At the end of a trying day, with everyone struggling through a lifeless performance before a half-empty theater, Monsieur Dupree gathered his company and declared that this week would see the last of Médée. “It’s simply too hot for the tragedy of the Terror. We shall bring back La Caverne, or another reliable republican opera.”
The night of the new staging, Anna reached her dressing room, which—being high up, almost directly under the roof—was hotter than an oven, to discover herself nearly crowded out by three bouquets. The heady scent of flowers, the beauty of the blossoms which were still miraculously fresh, and above all the extravagant romance of the gesture succeeded in banishing Anna’s ill-temper.
Then Parrette appeared, and, with arms crossed combatively over her spare bosom, muttered, “So he is trying to buy your favors with flowers?”
Anna’s good mood vanished like a candle snuffed. “That is so hateful!”
“Or is he in on the wager?” Parrette retorted, and stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Pierre Dupree admitted to me this morning that they are wagering hundreds upon Auguste’s success with you. Double if they hit upon a specific date.”
Anna’s lips parted as she drew breath for a denial, then she remembered Auguste’s careless words. He had even admitted that they had already had a wager about her. She frowned at the innocent blossoms. Surely, if Auguste loved her the way she loved him, he would not make wagers over her, or was that the way all men behaved?
She decided to ask Lise after the performance.
“We cannot move about in here,” Parrette said, regarding the bouquets askance. “I will take them downstairs. In this heat, they will be wilted before the first act is over.”
“Thank you,” Anna said stiffly.
Parrette gave her a long look, picked up the flowers and went out.
There was the last performance to ready for, the more exasperating as Anna’s costume clung to her sticky flesh. Everyone was in a temper, she discovered when she gathered in the wings. Even the orchestra seemed to play a half a beat too fast, and a quarter-tone sharp. Or maybe it sounded wrong in the humid air.
The curtain opened, and there were the chasseurs, resplendent as always, filling the front rows. From the smell of wine on the heated air, they had been fighting the summer heat in their own manner, and as the performance began, rustling, clanking weapons, and not-very-muffled laughter caused some of the others in the audience to whisper and cry, “Hush.”
“Hush yourself. Or step outside and hush me up.” That was one of the chasseurs.
Anna’s entrance followed on raucous laughter.
“Shut up, now,” Auguste said audibly. “That I may worship my divinity.”
More laughter. Anna straightened her spine, inflated her ribs, and sang with more power than she ever had.
At the close of the act, the chasseurs stomped and called “Brava!”
Madame Dupree looked impatient as she took Anna aside. “Filling the hall is good, if the upper galleries had anyone in them. Not so shrill.”
Shrill! Anna knew she was not shrill. Her temper flared. The house seemed hotter than ever, the smells irritating; even the candles gave off a singe that seemed to burn the throat.
Anna clipped her lips tight against a retort, turned away so abruptly that she trod on her gown. R-i-i-i-p!
It needed only that.
Parrette was there at once, needle ready—but then her arm sank down as she sagged in dismay. The simple gown had ripped to the arms, and in the next act, the Handmaids participated in a frenetic dance. Hasty basting would never do. “There’s bound to be a gown in Adelaide’s trunk,” she whispered, naming a dancer who had had to quit due to a bad fall. “I’ll fetch it.”
Tears burned Anna’s eyelids. She knew how much work her moment’s fit of temper would cause. And though she could assuage her sense of guilt by offering to do the sewing, she knew very well that Parrette would refuse. No one made tiny, exquisite stitches like hers.
She slipped away as the actors rushed to take their marks for the beginning of the next act; at least she had a few measures in which to blot her eyes and get control of herself. She wandered into the farthest storage area with its jumble of ancient painted flats, broken props, and stacks of old wood waiting to be reused.
She walked without aim, wiping at her eyes lest they get puffy. She sneezed three times in a row, the stinging scent of candles set too close to wood sharpening into the acrid stench of smoke. There was no light. The air blurred oddly. Anna blinked, her eyes stinging. Alarm prickled the back of her neck, and she peered into the thick darkness. Horror flashed through her when she spied a murky red glow.
In that brief flare, she discovered billows of smoke reaching upward from pale licks of flame outlining an old three-legged chair.
“Fire,” she whispered, and then, running back to catch the arm of the curtain boy, “Fire!” She pointed with shaking fingers.
The curtain boy dashed up to M. Dupree, his voice cracking on the word, “Fire!”
He had not spoken that loud, but from Anna’s vantage, it appeared that the first two rows had been listening for it. As she watched in astonishment, the chasseurs rose almost in a body, and surged through the surprised musicians, knocking several of them over, then stampeded onto the stage.
“To the rescue!” Auguste roared, waving his sword.
The music ended in discordancy. The performers either froze in place, or backed away hastily as the soldiers rushed off into the wing, half of them straight for the fire, and the rest running to this or that pretty young dancer or singer.
Auguste reached Anna in half a dozen great strides, then swung her off her feet. “You are safe!” he cried, as backstage, the chasseurs made a hullabaloo as they grabbed at the buckets of brackish water that all theaters kept against frequent fires, and splashed it about.
Anna squirmed in her admirer’s arms, and he set her down.
She ran a few steps forward, the truth borne in on her through the shock and amazement. At the sight of M. Dupree’s pale, drawn face, anger seared Anna, every bit as bright as the flames. Defer and deflect were forgotten before the glory of righteous indignation.
“That fire,” she cried. “You set that fire! You could have burnt us alive!”
Her regal gesture took in the ‘rescued’ dancers, some of whom were laughing, and others kissing their supposed rescuers.
“Come now, love, all is well that ends well,” Auguste said, white teeth flashing as he advanced toward Anna, hands out-held in appeal. “It’s too cursed hot for caterwauling. Let us go celebrate your surviving a terrible danger!”
“Caterwauling?” Anna backed away toward the performers’ door, more truth unfolding like a terrible black flower. His compliments about her glorious voice— “I thought you loved my voice. That you loved me,” she cried, trembling from head to foot.
“I do!” Auguste flung his arms wide. “I will! For at least an hour!”
The soldiers burst into laughter, followed by many of the cast, though more of the men than the women.
Auguste looked around, never more handsome than when he was flushed with triumph. He laid his hand on his breast in dramatic style. “For a soldier, an hour is forever.”
Her singing was nothing to him! Anna whirled away in her torn dress, spied the three bouquets lined up by the door, and snatched up the closest. “That is forever!” she cried, and hurled the vase at Auguste. “And that!” The second vase followed.
Greenish water splashed his splendid regimental coat, as flowers cascaded over him. M. Dupree struck his palm over his eyes, and Anna gave vent to a hysterical laugh.
The rest of the chasseurs howled and hooted with mirth. Auguste smiled, his teeth showing white and strong, the enormous pupils in his blue eyes reflecting tiny flames from the overhead lamps as he said, “Mes amis! We must scour the place, and make certain there is no more danger from fire!”
He stalked off, heels ringing on the warped boards of the floor,
the last of the roses streaming off his pelisse. The chasseurs gave a great shout, and dashed hither and yon.
Sick with dread, M. Dupree followed, trying to apologize, to remonstrate, but Auguste gave him a one-handed shove, knocking him spinning into the painted flats. The nearest came crashing down onto the stage.
“Get out, get out,” M. Dupree cried hoarsely, as he struggled to rise from the ruined canvas. “They are going to run wild.”
Anna stared. “But—”
“Go to the street, Mademoiselle Bernardo,” M. Dupree said gently, then he, too, ran off, his voice rising as he called for the backstage workers, who stood about with the buckets emptied.
The laughter had ended. The deserted dancers streamed off-stage, talking excitedly, with many backward looks.
Anna started for the exit, then stopped. Parrette, Anna thought, looking around. She remembered the costume—Adelaide’s trunk, in the attic even farther away from her dressing room!
She ran for the stairs. The lantern was either out, or had been taken by the soldiers, whose raucous voices could be heard dispersing through the theatre, calling mockingly to one another. The stairs were entirely dark.
On her hands and knees, Anna groped her way up the narrow stairs, banging her head at the sudden turning.
At the top, a lantern still burned; grabbing it, she lit her way along the narrow catwalk, choking on the thick smoke. “Parrette! Parrette!” she croaked, coughing as her lungs burned.
After what seemed an endless time, a figure appeared out of the smoke, a bundle of cloth clutched in her arms. “I cannot find Adelaide’s trunk, but I did discover two—”
“Fire,” Anna cried, then bent double in a burst of coughing. “We must go.” She straightened up.
“Anna!” Parrette’s horror-stricken eyes gazed past Anna, whose nerves chilled as she looked behind her. Smoke boiled up the stairway Anna had been on moments before, flames eating greedily at the second landing below.
“Back stair,” Parrette said tersely, flinging the costume down.
They ran down the catwalk past the little alcove dressing rooms to the storage attic, and beyond that to the oldest portion of the attic, damaged in a fire during the Terror. There was no railing, and the floor creaked horribly, but M. Dupree had caused a ladder to be put there. It was still intact, though it only descended one floor, as its landing abutted the back of the stage.
Anna trembled in terror as she followed Parrette down, the swinging lantern in her hand making the shadows leap and writhe like ghost-fires. The edges of the stairs shifted with the light, and Anna had to feel her way with her toes. She dared not trust her burning, blurred eyes.
At the landing, Parrette threw herself to her knees, and groped for the ladder to the backstage. “Here! Here it is,” she cried. “Go first.”
“You go. I’ll light your way.”
Parrette nearly flung herself down the ladder, and Anna tried not to step on her fingers as she followed, one hand clutching the lantern, the other gripped tightly to the splintery wood.
Whirls of smoke obscured the backstage floor. Ruddy flickers glowed hither and yon. The once-familiar area was strange now, its proportions changed to nightmare by smoke and fire.
Terror sharpened every sound, every sense, rendering the flames, the grain of withering wood, the cascade of evilly glowing sparks with a dream-like clarity.
Anna gasped for breath, heat searing her throat as she groped toward distant voices. Ten steps felt like a hundred, a thousand, until they fell through the door into the street, where the entire company stood aghast. Flames licked from the windows, sending towering billows of smoke up to blot the stars from the sky. All up and down the boulevard, crowds streamed out of the cafés and even from some of the bigger theaters to take in the free show.
Anna watched the old theatre consumed by flames, as frantic workers from the theaters at either side worked to keep the blaze from spreading. The roar, the heat, the groans of old wood caused cheers to go up, more enthusiastic than the best performance Médée had ever inspired.
Slowly the discrete details assembled into a whole, and Anna saw that the chasseurs were gone, their laughter echoing behind them. Lise, Hyacinthe, and a couple of the younger dancers had gone off with them, arm in arm, as if to a party—sixteen-year-old Marie-Claude giggling admiringly up at Auguste.
Anna’s body ached from temple to heels from the knocks she hadn’t noticed in her escape. Gradually the truth forced itself into her consciousness: there would be no rehearsal tomorrow. Auguste had not loved her, he had probably not even liked her singing. Everything had been a sham, for a wager, an hour’s tumble.
And the Théâtre Dupree was no more.
With a thunderous roar, the building collapsed, sending fierce heat boiling out. The spectators scrambled backward, shouting and cheering as sparks spiraled upward toward the sky in phoenix brilliance, but unlike the phoenix, the fire was not reborn. It was soon reduced to fitful tongues of flame here and there, and gradually the crowd dispersed.
Anna turned away, her eyes burning. It was the smoke, she told herself fiercely. She would not weep. She would shed no tears for a worthless liar.
She and Parrette walked in silence back to the Foulon. When they reached their room, Anna stripped out of the ripped, ruined costume. When she breathed out, she smelled smoke. She sank down onto the floor, becoming aware for the first time of her head aching.
“Anna?” Parrette said gently. “You saved my life. I would still be in that attic, if you had not come.”
“Then I did one right thing today,” Anna said, her throat raw. “In a catalogue of many stupidities.” She lifted her head, and tried to laugh. It came out sounding more like a sob, so she drew in another painful breath. “Scélérat! All I will say is, falling in love resembles the smallpox. But I am now well inoculated,” she finished bitterly.
10
Anna woke to the sound of a thunderstorm rumbling overhead. She lay still, her head pounding, her eyelids aflame. Every bone and muscle ached. She would have to send a message to Maestro Paisiello, for her throat was too raw for singing.
She sat up slowly, appalled at the dark bruises marring her arms. She didn’t remember getting a one of them in that terrifying escape from the burning theater.
The smell of fresh bread reached her. She had to be dreaming.
She turned her head to discover Parrette gently closing the door, a basket on her arm.
Parrette advanced into the room and set the basket down. As Anna watched listlessly, Parrette set out a fresh tart, some excellent cheese from the north, and a spray of plump berries. “Come. Eat up.”
Anna winced. “Oh, I smell of burned wood.”
“We’ll go to the baths—the Vigier. I will pay.” Parrette’s voice was unwontedly soft as she named the finest bath in the first arrondissement. “Once you eat. Pierre was by, and he told me to tell you that Monsieur Dupree is calling a company meeting at midday.”
“To blame me for the fire?” Anna groaned. “I know it is my fault.”
“It’s that yellow-haired satyr’s fault,” Parrette said with a shade of her old spirit. Then she lowered her voice again. “Anna, you saved my life. You could have left me there.”
Anna sat up the rest of the way. “But you saved me again and again when we crossed the mountains and came into France. I think I should have expired but for you.”
Parrette said, “That was for us both, and my promise to La Signora Eugenia, your dear mother.” She frowned down at the fruit on the little cracked plate. Then she looked up. “Trust comes hard to me. Looking out for myself is . . .” She shook her head. “I am saying it wrong. I think, Anna, what I mean is that I always see you as a girl, and of late I know I have scolded you as if you were fifteen.”
“I think I have behaved as if I were fifteen,” Anna said, her entire body prickling with shame.
“That’s as may be. But I see you differently now. I think La Signora would be very proud of yo
u,” she finished, and then, as if she felt she’d said too much, she poked a finger at the food. “Eat now, before it all goes stale in this heat. I think the storm is passing by. All I hear now are drips.”
The rain had cleared off. With good food inside her, and her outside considerably improved by a thorough soak among the lofty pillars of the Vigier, Anna felt measurably better when they returned to the Foulon. She still smelled smoke when she breathed out, but the repaired costume had been sent to the laundry, and Parrette had brushed her shoes thoroughly.
At length she said, “What do you want to do?”
“Sing,” Anna stated. “More than ever. But first I believe I owe it to M. Dupree to face whatever it is he has to say. You can blame the chasseurs all you like, but it was I who flung those flowers in Auguste’s face, and that after being warned not to trust them.”
“Very well,” Parrette said. “But I will go with you.”
They found Pierre lounging against a scorched tree trunk before the ruined theater, watching as a gaggle of urchins poked about in the ashy pools among the charred ruins. When he saw Anna, he smiled. “They are all at the Egalité café. M. Dupree is waiting.”
The café was farther down the boulevard, the aproned servers busy putting out chairs as Anna and Parrette threaded through the outside tables to duck through the door.
Inside, they found most of the company gathered, including all the dancers, Lise looking puffy-eyed, and Hyacinthe yawning.
M. Dupree came to meet them, as the others chattered.
“I am so sorry,” Anna said as soon as M. Dupree reached her.
“I am, too, but it was going to happen.” He lifted his shoulders fatalistically. “Madame was even counting the days. Ah, and to have it happen not from an untended candle, or a dropped spark, but as a result of such a magnificent gesture against those beasts!” The impresario kissed his fingers and flung wide his hands. “It was a privilege to witness.”
Rondo Allegro Page 11
