Read Online Emilie's Voice by Susanne Dunlap - Free Book Online Page A

unless he earned it.
    “Damn it, Jacques! Where the devil are you?” St. Paul sat up slowly and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He reached for the almost-empty beaker of wine, which he tipped up and drained into his mouth, licking out the insides with his tongue. St. Paul felt deep within him that he was made for something greater than this meager existence, and that the way to get what he wanted was not by sitting at a desk in a bank. He was convinced that he could secure a profitable position at court, that he would prove himself to be not only useful but indispensable. There were not many at Versailles who were smarter than he was. Even the widow Scarron, he thought, was not fully aware of his abilities. Soon, however, she would be in no doubt, despite her reticence. If everything went well, that little girl’s voice would open doors for him as if by magic, and Madame de Maintenon would see to it that the king rewarded him handsomely.
    And then, perhaps, he might live in a decent house of his own, instead of the tiny room in this rabbit hutch of a palace. And Jacques would come when he was summoned, he could order food and wine whenever he liked, and his headache would at last go away.
     
    As Charpentier walked up to the Atelier Jolicoeur the day after the princess’s soirée, he could not help thinking how silent it seemed. There was something all wrong about it, and it confirmed his worries that something had happened to prevent Émilie from coming for her lessons that day. The door was unlocked, and so he entered the workshop without knocking. Marcel was deeply engrossed in varnishing a lute. Charpentier cleared his throat.
    Startled, Marcel looked up. “Monsieur Charpentier! I am happy to see you.”
    “Where is Émilie?” asked the composer without returning Marcel’s greeting.
    Marcel put his brush in a bowl of solvent, wiped his hands on his apron, and came out from behind his worktable. “She is upstairs. She is ill. Although out of danger now, they tell us.”
    Charpentier took a step back, as if the news had struck him physically. Somehow, he did not expect this. “Ill? Can I see her?”
    “I’ll see if she is awake,” answered Marcel. “Madeleine!” he called up the stairs. There was no response, and so he turned back to Charpentier. “I don’t know what is keeping her. The young gentleman is here, though. Perhaps that is it.”
    “Young gentleman?”
    The sound of Madeleine’s hurried steps coming down the flights of stairs from the apartment interrupted Marcel’s explanation. His wife appeared in the doorway, a frown on her face.
    “If she is ill, Émilie must have the best care,” said Charpentier, preparing to climb the stairs.
    Madeleine blocked the way. “Monsieur Charpentier. Forgive me, but I don’t much feel that your care is what is best for my Émilie!” she said, lifting her chin and smoothing her apron.
    “I don’t understand,” said Charpentier, turning to Marcel for an explanation.
    “Keeping her up to all hours, making her walk home in the cold and wet. No wonder she was at death’s door!” And with that, Madeleine turned and slammed the door in Charpentier’s face.
    “How can she think …” Charpentier was too stunned to say more.
    Marcel shrugged. “I told her you were not to blame, but she won’t hear it.”
    “You mentioned a young gentleman. Who is here?”
    “Monsieur de St. Paul has been so kind as to take an interest in Émilie’s recovery,” answered Marcel, looking down at the lute he had been varnishing. “He came to congratulate Émilie yesterday and was good enough to bring His Majesty’s own physicians to attend her.”
    “But—” Charpentier was about to ask Marcel how he could have let that slimy opportunist into his home, when he realized that the couple could have no idea that St. Paul was anything other than a rich man—godson of Mademoiselle de Guise, no less—with some interest in their daughter. He needed to think