Free The Metropolis by Matthew Gallaway Page B

which in light of his father’s periodic directives he continued at best to endure. If anything, the past year had only increased Lucien’s desire to vacate academia for the stage now that he was fourteen and—because his voice had broken—he could sing with a strength and authority that had obviously been beyond him as a child. His teacher claimed that he would develop into a natural baritone, which disappointed Lucien a little, for he had always wanted to be a tenor, to play the hero and the lover, to break hearts, to kill and be killed, and—it must be admitted—to be paid accordingly for delivering such high, aching notes.
    With a thought to find something appropriate to wear, he went to a tailor on Rue St.-Honoré, where he managed to spend all of his spare money, in addition to some his father had given to him, on a new black velvet jacket with silver silk wristbands. On Tuesday heskipped school again and—still wearing the jacket—rehearsed until he developed a slight rasp, which delivered him into a panic until the following morning, when his prayers were answered and his voice was fine. Once again he skipped school, a decision he almost regretted as he watched the minutes crawl by like slugs on one of his father’s plants until he finally sallied forth to the entrance of the Georges to be escorted by one of Codruta’s footmen through the courtyard. As he walked, he attempted to move with the same deliberate quality he had observed in the princess, and in doing so he felt indescribably mature; when he glanced at his apartment’s tiny window, he saw a younger and more childish version of himself peering out.
    But once inside, he was dismayed to find that, despite his preparations, he felt cowed by the crystal chandeliers, gilded picture frames, and assemblages of velvet, silk, taffeta, and moiré that greeted him at every turn. Then, in the bright reflection of a ten-foot mirror, he was ashamed to notice a serious defect in the stitching of his jacket, so that it appeared lopsided as it rested upon his shoulders. Although this was in fact the reason he had been able to afford it in the first place, in his excitement he had convinced himself that it would be easy to camouflage, and he now regretted his stupidity. Dejected, he could barely bring himself to smile as Codruta led him into a drawing room and introduced him to the members of her
petit clan
. His mood did not improve when she placed him at a small table with Marie-Laure de Vicionière and her daughter Daisy. “Codruta informs us that you’re a very promising young singer,” Madame de Vicionière offered as her daughter sipped tea.
    “She’s most gracious,” Lucien responded as he leaned to the side to allow room for his own tea to be poured.
    Madame smiled indulgently. “Do you have a teacher?”
    “My mother was a singer, but she died when I was three, so some of her friends at her theater—the St.-Germain—have helped me.”
    “How kind.” She glanced at her daughter. “We’ve not been to the St.-Germain, have we?”
    “It’s not—” Lucien stopped as he realized that he was about to disparage his mother’s theater for no good reason. It was not the Peletier, to be sure, but it was far from the worst opera house in Paris, with a respectable repertoire of bel canto, romantic, and patriotic fare by the likes of Delève, Theron, and a few other Parisian composers.
    The St.-Germain was also where he had made his best friends as a child. He fondly remembered scurrying through the backstage tunnels and corridors, where he used to hide in the props, collect fallen flower petals from the soprano’s bouquets, dress up in wigs, and spy on the singers as they made costume changes or—just as frequently, it sometimes seemed—made love, often in unconventional arrangements that Lucien had long understood (even before such things were made explicit to him) were not always appreciated beyond the society of the theater.
    “It’s not far