Free The Shadow Queen A Novel by Sandra Gulland

taking a wild guess. “He talked of the great crowds, all the benches and chairs that had to be put on the stage to accommodate them all, Monsieur Corneille applauding. It was the most wonderful moment of my father’s life,” I said, my voice catching. “He’s passed on now.”
    “Nicolas de … Vin ?”
    I stared.
    “But he changed his name … to something—” He twirled his right hand in the air. “Something flowery.”
    Was it possible this man knew my father?
    There was a light tap at the door, which swung open. A dignified man with a neatly trimmed white beard divided into points stood holding a sheaf of papers. He was big-chested, his ancient embroidered doublet too small for him. “We’re about ready, Monsieur Pierre.” His voice was husky, loud.
    “As you say, Monsieur la Roque,” Monsieur Pierre said with a groan, struggling to his feet. I wondered if I should help him, but the bearded man stepped forward.
    There were quite a few people in the entry now. Several followed Messieurs Pierre and La Roque through a door into the theater. A gong sounded three times and then everyone began to file in, finishing whatever crusts of pastry or mugs of hot wine they had in their hands.
    “Coming?” the woman in the wig said.

CHAPTER 15
    I trailed inconspicuously behind a group of men, stagehands and carpenters I guessed, by their dress. We filed into the rows of the amphitheater. I slid onto the bench behind them, as if I belonged.
    The space under the roof let in a little light. A few candles in one of the hanging candelabras helped illuminate the parterre, which was partially full of trunks and sets. For fear of ruin by the flood, no doubt—yet miraculously untouched, it appeared. On the sides were the tiers of curtained loges for the wealthy. The empty stage was a dark, inviting presence. The floor appeared to be raked.
    The bearded man named Monsieur la Roque strode to the center of the parterre and turned to address the assembly. He had a commanding presence. I decided that he must be the troupe’s director. “Before we begin, I believe we should give thanks to the heavens that our theater was spared.”
    A murmur swept through the crowd. It was a large troupe. I would look for another showplace possibility, something smaller, more at the street level, perhaps in the fairgrounds I’d heard of. I’d been foolish to think we could start so grandly.
    “I’ve set up a board in the entry. If you are in need, post a note. We are a family, we look after one another.”
    The woman who had been weeping outside let out a sob, but then laughed, apologizing.
    Monsieur la Roque smiled gently, pulling on one point of his white beard. “I think you will all agree that the sooner we open our doors to the public, the better.”
    There was some applause and even a few cheers.
    “The first fortnight of performances have been decided. We shall open with Brécourt’s False Death— ”
    Everyone turned to smile at a blond young man, who I took to be the playwright. He grinned and tipped his hat. He was sitting beside an older woman, who gave him a kiss on the cheek.
    “—then three others, all of which are staples of our repertory, so will require little in the way of rehearsal.” Monsieur la Roque paused before saying: “But not long after we thought we should open with the Paris premiere of The Golden Fleece. ”
    More applause, cheers, and a thunder of boots this time.
    He smiled, waiting for everyone to quiet. “For those of you who are unfamiliar with the play, it’s a rather amazing extravaganza, a tragedy about Medea—”
    “Bravo!” several called out. I laughed along with all the others—the evil sorceress Medea was a popular subject.
    “—a queen torn between erotic and political power.”
    Oh! people sighed.
    But more important, Monsieur la Roque went on to explain, this was to be a “machine play,” produced with special effects—players flying through the air on clouds, monsters coming