And how was she to tell her husband? What would he say if he knew that Hortense had seen Émilie a month ago, and she had said nothing? “Last week. That’s it. I’ll tell him last week.”
“Did you want something, Madame?” The maid entered the room when she overheard her mistress, whom she knew to be alone.
“What? No. Nothing.” Madeleine resumed her restless pacing, shaking her head, knotting and unknotting her hands in front of her.
“Is anything the matter?” Marcel had returned for their midday meal and could not account for his wife’s behavior.
Madeleine continued her pacing. “There’s something I must tell you.”
“Yes?”
“It’s just that, well, you see, Hortense …”
“Is Hortense ill? You want to go to her?”
“No! It’s not Hortense, it’s something that Hortense saw, you see, it’s, it’s …”
“It’s what?”
“It’s Émilie!” The words exploded from her mouth.
“Émilie’s dead,” said Marcel.
“That’s just it! She’s not!”
Once the statement was out of her mouth, Madeleine let loose a stream of words so fast that her husband could hardly follow them. He heard something about St. Paul, and a cloaked, mysterious figure, but he could not string her sentences together in a way that made any sense at all. He was still trying to figure out what exactly his wife was saying to him when the maid walked into the parlor and cleared her throat.
“What is it, girl!” shrieked Madeleine.
“Dinner’s ready,” she said, and then went back into the kitchen to fetch the stew.
Madeleine stood in the center of the room like a diver at the edge of a cliff, suspended between action and inaction for a moment too brief to measure. By the time Marcel covered the space between them, she began to sob, great dry, heaving gasps, so that she could not draw in her breath. He shook her gently.
“It’s all right! We will find her. If you say she is alive, I believe you.”
All at once Madeleine’s tearless gulps became a torrent of weeping. Marcel wrapped his arms around his wife and let her collapse against his shoulder, allowing his own tears to fall onto her gray head. The young maid tiptoed around them and set their bowls of stew on the table, then returned to the kitchen, closing the door behind her.
Twenty-seven
Reconciliation with one’s enemies is nothing but a desire to improve our condition, a distaste for war, and a fear of some bad outcome.
Maxim 82
Sophie arose early the next morning and let herself out of the apartment before Charpentier awoke and Lucille arrived. She walked through the misty Paris streets in the direction of the rue des Rosiers. She knew a merchant there who was adept at converting questionable assets into liquid cash. Although she had never had a reason to visit Monsieur Rothargent before, several of the other women who walked the streets with her had mentioned him. It was not uncommon for prostitutes to supplement their incomes by relieving customers of their gold snuffboxes at the moment when they were least likely to notice. One prostitute prided herself on being able to satisfy her customers so completely that they did not even twitch when, while they were sunk in a deep, postcoital sleep, she removed their gold teeth. Sophie hastened to the fence’s establishment by a devious little route through the cellar of a house of ill repute. Although she had no reason to suspect someone was following her, she decided it was best not to take any chances.
The shop was closed, but Sophie knocked insistently until Monsieur Rothargent let her in. He was still dressed in his robe and nightcap. When Sophie placed the brooch on the table in front of him, he nearly dropped his loupe.
“Where did you get this, Mademoiselle?” he asked her.
“A friend gave it to me,” she answered, knowing that it sounded like the lie it was.
Monsieur Rothargent picked up the bird, letting the light catch it and peering through his glass into the hearts of the precious stones. “Your friend must be very fond of you indeed,” he said, as he continued his examination of the piece. After several minutes of silent contemplation, he blurted out, “Twenty-five écus.”
“But it’s worth much more than that!”
“Twenty-five écus, and I swear on my honor that I will never reveal whose hand this little bird flew from.”
Sophie was torn. She knew that the brooch was almost beyond price, because of the stones, the workmanship, and because of what it could mean to anyone who wanted to cause problems for Émilie and Charpentier.
“Thank you, but I’ve decided not to sell it,” she said, as she wrapped it up once more in the hankie and tucked it away in her bosom. She left quickly, taking a different route back. She stopped at a flower stall on the way, figuring she could use the errand as an excuse for her early excursion.
But her movements that morning did not go unremarked. Around the corner from the rue des Écouffes, St. Paul waited in his carriage for the spy he and Lully had engaged to let him know as soon as the couple made any move to flee Paris or as soon as the maid emerged so that she might be bribed. When instead of Lucille he saw Sophie leave the house at that early hour, the spy went immediately to St. Paul and informed him, so that by the time she returned from Monsieur Rothargent’s, the count was waiting for her a discreet distance away.
“Well! If it isn’t the pretty young maid with the delicate diges-tion!” Sophie’s misadventure with the king five years before had been the talk of the court for weeks.
“Ah, Monsieur de St. Paul. What a surprise. I’m afraid I have no time for pleasantries this morning.” Sophie walked on toward the house.
St. Paul grasped her arm. “I wonder if I might have a word with you? It could be well worth your while.”
Sophie did not like St. Paul. But something told her he could be useful if she decided to pursue her course of revenge against Émilie. “I have only a minute, and then I must return to my employers.”
“Let me guess. In the house you were seen to leave a little earlier, the only inhabitants who might be able to afford a lady’s maid would be the Charpentiers.”
“A lucky guess,” said Sophie as St. Paul led her down the street, away from the front door and toward the river. So, they were watching the house, she thought. That was a bad sign. Sophie wondered if Charpentier had seen the count. Surely St. Paul would not be so bold as to accost Émilie in her home. The image of Émilie helplessly waiting, weakened from her recent ordeal, suddenly loomed before Sophie.
“I wonder why you would do such a thing as go to work for a couple who are in hiding. Although it must be more pleasant than spreading your legs for all and sundry. I heard that you were dismissed from the Hôtel de Guise because of a pair of slippers.”
How did he know? Sophie said nothing, but she remembered that the count had been there when she returned with the “borrowed” slippers for Émilie. And doubtless he had his ways with the other servants at the Hôtel de Guise: that Mathilde would have been only too happy to tell him the story.
“I too have a score to settle with Mademoiselle Émilie. I thought, perhaps, that we could work together to achieve the result we both wish for.”
“And what result is that?” Sophie asked.
St. Paul stopped walking. “Riches, respect, and the utter annihilation of the little songbird and her milksop of a husband.”
“What, pray, did she do to provoke you?”
“Two things, really. She slipped through my fingers at a most inopportune moment. But that is not to the point. She has absconded with a certain valuable trinket, the possession of which could send her to the Bastille. We both know about her propensity for thievery.”
“And if you discovered this trinket in her possession?”
“She would be apprehended by the forces of the law and taken to the Bastille—to teach her a lesson, you understand, before her return to Versailles to fulfill her destiny.”
“What destiny is that?” Sophie was cu
rious as to why St. Paul was so concerned with something that, on the surface, had nothing to do with him. She knew how poor he was, so it was obvious that the brooch could not be his.
“That is for the king to say. Now, if you were able to locate this item in Mademoiselle Émilie’s possession, it could be worth, say, twenty-five louis?”
It was five times what the merchant on the rue des Rosiers had offered Sophie. But still she held back from just turning over the brooch to St. Paul there and then. In any case, it would surely be better for anyone who wanted to incriminate Émilie if the diamond bird were actually discovered in the apartment. Sophie told herself that this was why she did not reach into her cleavage and produce the item for St. Paul. “Your offer is very enticing.”
“Do we have a bargain?” St. Paul put his hand out to Sophie.
“I need time to think about it,” she said, curtseying to him politely before turning and walking back to the Charpentiers’ apartment with the diamond brooch jabbing uncomfortably into her left breast.
Sophie locked the door behind her when she entered the parlor. She was surprised to see Émilie up and seated at the table, drinking a dish of tisane.
“I feel so much better. Those flowers are lovely! Lucille never thinks of flowers.”
She looks pale, Sophie thought.
Charpentier came out of the bedroom, dressed for work at the Hôtel de Guise. “Are you certain you do not want to stay in bed one more day?” he asked his wife.
“No. With Sophie here I shall have someone to talk to. And really, I feel fine.”
“If she is tired, please make her go back to bed,” Charpentier said to Sophie. “I would stay here, but there is a soirée this evening at the Hôtel de Guise.” Émilie looked up at him. He saw the expression in her eyes and wished he had not said anything about the party. Charpentier kissed his wife on the forehead.
“Monsieur Charpentier,” said Sophie in a low voice, stopping him as he put his hand on the doorknob to leave.
“What is it?”
Sophie looked back and forth from Émilie to her husband. She was tempted to say something about St. Paul, that he was outside, waiting and watching. But to do so would close off her options. “I’ll take care of Mademoiselle Émilie,” she said.
Charpentier left.
Once she was alone with Émilie again, Sophie picked up her mending. Her mind worked furiously to think of a way to replace the brooch in Émilie’s drawer undetected.
“A cat! How wonderful!” To Sophie’s surprise, Monsieur le Diable walked right up to Émilie and rubbed against her legs. “Listen to him purr! He is singing, I think. I long to sing. You know,” she said looking up at Sophie, “my husband has written some beautiful airs for me.”
“So sing them,” Sophie said, breaking the thread in her teeth.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I thought you knew,” Émilie said.
Sophie peered through the eye of a needle and pulled the thread through. “Clearly I do not.”
“You see, no one is supposed to know I’m alive. If I sing, they will recognize me.”
Sophie did not lift her eyes from her work. “Who will hear you sing, all alone in here? And anyway, don’t they know now? About you?”
“You don’t understand,” said Émilie. “You know, I was thinking about something. About how to make it up to you, about the slippers.”
Sophie stopped what she was doing for a moment and glanced in Émilie’s direction.
“I don’t own much; there is little of value here. But there is something I could give you. I think it’s worth a lot. I’m afraid it might get you in trouble, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Something I carried away with me from Versailles, by accident.”
“Like the shoes, which you ruined by accident!” Sophie sniffed.
“Well, no. It was a gift, from the king. But still, I did not mean to take it.”
“A gift?”
“For singing. For singing, and for what he expected, later.”
Sophie put down her mending.
“I’d like to give it to you. I don’t need it. You’ll find it at the back of my handkerchief drawer, in my dressing table. My husband does not know I have it, so it won’t be missed.”
Sophie stood, preparing to go into the bedroom. But instead of doing what she knew would have been very easy, leaving Émilie in the parlor and pretending to reach into the back of the drawer to find the brooch, she stayed where she was, put her hand into her bodice, and pulled out the handkerchief with its concealed treasure. “You mean this?”
Émilie’s eyes widened.
“I found it, yesterday, while you were asleep.” Sophie sat down. “I was going to sell it this morning, but I couldn’t get enough money for it.” That’s it, Sophie thought. There’s no going back now.
She resumed her mending while Émilie sat in shocked silence. If Émilie’s enemy had been anyone beside St. Paul, Sophie might conceivably have decided to carry out her plan for revenge. But her intuitive dislike of the count was stronger by far than the anger born of the slipper fiasco. Had it not been for that episode, things between Sophie and Émilie might have been very different. They might have become friends, and perhaps Émilie would have engaged her as a maid and taken Sophie along on her rise to success at court. It seemed all wrong, suddenly, to be on opposite sides.
“I see,” Émilie said. “If you still want it, it’s yours.”
“If I could take just one of the stones, I could live for a year. As it is, I think it is a dangerous piece of property. Not just for me, but for you. You shouldn’t keep it either. Did you know that St. Paul was here? And that he asked about this?” Sophie held the treasure up to the light, and she thought the diamonds looked as though there were tiny fires burning in their hearts.
Charpentier was worried about Émilie. Although she seemed better, he’d never seen her so pale. He didn’t like to leave her, and yet he knew he had to perform his duties for the princess that evening or the alarm would surely be raised. He had done everything else François had told him to do. The doctor had warned him not to move Émilie, but clearly it was more dangerous for her to stay where she was. The carriage was arranged: all that was necessary was to go around to the stand after the soirée and show the driver the way to the rue des Écouffes. He would go with Émilie and Sophie out to the hamlet where a farmhouse stood, and where he had been assured no one would ever look for them. Then he was to return to his life at the Hôtel de Guise as if he had never been married, never fathered a child who perished before it was old enough to live. Charpentier did not know how long he would have to remain apart from his wife.
“Let us start with the second part, gentlemen, the courante. Now, not too fast. It’s not a gallop!” A low chuckle went through the ensemble. Charpentier began to beat the time.
“Pardon, Monsieur, but there is a gentleman here to see you.” A footman spoke quietly into Charpentier’s ear.
“Take a few moments’ rest,” said Charpentier at the end of the movement, and then he went to see who had come to visit him at such an awkward time.
When he entered his apartment, he was shocked to see Marcel Jolicoeur standing in its midst, his large frame dwarfing the small space. “Marcel! How may I help you?” Charpentier tried to sound casual, unconcerned.
“I am sorry to trouble you, Monsieur Charpentier, but I am here because my wife, Madeleine, believes-you will think us crazy, perhaps!—but she believes that Émilie did not die, that our daughter is alive.”
Charpentier went to his desk and pretended to shuffle the mess of papers into some sort of order. This he had not expected. He turned to Marcel.
“What made her think such a thing?”
“It is foolish, I know. A friend of hers thought she saw Émilie. And then, when Monsieur de St. Paul came to visit yesterday, and asked so many questions—”
“Please, be seated,” Charpentier interrupte
d Marcel. He had heard enough. “I know I can count on your discretion. You would never do anything that might harm Émilie.”
“Then it’s true! How long have you known? Why did you not tell us?” Marcel looked as though he might cry.
“I’m sorry. Truly I am. But when I tell you everything, I think you will understand. First I must finish the rehearsal. I will be no more than half an hour. Wait for me here. If you want tea, just ring for it.”
Before Marcel could protest, Charpentier left and returned to the ballroom to rehearse the final movement, and figure out how to tell Marcel what he needed to know without endangering him, and without jeopardizing Émilie’s safety.
Twenty-eight
There are few faults that are less pardonable than the means one uses to hide them.
Maxim 411
“I have an idea. About the brooch.”
Émilie and Sophie sat at the table in the Charpentiers’ parlor drinking hot chocolate and eating bread. Lucille was out doing the laundry at the river.
“You see, it cannot be found in your possession or in mine, now that St. Paul has gotten hold of me. They will use it to accuse you of stealing, and then you will have no power to defend yourself.”
“Surely they cannot be so wicked,” Émilie said, still shocked about everything Sophie had told her. What did it matter to all those important people where she was, or whether she lived or died?
“Oh yes, they can! I’m surprised you don’t see that, after everything that happened. But that is not to the point. Let us package it up in a box, and send it to Madame de Maintenon.”
Emilie's Voice Page 25
