Free The Shadow Queen A Novel by Sandra Gulland Page A

alive. “However—” Monsieur la Roque waited patiently for a chance to be heard. One side of his beard was longer than the other, I noticed, from him pulling on it. “Such spectacles cost. We’ll have to go into considerable debt.” He threw up his hands. “It’s a gamble.”
    “We like to live dangerously,” a woman called out with enthusiasm, a sentiment that seemed to be shared.
    “So long as we survive,” Monsieur la Roque said. He had the look of a man who had endured. “As you no doubt know,” he went on, “His Majesty has hired the Italian machinist Vigarani to construct a theater in the palace that will be capable of producing machine plays as well. But Vigarani is behind schedule, so if we work hard and keep on track, we will be the first company in Paris to offer a spectacle of this magnitude”—he held up his hand for silence—“made possible by our very own Keeper of Secrets.” He gestured to a man sitting at the front. “The remarkable Denis Buffequin.”
    A burly, short man with a black patch over his left eye stood, made a perfunctory bow, and sat back down, flushing brightly. I wondered what a Keeper of Secrets did.
    “There will be substantial work required to prepare,” Monsieur la Roque continued. “Our scheduler will talk to you all, but first, the moment you’ve all been waiting for, the man who needs no introduction.” He made a dramatic and fulsome bow. “Monsieur Pierre.”
    Two men carried in a throne chair—no doubt used as a stage prop—and placed it facing the group. Another man helped Monsieur Pierre to it and offered him an ear-trumpet to speak into, but he waved it off.
    Vigorous applause fell away to an attentive silence. Monsieur Pierre began to speak, and then stopped to clear his throat. Someone jumped up to give him a jug of wine, which he theatrically raised in toast before pretending to down it.
    “Well,” he said, feigning to be drunk, “that’s just what I needed.”
    It was a silly jest and he delivered it rather lamely, but I laughed along with all the others.
    “Madame Babette?” He held out his hand. The old woman in the wig sprang (with surprising agility) from the bench with a stack of parchment secured at one corner with twine: a script.
    “Since many of you are already familiar with The Golden Fleece, I’m just going to explain the highlights,” Monsieur Pierre mumbled, looking over the pages. “It begins with a prologue, an allegory played out by War, Peace, and Victory. You can guess who wins.”
    A few people laughed. Monsieur Pierre was not a player, clearly—he was bumbling and spoke with a slight stutter—but might he possibly be the author of the play? I tapped the shoulder of the man sitting in front of me. “Excuse me, Monsieur, but … who is Monsieur Pierre?” I asked under my breath.
    He glanced back at me with incredulity. “That’s Pierre Corneille.”
    The Great Corneille?
    I sat back, stunned. I did not believe it. Could not! For one thing, the great playwright was said to have retired. For another, this old man was endearingly humble, pathetically stooped, painfully awkward, tongue-tied, and stumbling. I’d been raised by his heroic, resounding words, learned to read from his scripts. He was, as my father had irreverently joked, our family saint.
    I sat in a daze, unhearing, as the man who was, apparently, the Great Corneille, stuttered through a boring summary of The Golden Fleece. Everyone began to fidget.
    How could a writer of such great lines mumble? It was difficult to hear half the words he spoke. There was polite but heartfelt applause as he finally described the closing scene.
    “Thank you, Monsieur Pierre,” Monsieur la Roque said, standing. “We are honored beyond measure to be the means by which you return to the Paris stage—and in triumph. ”
    And with that, everyone jumped to their feet, applauding wildly, I among them. I could not believe what I was witnessing!
    Monsieur Pierre carefully stood,