Duncannon was just stretching his aching feet to the fire before the command tent, when up dashed a young officer whose clean uniform indicated he had come from one of the ships held in reserve. “Captain Duncannon,” this young lieutenant exclaimed, doffing his hat. “I am finally caught up with you. Lt. Bailey, premier of the sloop-of-war Dido. Sir Hyde Parker has been holding me for dispatches for London, or I would have tried to get this post to you sooner. I was handed it along with dispatches from the First Lord,” he said, proffering a ribbon-tied sheaf of letters.
As Duncannon took the letters, Bailey added, “I’m told the stained one came out of a packet from the Med, nearly swamped by a gale at the Rock, and then escaped being snapped up by the French by running aground off Malta. It took until spring tide to get them off.”
Captain Duncannon thanked the lieutenant, invited him to partake of the wretched boiled coffee, and then, as everyone else seemed busy with other things, bent his attention to the letters. The top two were from Yorkshire.
From long habit he pitched them unread into the fire. The third was from a solicitor whose name was familiar. Curious, Duncannon opened this letter, to discover that a great uncle—a retired admiral—had left his entire fortune to “my only nephew worth a damn.”
These words, written in the precise legal hand, caused Duncannon to throw back his head and laugh aloud. Heads turned, and he smothered his mirth, begging pardon. A fortune? That was unexpected, to say the very least!
With heightened expectation, he turned his attention to the fourth, a much-battered, water-stained missive bearing an official stamp from Naples. With a sigh, he recollected the burden of his false marriage, and slit the seal.
The handwriting was a neat clerk’s fist, and it said everything he had least wished to see: there was no Mrs. Duncannon anywhere in Naples, within the palace or out of it. No one in the new legate’s staff claimed any knowledge of a Mrs. Duncannon. If there ever had been such a woman, she appeared to have vanished, and the unknown fellow had the infernal impudence to sign this missive Your very obedient servant to command, before the scrawled name.
The captain leaned forward to lay the letter on the fire, then paused. He had it: Dafoe, Duflot. Could this be the impressed French boy that his bride, what was her name? The boy she had requested him to locate?
He got to his aching feet and crossed to the area where the seamen had congregated to eat the salt pork and peas someone had brought over from the Ganges.
“Michel Duflot?” Captain Duncannon asked, giving the French pronunciation.
The slim youngster with the broken arm and the black pigtail glanced up, and seeing a superior officer, set aside his mess-kid and rose slowly to his feet, the firelight reflecting in his black eyes.
“Sit down,” Captain Duncannon said, and took a seat in a camp chair that a lieutenant vacated. Lowering his voice, he said, “I took you for a Guernseyman, or some such. You are in fact French?”
Duflot said, “I am. But if you are asking if I am a Frenchman, pah!” He turned his head aside to spit. “If being a Frenchman means following Boney. It was he who caused my uncles to die in Italy and in Egypt, and for what? My father, too, though his death was a blessing.” His sharp face tightened with hatred. “My father roasts with the devil, but Boney is still alive, sending good men after him. Though I was born in Lyons, I am no Frenchman.”
Duncannon rarely acted on impulse, but the youngster had proved immensely useful—and Duncannon now, apparently, had the wherewithal to allow himself some indulgences, like setting a decent table at last, and collecting prime crew between commissions. “What are you rated?”
Duflot’s chin came up. “This year, I am rated able seaman. Foretop, starboard watch.”
“Bellona is going to be in repairs for a time, and you will be useless for knotting and splicing.” Captain Duncannon indicated his sling. “If I am to continue in my present command, I happen to be in want of a yeoman of the sheets, and already you have demonstrated a knack for organization. Shall I speak to your captain?”
“To go aboard a crack frigate, me?” Duflot’s grin flashed. “Thank you, sir, I like me that ver-ry well.”
o0o
Anna’s success, while not as spectacular as that of Mrs. Billington or La Catalani, whose fame was spreading faster and farther across Europe than Bonaparte’s troops, had insured that she had steady work.
As spring ripened into summer, one morning Madame de Pipelet came to Anna’s room, sat on the bed and told her sorrowfully that she was leaving Paris with her husband-to-be. “This is no longer my Paris. It is becoming the Paris of the First Consul, a military capital. Fewer newspapers, and I am told that theaters are being told what they may produce, and what not. There is even talk of licensing again.” She shook her head, sadly regarding the strange Egyptian figureheads at either end of the reclining couch. “But what can I do? I am telling you straight away, that you must find somewhere else to live,” she finished.
Anna carried the bad news with her to rehearsal at Théâtre Dupree, and asked the rest of the company if anyone knew where she could get a room.
She was aware of a couple of the dancers whispering furiously, as Madame Dupree flung her hands wide. “We have too tiny a house, and so many people in it already.”
That, Anna knew already from gossip around the theater. The Duprees had sent all four of their children to convent schools in Belgium, where there were still convent schools to be found. She was hoping they could give her advice, but they seemed to know nothing about renting rooms.
No one else had any ideas to offer, or apparently any real interest. Anna caught glances from the two dancers, specifically from the thin dark-haired one whose sarcastic comments Anna had already noticed. The dancer stared back at Anna with a hostile expression, a contrast to the dancer with the pretty auburn curls, who regarded Anna with ready sympathy.
Anna kept her disappointment to herself. Parrette would surely find something. She was resourceful. And so Anna turned her mind to rehearsal.
At the end, she was surprised to discover the auburn-haired dancer next to her. “The rooms next to ours are free, just yesterday. The Hôtel Foulon. Don’t tell Lise I told you!”
She flitted away.
Anna was tempted to ignore the advice, but when she reached Madame’s that night, it was to discover that Parrette had had no luck. “Everything is so very costly, or far away, or there was some man offering in a way I found very evil.”
Anna told her what the dancer had said.
“The Foulon? That is near to the Lyri-Comique.” Parrette pursed her lips. “I admit, it is a perfect location. If dancers stay there, then it cannot be too costly, for they are worse paid even than singers. I am only afraid what other costs there might be,” she said with a dire frown.
Whatever those were, they must not have been insurmountable, Anna discovered the next day, for Parrette said that she had engaged the rooms. “Rooms! It is no more than a closet with a pimple of a box adjoining. Barely enough for a bed, not even a bed and a trunk. But the outer room has a window even if it looks out upon the alley, and while it is right under the roof, that means it will stink less in summer. We shall do very well.”
A couple of weeks later, patroness and protégé parted amid tears, Anna genuinely sorry to be losing Madame de Pipelet.
“And I am desolated to be drawn away just as I am to witness your rising star of fame,” Madame said, kissing Anna.
By then Anna and Parrette had moved their few possessions to the Hôtel Foulon. Anna soon discovered that the auburn-haired dancer, Hyacinthe, and the thin, sarcastic Lise, lived on the same landing. Hyacinthe expressed delight to find Anna close by, but Lise ignored Anna.
Through Hyacinthe, who seemed to be friends with everyone in the Foulon, Anna discovered the best places to eat cheaply, an affordable laundry (that Parrette oversaw with formidable care) and many other useful details about life in Paris for those living perilously on a pittance. Best of al
l, how to gain entry to all the theaters to watch, enjoy, and to learn.
Parrette would not say why she distrusted the dancers, but she slowly unbent toward Hyacinthe, to the extent of offering to repair one of her two good gowns when they found Hyacinthe early one morning sitting on the top stair and weeping, the cheap muslin clutched in her hands.
Parrette completely remade the flimsy, badly sewn gown, going to the trouble of adding bits of ribbon that she had acquired in her constant bargain hunting.
The result looked so smart that within a week, an actress who lived on the floor below knocked on the door. When Parrette answered, the woman said, “Hyacinthe told me that you are the one who turned that old India-muslin of hers. Will you do that for me?”
Parrette glanced at Anna, who was brushing out her hair. Then she looked back, straightened her shoulders, and said, “I charge dressmaker prices.”
The actress shrugged. “You are a better seamstress than Gertrud,” naming the local seamstress.
By week’s end, six women had come to her for their gowns to be remade. She began building a tidy little sum.
The beginning of the next week, a brisk knock at the door revealed Lise. She held out a torn gown of cheap silk. “Can you repair that?”
Anna walked past and started down the long flights of stairs. She found Lise rude and unpleasant, but she would not interfere in Parrette’s budding business.
As summer storms gave way to autumn sunshine, Anna continued to model herself on Josephine Bonaparte, viewed from the distant galleries when Anna attended the theater.
One morning she went early to Theater Dupree ahead of the first cool rain of the season. Mornings were when the dancers took the stage for their own practice. Anna had been watching them during rehearsals. Alone in her room she tried to copy their graceful airs, the way they tripped so lightly about the stage, but was frustrated. She felt awkward, and when she set up her tiny looking glass to lean on her trunk against the wall, and looked into it, her heart sank at her clownish poses, all elbows and knees.
Lise talked to the other dancers as they turned their laced hands out and stretched arms and back, apparently ignoring the unwanted visitor.
Hyacinthe, seeing her standing in the wings, came over, her wide eyes greenish in the diffuse light. “Anna! You are early. Is there a rehearsal I did not know about?”
Anna shook her head. “I was hoping I might practice with you girls, before the men come in.”
At this, Lise halted the pretense of not listening, and advanced on Anna. Her sharp features flushed; even angry, Lise seemed to float.
“What, do you intend to dance as well as sing, and thus shut us out of our places? Or are you aiming to dazzle Vestris at the Opera? And a lot of luck you will have!”
“No.” Anna lifted her arms. “I only want to move the way you do, on stage. I thought if I attended your morning rehearsal, it might benefit me.”
“Why should she not?” Hyacinthe asked.
One side of Lise’s mobile mouth curled up. “Why, be welcome!” She made an airy movement, and curtseyed mockingly. “But at the back. Out of our way. See if you can keep up,” she added.
Lise, though younger than some of the dancers, was their acknowledged leader. The women arrived first, the only time they could claim the entire stage for themselves. The stage was bitterly cold, but they soon warmed themselves, and the air around them, by working hard.
The girls’ dance practice began easily enough, with the five positions and repetitive movements that Anna thought must train the foot and the arm. Before long they became more difficult, especially the bends, and the lifting of legs. Anna began sweating, her plain rehearsal gown twisting unpleasantly about her, the seams pressing warningly against her flesh and threatening to rip. Now she understood why the dancers wore knitted hose under short skirts, and loose blouses.
Several times she nearly gave up, but then caught a smug, mocking glance from Lise, which kindled her determination. Lise wanted her to quit. Therefore she wouldn’t.
After an interminable time her muscles trembled so much she knew she would have to quit or drop right there on the stage, but then new voices echoed from the side entrance, and there was M. Dupree, rushing around madly as he always did, and mopping his balding head with a snowy linen handkerchief.
The dancers withdrew, obviously ready for the real rehearsal. Anna could scarcely walk. She slipped into the wings, grateful for once that her singing part was small.
Rehearsal even so took all her strength. Climbing those long flights of stairs to her room hurt so much that she had to lean on the bannister to catch her breath at every landing. When at last she stumbled into their room and fell on the bed, her legs twitching with pain, Parrette looked up from her stool by the window, where she was sewing. “What happened to you?”
Anna told her.
Parrette’s black brows drew together, reminding Anna of Lise, which caused a bubble of laughter that she was too tired to release. “As your dear mother used to say in English, that girl is no better than she should be,” Parrette stated.
“And what is meant by that?”
“Never mind.” Parrette sniffed. “I think your idea is good, but you can do just as well without those foolish dancers.”
By then the stiffness had set in, and Anna almost cried out with the pain when she stooped to take off her shoes. But she said, “I mean to try it again. I think I might need hose, like theirs, and a tunic. Do you know where to find such?”
Parrette threw her hands heavenward. But by next morning, Parrette had traded for the first, and whipped together the second from Anna’s oldest gown.
Anna was there early, though she wondered if her muscles might shred like rotten fabric. She gritted her way through the morning, and each morning thereafter. It hurt so much she moved badly on stage instead of gracefully.
But on the third day, Hyacinthe whispered, “It was that way for us all. And it is worse at the Opera! The great Vestris works them until their feet bleed, every day! You will get used to it.” She twirled, light and graceful as a butterfly.
I am going to move in that way, Anna thought determinedly. If I strengthen my body, surely it will strengthen my voice.
The days slid into winter and the dancing gradually became easier. Anna also learned that though no dancer had any grand title, and no ‘birth’ to speak of, there was just as strict a hierarchy among them as in any court. The dancers always took the same places, Philippe, the handsome, mercurial premier danseur, and the other two male dancers in front. Until it was time for company dance rehearsals, the men held completely aloof from the women, of whom Lise and willowy, light-haired Ninon were rival leaders.
Lise and Ninon hated each other. They never spoke to the other if it could be avoided. Anna saw that taking the lowest place effectively removed her from the silent competition that existed between many of the dancers. She was safe in their indifference, learning more each day.
7
Presently the last snow of the winter sent white drifts scudding down the Boulevard. Signs of spring began to appear. One morning Anna, huddled in her pelisse, became aware that her legs did not hurt. She still was not certain the dancing made her look any better on stage, but at least she could get through the dance practice without aching. And she finished the long day less tired.
That, unexpectedly, created a new problem.
Hearing through her open window the faint echoes of people strolling the Boulevard and having a good time made her restless. The sun was now setting later each day, and all the trees and flowers in tiny garden pots began to bloom. Paris was magical at night, everyone said, but she did not see it.
By 28 Germinal, Year X, or Easter of 1802, when Napoleon restored the churches and Parrette could once again attend Mass without fear of being arrested, once again Paris resounded with church bells—those that had not been melted down to make cannon.
On April 6th, everyone “went to Longchamps.”
Hyaci
nthe invited Anna to witness the parade along the Champs d’Elysées. The dancers put together their scant money to hire a fiacre, and in this they dashed along, gazing at carriages decorated with ribbons and flowers. The celebrative crowd streamed along the road toward the valley leading to the Bois de Boulogne. Here and there on grassy areas other dancers in floating classical tunics danced and posed, wreaths and leaves in their hair, pretending to be figures of mythological times.
Afterward all Paris streamed back to the cafés and theaters. The soft spring air was filled with little lights, and the sounds of music and laughter.
At such times, Paris was magical, and Anna loved it all.
And yet it was not a fairy tale, however much it might look that way at night. Anna had had too many dire warnings from Parrette about wandering alone on the boulevard, much less the streets of Paris. She sat disconsolately on the landing late one evening, while the theater stage was being redone. Anna was going over the music of the new production so that Parrette could spread fabric out in the tiny room.
As she sat there, humming the music and trying to get it by memory, the door behind her opened. Lise and Hyacinthe, both dressed smartly, stepped past her. Their voices and laughter floated up the stairs as they descended to the street for a stroll on the Boulevard with their friends.
Anna watched them wistfully, then made herself return to her task.
The next morning, when Anna left to go to dance practice, she heard quick steps behind her. She was surprised to find Lise’s dark gaze on her. Anna sidestepped so that Lise could pass, but instead, the dancer matched Anna’s pace.
“Is Parrette Duflot your maid or your duègne?” Lise asked abruptly when they got outside in the brisk wind that presaged rain.
Anna’s mother had taught her during the rough and tumble days in the royal nursery that part of deflection was to answer insulting questions as if they had been put in a charitable tone. What are they really asking? Mother had said. Answer that, if you can. If you cannot? Deflect, disengage, retreat.
Rondo Allegro Page 7
