Free The Metropolis by Matthew Gallaway Page A

Maria could actually mold her talent into something great and timeless, it would take her places Gina could not begin to imagine.

9
Expériences nouvelles touchant le vide
    PARIS, 1851. One afternoon not long after Lucien turned fourteen, he answered a knock on the door and to his astonishment found the Romanian princess peering in as though she had stumbled onto the entrance of a cave. “You’re the son?” she less inquired than demanded, as a pair of domestics hovered behind her.
    To this point, he had observed her only from a distance, usually as she entered or exited the courtyard—always in her carriage—or when she hosted one of her famous galas, which were said to be more extravagant than royal coronations. For her most recent one—held a few months earlier, in the middle of February—guests were invited to dress in the manner of “
il y a cent ans
” and thus wore prerevolutionary masks and dominoes bedecked with jewels and feathers or, for those many inclined to go beyond this basic requirement, yards of silk and velvet—for the women—while the men wore cravats andpowdered wigs, some in eccentric shades of blue and orange. There was a procession that led from the Right Bank over the Pont Constantine and featured a Russian countess who arrived in a dress made entirely of black pearls and white silk, upstaging an elderly marquise in partridge feathers and diamonds, while another—to the delight of Lucien and the servant children watching this parade—managed to trip on her way out of the carriage, causing her wig to bounce off her head and into the Seine.
    As for the princess, though she seemed quite old and her dresses tended to accentuate a wide, flat rump and an ungainly, fleshy neck—which in combination with her bulging eyes, bulbous nose, and thin lips gave her the appearance of an emu—she nevertheless waded through her guests with an unhurried and deliberate quality, so that—whether kneeling down to share a confidence with an even older duchess, smiling benignly at a duke’s antics, or clasping her large-knuckled hands in front of her chest in a show of delight—her performance possessed a grace and dignity—and even suspense—that had long intrigued Lucien.
    Confronted with her at such an unexpected moment, he took several seconds to respond. “Yes, Your Highness,” he managed, “my name is Lucien Marchand.”
    “Lucien, I’m enchanted,” she said and frowned. “But please, young man, Codruta will suffice.”
    “Yes, Codruta.”
    “That’s better. Now, you are a singer, if I’m not mistaken? The one I’ve heard practicing downstairs?”
    Lucien nodded and then hesitated. “Is—is there a problem?”
    “That depends, but I would hope the answer is no, since I’m here to invite you to sing at my next
mercredi.
” This, as Lucien knew, was her weekly salon, reputed to be one of the most prestigious in the cityfor the emerging composers and writers honored to attend. Though it was something he had often considered a natural step in his own musical career, which made him wonder exactly how he might go about introducing himself to the princess, it had never occurred to him that such a fortuitous invitation might arrive at this juncture. She held out an envelope between her thumb and her index finger, like the stem of a wineglass, before she turned it over in a slow arc and offered it to him. “I’ve also invited a young daughter of a friend of mine to perform, and thought it would be appropriate to enhance the program with additional
jeunesse.
”
    Lucien murmured his thanks as Codruta pivoted, a slow maneuver that reminded him of a battalion on a parade ground, before she retreated down the path to the street, where he could see a manservant in livery waiting next to a carriage. Back inside, he traced his fingers over the calligraphic letters of the invitation as though memorizing a map to a secret treasure.
    W ITH JUST THREE days to prepare, on Monday he skipped school,