As soon as courtesy would allow, the two men virtually ran away from each other to more congenial surroundings.
François bowed to Madame de Maintenon as he placed her letters on the table near her desk. She was already busy writing replies to those from the day before, although it was only nine in the morning and others in the household were still asleep. Madame de Maintenon, Madame de Montespan, the illegitimate royal progeny, and an assortment of staff—including François—were on the rue Vaugirard in Paris. Although at Versailles the widow Scarron could minimize her contact with the marquise and concentrate only on educating her children, since Madame de Montespan had been sent away from Versailles, she had to accompany her. It was all in a good cause, however. The king’s confessor had again refused to give communion to His Majesty and a woman who was living in sin—even though it was with the monarch. Every so often, when the public mood was particularly focused on morals, the Church would take a swipe at Louis’s self-indulgent way of life. But when the furor blew over, things always went back to the way they were before. It was not easy to deny a king like Louis whatever he wanted. Madame de Maintenon knew this, and her desire to see him lead a more godly life was her principal motive for having tried the scheme with Émilie. Although it seemed as if it had ended in utter fiasco, she had information that might yet lead to producing the result she originally desired. But this time she did not enlist St. Paul’s aid. She knew, in fact, that the count and Monsieur Lully were up to something. She also suspected that the marquise had something to do with it.
The widow Scarron was nothing if not patient, and so she bore her exile from court with fortitude. The unhappy band of travelers had only been at the house on the rue Vaugirard for a day or two and were just as likely as not to be recalled to Versailles at any moment. In the meantime, she decided to start her own subtle inquiries. She summoned François to attend her.
“François, I understand you paid a visit to Monsieur Charpentier a few days ago,” said the widow Scarron without lifting her eyes from the sheet she continued to fill with words, in an apartment that differed from the one she occupied at Versailles only in its slightly smaller dimensions.
“Why, yes, Madame, I did.”
“What business did you have with the composer?” She looked up, fixing him with her dark eyes.
François was caught unprepared. He rarely conversed with Madame de Maintenon, only arriving to receive instructions, and never thought that she would ask him such a question. “Monsieur Lully desired me to deliver a message to him. He was preparing to use too many musicians in Mademoiselle de Guise’s fête.”
“The king’s ordinance only applies to public performances, François. I’m surprised you did not know that.” She lay down her quill and stood, running her finger over the back of a chair and examining it for dust. “And it was not like you to go to Paris at all. You said your father was ill?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“Extraordinary. And I thought he was already dead. Or perhaps this was your other father?”
François looked down at the ground.
“You had better tell me what your real business was. I fear you are meddling in something that is more dangerous than you know.”
No, thought François, he knew just what it could all mean. “I am sorry to say, Madame, that I know nothing more than what Monsieur Lully told me. Perhaps he sought only to frighten Monsieur Charpentier.”
“Very well, François. Although I am disappointed. I thought we understood one another.”
She returned to her letters. François left the room silently.
When Sophie first went to visit the Charpentiers, she really had no idea of proposing herself as domestic help. It was an inspiration of the moment, when she found herself confronted with Charpentier alone instead of both of them, or just Émilie. Once she left the apartment, she thought a little more carefully about accepting the post but could not see how it would hurt—although she had not entirely decided what she was going to do once she was installed in the position of lady’s maid and companion to the person whom she still held primarily responsible for her own downfall.
Charpentier gave her a month’s wages in advance so she could purchase more ladylike clothes. He also brought a cot into the apartment for her to sleep on. Everything was arranged very quickly, and Sophie understood the need for speed once Charpentier had filled her in on what François had told him. But the haste and secrecy meant that Sophie had no chance to speak to Émilie until the day she took up residence with the family on the rue des Écouffes. Even then, she knew the residence there was temporary, as it was Charpentier’s intention to move Sophie and Émilie out to the country as instructed by François as soon as his wife was recovered enough and the princess’s fête was over.
The very day after Émilie’s miscarriage, Lucille opened the door for Sophie, who carried a small parcel and had Monsieur le Diable tucked under her arm. He growled and hissed, his eyes wide with indignation.
“Monsieur Charpentier didn’t say anything about a cat,” said Lucille, backing away from Sophie.
“He must have forgotten,” she said, pushing past the young maid. “Where does Madame do her toilette?” she asked, placing the cat on a stool by the fire and depositing her parcel in the middle of the parlor floor.
“I—I don’t know.”
“Hmmph. Of course. You are a housemaid.” From somewhere deep inside her, Sophie’s native snobbery emerged. It felt good to be superior to something, even if it was just a housemaid in a three-room household.
“I’m just off to the market,” Lucille said, taking her cloak and walking out with her chin in the air.
Sophie looked around at the apartment. She ran her finger over the tops of the chairs and the mantelpiece. “Tsk.” With her handkerchief she flicked some dust off a stool and sat on it.
“Lucille?”
Sophie heard Émilie call out from the other room. She stood, smoothed down her hair, and prepared to confront the young woman whom she had tried to help more than a year ago, and who had repaid her kindness with thoughtlessness.
“Lu—” Émilie stopped in midword when she saw Sophie coming toward her. “Sophie!” She smiled and reached out her hand. “My husband said you were coming. I’m so grateful. And so ashamed.”
Sophie stood just out of Émilie’s reach and watched as she let her hand fall back onto the bed. “I am to be your lady’s maid,” she said, and then busied herself arranging Émilie’s brushes and mirrors on the dressing table in the corner.
“My lady’s maid—and my friend, if you can ever forgive me.”
Sophie turned to look Émilie in the face. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The slippers. I should have come back that night, but I forgot, and then it was too late.”
“And the next day?”
“I—I ruined them, I’m afraid. I stepped in a puddle. And then I was ill.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Sophie was in no mood to let Émilie explain her way out of the calamity that had wreaked so much havoc on her life.
Émilie thought for a while. “I don’t know. Once I was at Versailles, it all seemed so far away.”
“Well, there’s nothing to be done now,” Sophie said, turning back to her aimless straightening while she tried to think of what to do next.
“I’m still very tired. I’m sorry. I just need to sleep for a while longer.”
Almost before Sophie turned around to face Émilie again, she heard her breathing become audible and uniform. Once she was certain Émilie was fast asleep, Sophie opened the armoire in the corner and looked through all Émilie’s shoes, thinking perhaps she might find the missing slippers among them, and, when her search proved unsuccessful, opened the drawers on the dressing table and took everything out. She wasn’t really certain what she was searching for, but it occurred to her that somewhere there might be some remnant, some note—something that would contradict the simple story Ém
ilie had told her. If Émilie awoke while she was ransacking the drawers, she could say she was simply reorganizing things the way she liked them, so that she could find everything to help Émilie dress.
The first drawer Sophie emptied had only buttons and rouge in it. The second looked as though it was just handkerchiefs and other small items of linen. But when she reached deep into the drawer, she found something small and hard, wrapped in a hankie. She pulled it out and quietly unwrapped it.
Sophie gasped when she saw the diamond bird, and then looked at the bed to make sure Émilie had not awakened. The brooch was heavy and utterly magnificent. She had never seen anything like it before. While she stood there unable to take her eyes off the stunning piece of jewelry, Sophie heard the door at the street open and Lucille climbing the stairs. Quickly, she wrapped the treasure in the hankie and started to put it back in the drawer, then thought better of it and stuffed it into her bodice. The pin was not too large, and there was plenty of room there. The diamond bird was completely out of sight by the time the housemaid poked her head cautiously into Émilie’s room.
“She’s sleeping,” Lucille whispered.
“Oh, is that what she’s doing?” whispered Sophie, who went to Émilie’s closet, found a dress that needed mending, and brought it into the parlor. She had no idea what Émilie could be doing with such a costly bauble in her possession. She could have pawned it and paid a year’s rent in a beautiful town house. Although she still didn’t have all the facts assembled, Sophie was beginning to get a sense that things were even more complicated than Charpentier had told her.
Twenty-six
We would gain more by letting others see us as we are, than by trying to appear as we are not.
Maxim 457
Madeleine hunched over her embroidery frame and unpicked the petit point it had taken her an hour to do. Her mind was not focused on her task, and she found that she had inadvertently given the shepherdess in her pastoral scene a green face. She could not imagine how she had allowed herself to work the entire one-inch square patch without noticing. It was all so vexing. A waste of good silk thread. She was in a foul mood when her little maid, who now wore a new serge gown with no tears or patches and had learned to keep her hair neat and her fingernails clean, entered the parlor.
“Beg yer pardon, Madame,” she said, and then curtseyed somewhat after the fact. “There’s a gentleman here.”
“Does he not have a name, you-” Madeleine stopped herself from calling the girl something vile. It was a bad habit, to save up all her anger and unleash it on the poor, ignorant creature, who really did not deserve it. Except that she was so unbearably stupid sometimes. Madeleine had told her and told her, just saying someone had come to call was not enough. She had to announce the person, like they did in the best houses. The girl was about to leave the room and ask the visitor his name when Madeleine stopped her. “Oh, don’t bother! Show him in.” She put away her work and tried to look calm and complacent.
To Madeleine’s complete amazement, the gentleman who walked into her parlor was none other than le Comte de St. Paul, who had not come to visit for several months-not since he had told them the news of Émilie’s death. At first she was so confused that she neglected to stand. But Madeleine soon remembered herself, stood, and curtsied, relinquishing her best chair to her distinguished caller.
“To what do I owe this honor?” she asked. “Tea, girl … Or would you prefer some wine?” Madeleine turned on her most practiced smile for St. Paul’s benefit.
“It has simply been too long since I was a guest in your … home,” he said. “I believe these are new curtains?”
“Why, thank you, sir! They are indeed! I hope you are well?” Madeleine felt a little flush of pleasure. She knew that she had been impolite to the count when he was last there, that she had been unable so much as to look at him for fear of losing control of herself, of giving in to a grief that was completely private, and she was happy to have this chance to show him that she could be gracious.
“I am in excellent health. But of course, I did not come here to talk about my health or your furnishings!” St. Paul said, giving Madeleine a knowing look.
She felt herself blush. The man was presumptuous, and she knew he was toying with her: after all, she was several years older than he. It annoyed her that she could not help responding to his provocative behavior. “Where is that girl with our tea?” she said, rising from her chair and starting toward the kitchen.
As she passed by St. Paul, he reached out and caught her by the wrist. “I am afraid that I must open a subject that may give you pain. You see, I look upon you as a friend of a particular sort …”
The luthier’s wife looked at the fine gentleman who did more to raise the tone of her parlor than all the upholstered furniture in the world and wondered what on earth he could be talking about. She gently but firmly withdrew her wrist from his grasp. She was not so blinded by flattery that she could not tell when she was being worked on.
“It concerns your daughter-your late daughter.”
Madeleine said nothing but waited for him to continue.
“I fear that all was not as it at first appeared,” he said, pausing as the maid put the tea tray down on the table and Madeleine poured them each a dish.
“How so, Monsieur le Comte?” asked Madeleine, bringing St. Paul his tea. The memory of Hortense’s revelation was fresh in her mind. She realized that she must be careful. She did not want to give anything away unless she knew it was safe to do so.
“Well, simply that dear, sweet Émilie, whose voice held such promise, may not have taken her own life.”
“What exactly are you suggesting?”
“I mean to say that it may simply have been an accident.”
St. Paul’s expression was damnably blank. Madeleine could not read it. “My poor, poor child,” she said, taking a lace-edged handkerchief out of her sleeve and blowing her nose in it loudly. “What makes you suspect this?”
“Ah, there are mysteries in death, just as in life. One of the ladies at court—a very sober, trustworthy lady, you understand—had a vision, in which Émilie appeared to her.”
Madeleine’s mind worked furiously, although she did an excellent job of maintaining her outward composure. What if Hortense had really seen a ghost? Or what if St. Paul was trying to trip her up, to get her to confirm that Émilie was now in Paris?
“If only, if only my child would come back to me!” said Madeleine, standing and walking to the window. She felt a sudden need to have her back to St. Paul.
“I am so sorry to distress you,” said St. Paul, who rose and approached Madeleine. When he reached her, he placed his hand lightly on her shoulder and then let it slide gently down her back. “If you, or anyone you know in Paris, should have any similar visions, it would help us greatly in our effort to clear Mademoiselle Émilie of the heinous charge of self-murder if you were to tell us about it, right away.” His mouth was so near her ear that she could feel his warm breath as he spoke.
She turned abruptly and stepped away before St. Paul’s hand reached her buttocks. “I can assure you, kind sir, that if I had seen, or if I do see, any vision of my daughter, you will be the first to know.”
Madeleine’s eyes met St. Paul’s. Without speaking, he reached into his coat and drew out a small leather bag. He turned away from Madeleine and walked to the table, where he deposited the bag.
“I have long wanted to make you a special present to help you over the grief of your daughter’s death,” he said, bowing courteously.
Madeleine walked over to the table and picked up the bag. It was heavy. Before, his gifts had been mere tokens. This was something more troubling. She knew from her past encounters with the count that his flirtation was not serious. Nothing ever came of his whispered attentions. And in truth, although she had been flattered, she found his prissy foppishness a little repugnant. For all his rough simplicity, Marcel was much more to Madeleine’s taste. She held the pouch out
to St. Paul. “Now that I am in a more respectable position in society, I find it imprudent to accept gifts from men who are not my husband, even those who are as thoughtful and generous as you.”
St. Paul stared at the pouch for a moment before taking it from her.
“Good day,” said Madeleine.
Once the door had shut behind him, Madeleine went to the window and looked down at the street, watching as the nobleman climbed back into his coach while passersby stared. She was certain that she would never see that handsome young man again. particular, as he helped himself to a large pinch of snuff and indulged in a noisy sneeze. It was clear that Madeleine Jolicoeur knew something. She looked guarded. The woman was shrewd, there was no denying it. It would not have surprised him if she had seen her daughter, if she had even known all along where Émilie was hiding. In spite of himself, St. Paul had to admire her perception, her ability to realize the point at which she should back away. He had been too obvious; it would have worked better if he had kept up his visits, however distasteful, instead of arriving after all those months. A rare miscalculation.
“I don’t need her,” St. Paul said aloud, as his coach picked up speed on the road to Versailles. “Everything will turn out just as I plan.”
St. Paul’s unexpected visit put Madeleine in a state. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved, angry, guilty, frightened, or elated. Émilie must be alive. Why else would the count have tried so obviously to pump her for information? He must have thought she was stupid. Madeleine burned with shame to think she had been taken in by him.
The idea that Émilie had not died filled her with joy. But there was something about the whole mysterious affair, something that stopped her from rushing to the workshop that instant to tell Marcel. She knew he was devoted to their daughter and that to deprive him of the happiness of knowing she still lived was cruel. But Madeleine was afraid. Afraid that her daughter would involve them in some illicit activity that would endanger them both. She asked herself what good it would do for Émilie to return to them. She would not want to work, and it was dishonorable for a grown woman to live with her mother, unless she was a widow. Madeleine even had a fantasy that it really was only Émilie’s spirit that had paid them a visit, that St. Paul had been telling her the truth. Although this was preposterous, still she could not understand why a man like St. Paul would lie about a poor young woman’s fate. What was Émilie to him?
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