkerchief onto the fire.

The next time St. Paul came, he brought her a small wooden box that contained a silver thimble, and after that it was a bit of lace tied around an ivory spindle. They were always objects of some value, but never anything worth enough to sell or to make a material difference in their lives. His visits were brief and awkward, and Madeleine never knew what to say to him now that they did not have the common ground of Émilie’s illness. She did not really know why he continued to come, and she began to suspect that he was using her. But for what? It made no sense to her, and so she tried to dismiss her uneasy feelings.

For a few weeks after the salon, Sophie’s life at the Hôtel de Guise returned to its normal pattern of mending Mademoiselle de Guise’s gowns, doing her mistress’s hair, and entertaining her with gossip about court that she picked up from the lady’s maids in other households whose mistresses came to visit the princess. Sophie had a wicked sense of humor, and she knew how to tell a story and derive the most entertainment from it. At first Émilie’s failure to return the slippers did not worry her very much. She assumed the girl would bring them when she came for her lessons with Monsieur Charpentier. But time passed, and there was no sign of Émilie. Sophie was annoyed at this apparent breach of trust, but she did not expect Mademoiselle de Guise to notice that one was missing from among her dozens of pairs of shoes. The princess usually wore black these days anyway, since the death of her nephew.

In this, Sophie was correct. But she failed to estimate how intently a young housemaid, Mathilde, was looking for an opportunity to discredit her so that she could step into, literally, Sophie’s shoes.

“Madame Coryot,” began Mathilde, some time after Émilie had been whisked away to Versailles, “they’re missing, her slippers.”

“Whose slippers? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Madame Coryot, the housekeeper at the Hôtel de Guise, was busy settling the accounts. At first she had no idea what the girl was referring to and was about to put it down to the odd ways of a country lass and dismiss her, but Mathilde was insistent.

“They were her prettiest, and I don’t want anyone to blame me for something I didn’t do.”

“What didn’t you do, girl?” asked Madame Coryot, impatient that the housemaid was speaking in riddles. And she didn’t like to see the lass’s dirty fingernails and her slovenly appearance, both of which had kept the young thing from advancing in the household.

“It’s that Sophie! I saw her take Mademoiselle de Guise’s jeweled slippers the night of the party, and they’re still not back in her cupboard.”

“How did you get into Mademoiselle’s armoire? Sophie keeps it locked…. Perhaps she was taking them to be mended,” said the housekeeper, who had many more important things to do in preparation for the princess’s return to another retreat at Montmartre.

“She wasn’t. Come and see for yourself.”

Madame Coryot was forced to resolve the issue, and to her dismay, discovered that the maid spoke the truth. The armoire had been left unlocked, and the slippers were nowhere to be found. She sent for Sophie.

“What’s this I hear about Mademoiselle’s satin slippers? And why wasn’t the armoire locked?” asked the housekeeper, thinking that Sophie probably had a perfectly reasonable explanation.

“I was doing my mending. I leave the wardrobe open so I can get in and out easily. And the slippers—I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sophie answered, with a black look in the direction of the housemaid.

“Perhaps you’ve forgotten. You apparently took a pair of the princess’s slippers to be mended, and have neglected to bring them back.”

“I know nothing about this matter.” Sophie turned her nose up and folded her arms just beneath her ample breasts.

“Nonetheless, the slippers are not here.”

Sophie was thinking fast. “Perhaps Mathilde took them herself, just so she could blame me. As you see, there are times when I leave the cupboard open.”

Madame Coryot shifted her attention to Mathilde. “Well, what have you to say?”

“I did not! It’s you who’s always giving yourself airs. Probably wore them yourself and ruined them!” Mathilde shrieked at Sophie.

Before she could stop the words from escaping her mouth, Sophie yelled, “You bitch!”

“Sophie! I’ll have no such behavior in this house. What if Mademoiselle should hear you? Profanity is strictly forbidden here. Whatever has become of the slippers, I cannot leave this outburst unpunished. I expected more from the princess’s personal maid. Put your hands upon the desk.”

Madame Coryot took up a willow switch that she kept for purposes of disciplining the staff and began caning Sophie.

As soon as she felt the sting of the switch, Sophie jumped away from the housekeeper. “Don’t you dare touch me! I am Sophie Dupin! I have powerful friends!”

This was too much for Madame Coryot, who wished that Mathilde was not there to witness Sophie’s impudence—better yet, wished the matter of the slippers had never been raised. “Then you may rely on your powerful friends to give you the means to live. You are dismissed from this household.” She rang for a footman.

“Don’t bother to throw me out. I wouldn’t stay here if you begged me!” With that, Sophie left the Hôtel de Guise.

Why didn’t I just tell her the whole story? Sophie berated herself as she strode out into the cold January afternoon. The answer to that was simple enough. She should never have taken the slippers and would probably have been dismissed for that act anyway. All she had wanted to do was help out poor Émilie, who, like Sophie, had been given a chance to make something of herself despite her humble origins.

She probably doesn’t have a temper like mine to get in her way, Sophie thought. It was stupid of her, she knew, to forget one of the primary rules of the household—a household where many things more immoral than profane language went unpunished, because they were hidden beneath a surface of carefully polished gentility. Sophie’s anger and frustration at herself propelled her through the streets of Paris. If only that silly little Émilie had brought the shoes back like she told her to! Perhaps she should go back and find Monsieur Charpentier, ask him where Émilie was and what happened to the satin slippers. It did seem odd that the singer just vanished after the soirée. Everything she heard from the servants indicated that Émilie had had a huge success. If the truth were known—but no, the fact would remain that she, Sophie, had borrowed the princess’s shoes without permission and had used foul language in front of the housekeeper.