Free Emilie's Voice by Susanne Dunlap Page B

woke up, it was to find that the world had changed around her, and that the strangely aloof nobleman who had surprised her when she warmed up for her début at the Hôtel de Guise was suddenly a regular inhabitant of her daily life. He told her that her parents had not wanted the worry of caring for her while she was sick, but it hurt her that they would say such a thing.
    As she continued her voice lesson, Émilie focused her eyes nearer so she could see herself reflected faintly in the uneven glass panes of the enormous windows. Her pale blond hair was set off by a dark blue silk day gown, fitted sleekly in a bodice that ended a few inches below her natural waist, from which yards of fabric flowed before being caught up in places by little gold satin ribbons to reveal a paler blue satin petticoat beneath. It was richer by far than the gown she had worn to the princess’s salon. She thought for a moment about her début at the Hôtel de Guise. And then she thought of the ruined satin slippers. Émilie stopped singing. She hoped Sophie had not gotten in trouble. If only she could find some way to tell her what had happened.
    “Mademoiselle Émilie, encore! ” said Lully from across the room.
    Clocks began to chime. It was eleven in the morning, and soon Monsieur Dubuffet would arrive to give Émilie her dancing lesson.
    Lully took out a large pocket watch and looked at it. “Until tomorrow,” he said, with a small nod.
    Once the distant din of the timepieces died away, it was so quiet in the palace that Émilie could hear the footsteps of Lully and the accompanist fading for several minutes.
    Monsieur Dubuffet was late. Émilie strolled around the room. The only sound that broke the stillness was the pit-pat of her own soft-soled shoes on the parquet floors that had been polished to a glassy sheen. After a few minutes Émilie could resist the impulse no longer. Since no one was watching, she stood at one corner, then ran as fast as she could to the middle of the room, where she stopped running and let herself slide, skating all the way to the opposite corner. She smiled and barely contained a little shriek of delight. A moment before she reached the other wall, hands outstretched so that she would not crash, a door that had been made to match the paneling so exactly that it was almost invisible opened. Through it came not Monsieur Dubuffet but François, Madame de Maintenon’s trusted servant. Émilie had been introduced to Madame de Maintenon when she first arrived, and the lady would glide in and out like a wraith every now and again, appearing at the most unexpected moments. Émilie was afraid of her.
    “Monsieur Dubuffet begs your pardon, Mademoiselle, but a slight indisposition renders it impossible for him to attend you for your dancing lesson this morning.” François, who had witnessed Émilie’s youthful mischief, only just managed not to smile.
    The exaggerated formality of speech practiced by everyone at Versailles, from the loftiest of courtiers to the lowliest of servants, made Émilie want to laugh. A breach of etiquette was deemed more serious than a capital crime and, so she heard, forgiven less easily by the king.
    “Where are you from, François?” she asked, smoothing her hair into place and doing her best to look dignified.
    “From Paris, Mademoiselle.”
    “What are your people?” she persisted.
    François stood stiffly with his hands clasped behind him, ready to bow and retreat at any moment. The veteran servant walked with a slight bend at the middle, as if he were saving himself the effort of straightening up entirely because he would soon enough be required to fold over again. This creased way of standing made him look quite old, but he was not above middle age. “My father was only a humble blacksmith, Mademoiselle.”
    “Then I am no better than you, François, for my father is only a humble luthier. Can’t we be friends?”
    François shifted a little nervously from one foot to the