Rondo Allegro

by Sherwood Smith

  When dawn’s light began to send pale shafts down through the broken roof, the rats vanished back into the corners, and they retired to sleep.

  Parrette shook Anna awake just before noon, when M. Dupree returned with a laden cart. “Why did you agree to that? It is a terrible comedown. Your mother would be grieved to see you demean yourself in those farces. They are low,” she whispered fiercely.

  Anna sneezed at the dust. Her eyes ached, and every prickle of hay was like the prod of a sewing needle in the back of the neck. “Because it is no more than they are required to endure.”

  Parrette, aware of her own conflicted views, said nothing to that. While she understood the justice of Anna’s view, she had promised to see the daughter of her beloved Signora Eugenia firmly established in the rank that the loving mother had always desired for her daughter. Acting in farces was the latest, and the worst, step down the road away from that goal, and Parrette saw herself as foresworn.

  But Anna was no longer a girl. She made her own decisions. Parrette bit her lip, striving to keep her turmoil hidden.

  After M. Dupree passed out some bread that seemed to be made of more sawdust than flour, and some very withered turnips and cabbages, they set about readying for the promised performance.

  “Perhaps if they like us, they will be more generous,” someone observed wryly.

  As M. Dupree went through the props with the prop master, Helene, impressed with her new responsibility, exhaustively talked Anna through the simple role. Helene’s motivation, Anna could not help but notice, seemed an act of unstudied friendship, and yet there were Therese’s derisive eyes watching.

  When Anna turned her way, Therese’s gaze shifted quickly and she began briskly brushing her hair.

  Anna did not have to perform that afternoon, but Ninon saw to it that Anna’s chance came at the next village. M. Dupree expressed surprise that Anna was willing to appear in the farce, but as her appearance in the opera was not until later in Act One, he did not occupy himself with the matter.

  Anna wore a low, coarse-woven blouse and a skirt shared among all the dancers. It was not particularly clean. She followed Eleanor into a heady atmosphere of wine in the stuffy, heated air.

  The farce went much as they usually did, received with roars of laughter and ribald commentary. They performed in a cleared space at what had been the local church, ruined by the revolutionary soldiers. The narrowness of the altar area had kept the performers on top of one another, after which the players had to pass down the chancel in order to get out through the transept perpendicular. Here the audience had crowded in with no organization. Anna followed Eleanor out again, picking her way with arms akimbo in hopes of warding off the fondling, grabbing hands of vinous men young and old, who clearly thought that grabbing at them was the best part of the festivities.

  Despite her best efforts, Anna was not as skilled at sidestepping as Eleanor; she found herself cut off by a would-be swain, a sizable man wearing a tanner’s apron.

  Before he could finish his blunt proposal, a small figure thrust her way between the men gathering in hopes of further fun.

  “There.” Parrette pointed over their heads at huge Marc Gris, who played an extra in the farce and operas, and who also managed the horses. Jean was at that moment overseeing the shift of props to the performance area for the opera. “That is her husband,” Parrette declared in the rough street accent of Lyons. “If she smiles at you, he will beat her black and blue.”

  “The devil,” roared the tanner.

  “After he kills you!” Parrette finished, hands on her hips, a sparrow squaring off to a bantam cock.

  The other men roared with laughter, and let them both pass.

  “Thank you,” Anna said, breathing in relief that the ordeal was over. “I never thought of lying.”

  Parrette grumbled, “Better you were not here at all.”

  Anna did not reply, but inwardly she was committing Parrette’s word and accent to memory as the dancers saluted her, exchanging their own unflattering comments about the men in the audience.

  Anna glanced as usual past M. Marsac, who watched her from the side, his lip curled faintly, and his head tilted back at an arrogant angle. He had no idea why Anna Bernardo, who reputedly had been raised in a palace, would so demean herself as to associate with that dancing rabble.

  There was another person whose reaction to Anna’s acceptance by the dancers was more thoughtful: Therese Rose.

  o0o

  As the company had worked their way southward from Caen, Therese had let drop hints about her past, or rather, the past she wished others to attribute to her. A fine mansion—a music master from Germany (though apparently not familiar with opera, Madame said privately to Lorette)—exalted relations, alas, who did not survive the guillotine.

  Therese Rose admired M. Marsac above all, setting out to emulate his fastidious habits, and his avoidance of the dancers. Her long, careful toilet of the morning had kept her from learning about Anna’s dancing until they were on the road, and when she found out, she began to wonder if the whispers about Anna and her palace, and ducal relation, were embroideries of the sort she had added to her own life. Those dancers were little better than canaille.

  But as food and quarters became more scarce, it was certain among the dancers, having survived starvation on the streets of Paris during the years of the Terror, who vanished quietly among those rough villagers, returning later with baskets of extra offerings. These the enterprising dancers shared among themselves—and with Anna, who in turn shared with Parrette.

  Therese began to wonder if she had made an error. She attempted to insinuate herself into ballet practice one morning, to find Ninon standing arms crossed before her.

  Therese knew that Ninon kept discipline among the female dancers, using not only her sarcastic tongue but her ready fist. She took one glance at those strong arms, those narrowed eyes, and beat a hasty retreat.

  In the days that followed, Marsac treated Anna with a hauteur that surprised her a little, but that she accepted with an inward shrug and a sense of relief.

  She had other things to think about, such as her discovery about trust. The dancers, who were the lowest in the hierarchy, and who had the least of material value, possessed a mutual trust so naturally that no one seemed aware of it.

  On stage, they trusted one another in their movements, so quick and potentially dangerous: they relied on each other to know where to be, and where not to be. They trusted one another in the little tricks of survival, sharing what they had, and banding together whether to ward off marauding men or rodents.

  Trust, Anna was coming to believe, was stronger than mere riches.

  o0o

  They headed inland at last.

  “I will say this much for Anna,” Ninon commented as they packed up after another village performance. “She doesn’t prance about like some duchesse.”

  “Her voice is purer,” Helene said admiringly. “Like a silver bell.”

  Eleanor yawned. “Do you think it’s true, what Lise said about her being married to an English sea-captain?”

  Behind the dancers, Jean-Baptiste Marsac paused in folding his stage cloak.

  “English?” two dancers exclaimed, and behind them, Marsac echoed silently, English?

  Ninon shrugged. “I don’t believe a word that she-devil Lise ever spoke.”

  “Lise got it from Hyacinthe,” Eleanor said defensively.

  “Hyacinthe!” Ninon threw her hands skyward. “An idiot as well as a blabbermouth! Far more likely Anna’s husband was captured or killed by an English sea captain. If she is even married. I wouldn’t trust anything that pair of reptiles ever said.”

  The dancers hefted their baskets and moved away, Ninon predicting what she hoped was Lise’s lack of success in Paris, as Jean-Baptiste retreated in the opposite direction, his expression thoughtful.

  o0o

  They traveled inland toward Burgundy, and as they began once again to see real theate
rs, Anna was finding it more difficult to ignore Jean-Baptiste Marsac.

  They often performed together; his performance, if rarely inspired, was never less than note-perfect. From the safety of distance she admitted admiration, for in spite of the dire travel conditions he always managed to stay clean, his nails beautifully trimmed, his clothing fresh. But there was a new appraisal to his glance, a lingering caress in his touch that caused her heart to thump with interest—and with warning. Admiration was not trust.

  “There is Lyons!”

  A city! At last! Pierre Dupree rode ahead and found them lodgings at an abandoned cloister now owned and run by a consortium made up of former washerwomen. Pierre brought with him the latest news, the first item of which was that the First Consul was going to war against England.

  Anna had noticed Parrette’s silence as they approached her birthplace.

  As they settled into the dirty, nearly-bare cell where once a nun had lived and prayed, Parrette looked about her, hands on her hips. “Disgusting. This place has obviously not been cleaned since the last postulant was murdered by that devil’s hind-end Fouché.” She made a spitting motion with her lips.

  Anna ignored that. “Parrette, if you want time to seek your family, I can look after my costumes.”

  Parrette shrugged up her bony shoulders. “They are either dead or long gone. Nothing here for me but memories, and most of those are bad.”

  At least the old damage was being cleared away. Lyons, the former City of Light, had begun a massive reconstruction campaign, on the direct order of the First Consul. Pierre brought back news that in Paris, Bonaparte had recently ordered Corneille’s Polyeucte resumed at the Theater Français.

  Theater was popular again. M. Dupree found himself besieged by no fewer than three theater owners, and Marsac was able to secure private bookings as a soloist for select company.

  What’s more, the principal violinist found a number of musicians who had been more or less in hiding since the bad days of the Revolution, which meant they would have a full orchestra again.

  The only shadow on their happiness was the martial tread of conscripts daily progressing down the main boulevard: Bonaparte had caused an order for 60,000 conscripts to be raised.

  Everyone knew what that meant.

  M. Dupree, successfully interpreting the trepidation of their male members, at the end of autumn once more took the company to the road, promising them a milder winter in Provence, at which time they would consider what to do next.

  Everyone in the company, from the old prop master, M. Dupree’s uncle, down to the babe, was tired of bad roads, bad food, bad beds, and the never-ending struggle against rodents and lice. But M. Dupree had leased the land under his burnt theater for three years, and they had two more ahead before they could expect to return to Paris.

  Pierre Dupree found them winter quarters at the abandoned university in the beautiful town of Avignon. One night, as the mistral blew ice over the ancient monuments, M. Dupree burst into the former library. With its huge fireplace almost warming the room, it had become a salon for the company.

  “Look what I have achieved!” He brandished a carefully wrapped package.

  As everyone started up, he declared, “It is the libretto and score for I riti d'Efeso!”

  Exclamations all around—Farinelli’s dramma eroico had debuted in Venice the year before, and they had all read reviews. Now they would hear the actual music.

  Under cover of the noise, Jean-Baptiste Marsac said to Anna under cover of the general hilarity, “May I beg the interest of an Agenore in whether you will sing Argia?”

  Therese was right there. “Oh, would she not be perfect in the travesti role, Clearco of Macedon?” And with all the enthusiasm of one who had been harboring all the ambition of an Argia, Therese clasped her hands. “Anna, you are so wonderful that I believe that you are equal to anything.”

  “I shall sing whatever I am asked,” Anna said in her politest manner. “Whether King of Macedon or maid.” After which she found an excuse to leave the room.

  When Jean-Baptiste made a motion to follow, Therese stepped in his way. Asking him what he had heard about I riti, she gazed up at him from under her lashes.

  The next day, M. Dupree announced that he and Marc Gris had hired some new clowns for the farce roles, whom Marc would be training. This news raised a general cheer. As for the new opera, Lorette would sing the travesti role, and Anna would take Argia. Therese was still doing tiny roles and understudy.

  o0o

  When spring brought balmy air over the Mediterranean, the company arrived in Nice. Parrette promptly went out to buy newspapers and fashion periodicals. The former she brought back to peruse in private, in her never-failing hope to read something of Michel’s ship. In her secret heart, she also hoped to discover the whereabouts of Captain Duncannon: until he was known to be dead, he was Anna’s husband.

  The fashion magazines were shared generally, sparking a great deal of discussion, for under the First Consul’s direction, fashion was changing again.

  “Silks! Silk, lace, everything made in France,” Madame exclaimed.

  “Everyone says Bonaparte is going to crown himself King of France at last,” Lorette put in.

  Some scoffed. They had been hearing that for ages, but Pierre said, “It’s true. What’s more, the rumor is passing around the military, and they always have the latest.”

  Madame frowned into the middle distance, and then rose briskly. “Do you know what that means? It means that Nina is going to require restaging. The Count must look like a courtier!”

  Of them all, only Jean-Baptiste Marsac was silent, shock pooling into chill in his heart.

  How could these fools not notice the most important piece of news of all? Bonaparte had secretly sent soldiers to cross the Rhine and capture the Duc d’Enghien, hope of the royalists. They brought him back to the Château de Vincennes, where they shot him.

  Marsac looked around grimly at his fellow performers. Commoners all, they did not pay this astounding item of news the least heed. Their only interest in politics was as it impacted the stage.

  Jean-Baptiste was exactly the same age as the duke, thirty-one; they had known one another when youths, learning military matters under the Commodore de Vinieux. Until now, he had been content to while away his days in the guise of a performer. He played a role in life as upon stage, always expecting the upstart Bonaparte to be thrown out and the Bourbons restored at last.

  And he had expected the Duc d’Enghien to be leading the army of restoration.

  There would be no stopping the Corsican upstart now, Jean-Baptiste thought, barely able to contain his bitterness. There was no recovering lost land, lost revenues, lost titles. It was time to quit looking no further than his own idle pleasure, occasionally earning extra here and there to augment his need for shirts and shoes and hats.

  He must begin planning for something larger, something suitable for a man of birth and blood—as much as was possible in this new, benighted France.

  He gazed across the room at Anna, who sat upright, her curly head and graceful neck outlined against the window. Whatever her reason for demeaning herself in those farces, it was apparent that she still held herself aloof from hairy butchers and garlic-breathing cobblers. She was clever, finding strength in numbers, as the democratic rabble had.

  Perhaps he had underestimated her.

  12

  The night of their opening, as they peeked out at the audience, one of the dancers pointed at the nearest box. There sat a very imposing personage, judging by the orders and medals decorating the broad sash he wore over the breast of his splendid coat, and the gold braid on his uniform.

  “Who is that?” Eleanor whispered to Catherine, who spread her hands.

  Madame rustled up, fanning herself. “Did you see?” she asked, eyes wide. “That is the elder brother of Prime Minister Godoy! He is on his way back to Spain from Paris.”

  Excitement was high: a new piece, a new
city, and a very distinguished guest. Everyone gave of their best. The company took four bows, and as the curtain came down, they saw M. Dupree enter the royal box, bowing repeatedly.

  Very soon he came backstage and, heedless of various states of undress, assembled the company.

  We,” he announced proudly, “are summoned to perform in Madrid, before Prime Minister Godoy, and the king and queen!”

  Reactions divided quite sharply, to M. Dupree’s surprise. All of the women, from Madame with her fractious son to little Helene the dancer, loathed the notion of leaving France.

  The men were enthusiastic at the prospect of getting farther away from possible conscription. This included the new musicians, who were grateful to be playing, after all the ructions of the past ten years.

  Jean-Baptiste considered the matter coolly. Perhaps there might be a place for a company directed by a French aristocrat in Spain, especially one who had performed before their king? That was a possible future, at least until France regained order.

  M. Dupree said to his wife, “Once we do return to Paris, would not our name gain considerable luster if our placards could state that we had performed by invitation before King Charles of Spain?”

  Madame stood before her husband, arms crossed under her considerable bosom. “Perhaps. But in that case,” she stated, “we must all have new clothes. We simply cannot wear muslins before their majesties. It must be all silk, with real lace. And velvet against winter.”

  Lorette sighed, and the dancers all exchanged looks. If Madame had given in, they had no hope: to Spain they were to go.

  o0o

  The journey to Madrid started with several sharp disappointments, beginning with the discovery that the invitation did not come with the wherewithal to travel.

  Second, M. Dupree had assumed that everybody in Spain spoke French, the way he had been told everyone else in Europe did, even the English roas’ biffs. When they climbed aboard the Spanish-owned boat that was to take them midway along the east coast of Spain, it was to discover Spanish being spoken all around them.