Free Emilie's Voice by Susanne Dunlap Page A

eyes hardening into coals that hid sparks in their midst. “I know nothing of this! And I wish to know nothing, Monsieur le Comte, however clever your solution to the problem was.”
    St. Paul’s smile froze on his face. “Of course, how foolish of me.”
    “She will require careful handling. It is important that the child be properly groomed to be the very embodiment of music. It is this alone that will raise her above the commonplace.”
    “That will not be so difficult. After all, what could be more exalted, more pure—or more pleasing—than music?”
    “Plato, Monsieur de St. Paul, had something to say about music that it might well instruct you to read. The only truly pure music is that to be heard at the entrance to the gates of heaven. However, on this imperfect earth, the child will do.”
    St. Paul sniffed. “It might be wise to have someone watch her closely at all times.”
    “François is keeping an eye on her. He is a loyal servant. I pray you inform me of Mademoiselle Émilie’s artistic progress so that we may determine the best moment to introduce her voice to the king.” Madame de Maintenon put her hand out to St. Paul, who took the hint that he was being dismissed, kissed it, and left.
     
    The sky Émilie saw through the tall windows of the Salle de Bal was hung with clouds that looked as though they could not decide whether to unleash rain or snow. Émilie pulled her shawl more closely about her shoulders as she waited for Monsieur Lully to instruct the harpsichordist concerning which piece would form the subject of her lesson that day. She had made a miraculous recovery almost as soon as she arrived at Versailles, and she had started her lessons with the court composer the next week.
    But Émilie did not like Lully much. He was older than Charpentier, and fat. His clothing, although very luxurious, was always a little creased, as if it had been worn too many days in a row. He also had a mildly unpleasant odor about him that was not entirely masked by the rose water he sprinkled on himself, and his smile never enlivened his heavy-lidded eyes.
    “ Attention , Mademoiselle Émilie,” he said. At the beginning of every lesson, Lully set her off to warm up like a windup mechanism and then walked around the room, not seeming to pay any attention to her at all. In the month that she had been working with the court composer, Émilie felt she had gained little. He showed her tricks and devices, and encouraged her to develop her highest notes rather than explore the deep riches of her middle range, as Charpentier had. Although Lully had already written some very pretty airs for her to sing, Émilie did not care for them much, and singing them gave her no joy. They did not seem to fit her voice quite as well as Monsieur Charpentier’s did, and she could not imagine singing with Monsieur Lully—even if he could sing, which he could not. His raspy baritone warble made her cringe the first time he demonstrated a new ornament for her.
    While she continued, Émilie turned to look out of the windows once again. She watched a small army of gardeners plant blossoming flowers in the beds close to the château. When the frost made them wilt a few hours later, the gardeners would come and dig them up again and replace them with new flowers from the acres of hothouses. She thought it utterly absurd.
    Émilie had no definite idea of how she came to be at Versailles. She remembered opening her eyes while she was still in her bed on the Pont au Change and seeing St. Paul hovering over her, with an older gentleman who she now realized was probably an apothecary or a surgeon. She thought that she was having a terrible nightmare, that she would wake up and it would all be over. Even after trying very hard to remember what had happened to her, the best she could do was recall being moved down the stairs. She thought it might have been her father who carried her, but she could not have said for certain. When she finally