Emilie's Voice

by Susanne Dunlap

  Charpentier felt a little glow of warmth that he had been able to provoke such a reaction of pleasure and gratitude in his student. While they walked to the stand to hire a carriage, Charpentier thought back over his conversation with Sophie, the pretty maid who had led Émilie and her father just a little astray when they first came to the Hôtel de Guise, concerning which dressmaker to engage for the purpose of making Émilie’s first silk gown.

  “You wish to buy a gown for a lady?” The tone of her voice, and the look in her eyes, had disconcerted Charpentier.

  “It’s for Émilie.”

  “Ah! The little songbird! Have her lessons been progressing well?” A smile played at the corner of Sophie’s lips. But she must have sensed his embarrassment, because without teasing him further she recommended a dressmaker in a different part of the Marais, on the other side of the rue St. Antoine.

  Charpentier still felt vaguely ill at ease about buying Émilie a gown. He understood that it must appear strange for him to take such an interest in a young girl on the brink of womanhood. But he could not worry about that now. After a short walk, they arrived at the carriage stand. When he saw Émilie’s eyes shining, Charpentier realized that she had probably never ridden in a fiacre before. The idea that he was giving Émilie such an experience, introducing her to the simple pleasure of being transported without effort from one place to another, made him forget all about the uncomfortable conversation with Sophie. He did not stop to question himself as to how much pleasure the sight of her fair skin, clear blue eyes, and pale blond hair gave him. All he knew was that they would have an outing, that they would drive through the beautiful, snow-frosted streets of Paris as if they had no cares.

  It was difficult going on the icy, muddy roads, but despite that, Émilie would not have wanted to walk. There was something rather nice about sitting next to Charpentier, and she didn’t mind at all when a sudden lurch of the carriage threw her against him and he gently righted her and smoothed down the warm rug that he had wrapped over her legs. Émilie felt very high up, and from this vantage point everything looked quite different. The winter sun glinted off the snow, nearly blinding her with its brilliance and casting enchantment over even the humblest objects. She shamelessly peered in all the shops they passed, catching glimpses through small, frosty windows of merchants smiling and haggling, showing off their costliest wares. A few hearty souls had spilled out onto the street despite the cold and were warming their hands on makeshift fires. The arcades in the Place Royale were as busy as ever. Cold weather didn’t seem to deter those with money to spend from seeking ways to part with it. Since she had no money of her own and had only ever entered a shop with her mother for the purpose of purchasing something absolutely necessary, this spectacle was a treat. There were glove makers and milliners, carpet weavers and importers of porcelain, shops devoted to ladies’ fans made of lace and ivory and painted and jeweled, ironmongers who made cooking pots and door knockers, silversmiths and goldsmiths, tea shops and confectioners. The smell of bread baking at the boulangerie reminded her that she had left her home that morning without finishing her breakfast.

  If only my father could see me! she thought. And then she thought of him, alone in his atelier. Émilie’s smile faded when she pictured Marcel without her there to keep him company. She wished, at that moment, that she could be in two places at once, that she could stay as she was before, and yet fly forward into the world to greet whatever new adventures it held.

  After about twenty minutes of lurching and jostling, Émilie and Charpentier arrived at the little boutique not far from the river that Sophie had recommended, where an elderly woman who seemed to sprout brass pins from all over her body greeted them and led them into a room that was draped with rich brocades, cut velvets, cloth of gold and silver, and delicate voiles. Émilie’s eyes wandered over the rows upon rows of ribbons and laces, from the simple to the almost inconceivably grand. She tried to imagine a room full of people dressed in all these elegant materials. The idea that she would be one of them, wearing a gown made of silk and trimmed with lace, almost took her breath away. She could hardly stand still long enough to be measured accurately. But when Charpentier told her she could choose what sort of gown to have, Émilie looked as though she might cry.

  “But how can I?” she asked. Everything looked so beautiful, she wanted it all. For a moment she wondered if she could have a dress made of a tiny scrap of every piece of cloth in the store. If she had to choose one or two, she would not be able to have the rest. Émilie had the feeling that not only was this the first time in her life she could choose a fine dress but it might be the last. The responsibility of getting it just right, of squeezing the last drop of pleasure from the experience, oppressed her.

  “Is there not a color you prefer? Do you like flowers?” offered Charpentier, trying to be helpful.

  “No,” she answered, “I mean, I don’t know what I prefer.” Just then Émilie’s eye rested on a bright scarlet velvet, the kind of material one might see on the seat of a fine carriage. Charpentier, noticing the look in her eyes, glanced at the dressmaker in alarm.

  “Perhaps, Mademoiselle, a pale color would look best with your beautiful fair hair and pink cheeks,” the woman said, pulling out a delicate lilac moiré for Émilie’s inspection. Émilie looked beseechingly at Charpentier.

  “You might prefer a pale blue, which would match your eyes,” he offered. The dressmaker bowed politely and retrieved an elegant, ice blue silk damask, and quickly hid away the scarlet velvet. After considerable debate and consultation, it was decided that the manteau should be constructed of this stuff, and that the petticoat should have a small flower design in blue and rose, an intertwining lattice of luxurious silk. This difficult decision took well over an hour.

  When the proprietress then began to pull out laces and ribbons to show Émilie, her head started to ache with the idea that she must once again choose. Charpentier saw that they might never finish if he left it entirely to Émilie, and so he selected a few trimmings that were not too expensive—much to the disappointment of the dressmaker. All that remained was to choose the ribbons for her hair, since a pinner, which would envelop her head and wrap around her throat, would be too cumbersome for a concert.

  Among the many pretty ribbons the dressmaker brought out was one of deep blue cut velvet, about two inches wide. It had a pattern of roses stuck on a meandering, thorny stem. Émilie touched it, stroked it, and held it to her cheek. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

  “We’ll take a length of that too. You can wrap it up for today,” said Charpentier. The lady curtseyed, smiling. It was one of her most expensive trimmings.

  Charpentier saw how his little student’s eyes lit up when she realized she was being allowed to have the coveted ribbon right then and there, and he suddenly felt a pang of regret. Was he so certain that this life he had planned for Émilie was the best for her? Could she not have spent her gift singing for her own family, without having to make the leap from one world to another?

  “You are not pleased?” asked Émilie as she turned to Charpentier. His face was pensive, and he wore a slight frown.

  Charpentier tried to shake himself out of his melancholy mood, for Émilie’s sake. “Of course I am pleased. But you do not need any finery to be the most beautiful girl in all Paris.” Charpentier rose suddenly from the stool he had occupied for the duration of their visit and turned away. “It’s time we were leaving.”

  “The dress will be delivered in five days’ time,” the dressmaker said, after Charpentier signed his name in her big ledger book.

  Just as Charpentier was helping Émilie into her cloak and bidding adieu to the dressmaker, the door to the shop opened, letting in a blast of icy air and a bundled-up young woman. Her nose was quite red from the cold, and she was so covered up that it was almost impossible to tell who she might be. Only a curl of strawberry blond hair that teased itself out from beneath the hood of her cloak might have given h
er away, if Charpentier had noticed. It was Sophie, who, knowing exactly where teacher and pupil would be, decided to time her own visit to collect a black crape gown for Mademoiselle to coincide with theirs. She was consumed with curiosity about what might happen on their excursion. She soon realized that they had not seen her, and therefore she decided not to make her presence known. Sophie turned away from them, pretending to occupy herself with some laces in a corner. She had seen enough, however, to give her a little thrill. Charpentier had tied the bow of Émilie’s cloak in a protective, concerned manner. Sophie would be able to regale the servants with a very juicy bit of gossip.

  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

  The glory of men must always be measured by the means they have used to acquire it.

  Maxim 157

  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.