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Authors: Susanne Dunlap
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about what to do. He wanted to know how ill Émilie was, whether she was being properly cared for. But it was clear that he would not get that information just now. “Please send my wishes for a speedy recovery to Mademoiselle Émilie,” Charpentier said, then bowed and left.
Try as he might, Charpentier could not understand what he had done to deserve Madeleine Jolicoeur’s enmity. He had taught their daughter music and singing for no fee at all, bought her a gown that cost him a great deal of his own money so that she could perform with dignity at one of the most illustrious salons in Paris—he had done nothing but try to help her. He did not like to think that the woman harbored ill feelings toward him, and he thought of returning and demanding an explanation.
But his cold reception by Madeleine was not the only thing that weighed on Charpentier’s mind. Marcel said that St. Paul had brought His Majesty’s own physicians. It was an extravagant gesture for the sake of a young girl from a poor family in Paris. And he knew St. Paul. He had no money of his own but played on his godmother’s generosity whenever he needed cash. Her lack of relations made her overly indulgent, and usually he succeeded in wheedling substantial sums out of her. If St. Paul was being generous, it was because he saw some potential gain for himself. That was what really bothered Charpentier. He was certain St. Paul could not care less about Émilie herself.
And if Émilie had a fever, it could easily affect her throat, ending her career before it really began. And yet, barred from seeing her, Charpentier could do nothing about it. He knew a doctor who had made a special study of the throat and the vocal cords. If only the Jolicoeurs would allow the doctor to consult, just to be sure that nothing had harmed Émilie’s voice.
He thought he would give Madeleine time to cool off and then return and ask to be permitted to see Émilie. Charpentier was haunted by the picture of Émilie lying ill. But she was just a student, he reminded himself. More talented than most, but perhaps he would find another.
When he arrived at his apartment in the Hôtel de Guise, Charpentier kicked aside the mess of manuscript sheets scattered across the floor of his study, found a bottle of wine and a cup, and poured himself a glass. Then he sat in his chair and stared into the fire until the sun went down.
By the end of a week, Émilie’s condition did not appear to be improving any further. She still spent most of her time in a deep sleep and was virtually incoherent whenever she surfaced from her stupor.
“I think a change of air is what the doctors would advise,” said St. Paul, perched uncomfortably on the edge of a wooden armchair, sipping tisane from a small earthenware bowl.
“I do not wish her to leave.” Marcel stood at the side of the fireplace, gazing into it. “Not without seeing Monsieur Charpentier.”
“The doctors would be able to continue caring for her night and day. As it is, they are now wanted at Versailles and can no longer give Émilie the attention she requires. You’ll see, she’ll recover much more quickly there.”
“How can we keep her here, when the count is making such a kind offer? You have seen how these great men pay such attention to her,” Madeleine said, approaching her husband. “And what has that singing teacher to do with anything? If he had been more careful of Émilie, she might not have gotten sick in the first place.”
Marcel was silent for a long while. Charpentier had returned day after day, and Madeleine had steadfastly refused to let him see Émilie. Although his wife clearly had her reasons, Marcel was uncomfortably aware that they owed the composer some explanation at least. But he had to make a decision, and Madeleine clearly wanted to acquiesce to St. Paul’s wishes. Marcel saw St. Paul shift a little and wince, the wood of the chair hard against his slender frame. “When would she
Try as he might, Charpentier could not understand what he had done to deserve Madeleine Jolicoeur’s enmity. He had taught their daughter music and singing for no fee at all, bought her a gown that cost him a great deal of his own money so that she could perform with dignity at one of the most illustrious salons in Paris—he had done nothing but try to help her. He did not like to think that the woman harbored ill feelings toward him, and he thought of returning and demanding an explanation.
But his cold reception by Madeleine was not the only thing that weighed on Charpentier’s mind. Marcel said that St. Paul had brought His Majesty’s own physicians. It was an extravagant gesture for the sake of a young girl from a poor family in Paris. And he knew St. Paul. He had no money of his own but played on his godmother’s generosity whenever he needed cash. Her lack of relations made her overly indulgent, and usually he succeeded in wheedling substantial sums out of her. If St. Paul was being generous, it was because he saw some potential gain for himself. That was what really bothered Charpentier. He was certain St. Paul could not care less about Émilie herself.
And if Émilie had a fever, it could easily affect her throat, ending her career before it really began. And yet, barred from seeing her, Charpentier could do nothing about it. He knew a doctor who had made a special study of the throat and the vocal cords. If only the Jolicoeurs would allow the doctor to consult, just to be sure that nothing had harmed Émilie’s voice.
He thought he would give Madeleine time to cool off and then return and ask to be permitted to see Émilie. Charpentier was haunted by the picture of Émilie lying ill. But she was just a student, he reminded himself. More talented than most, but perhaps he would find another.
When he arrived at his apartment in the Hôtel de Guise, Charpentier kicked aside the mess of manuscript sheets scattered across the floor of his study, found a bottle of wine and a cup, and poured himself a glass. Then he sat in his chair and stared into the fire until the sun went down.
By the end of a week, Émilie’s condition did not appear to be improving any further. She still spent most of her time in a deep sleep and was virtually incoherent whenever she surfaced from her stupor.
“I think a change of air is what the doctors would advise,” said St. Paul, perched uncomfortably on the edge of a wooden armchair, sipping tisane from a small earthenware bowl.
“I do not wish her to leave.” Marcel stood at the side of the fireplace, gazing into it. “Not without seeing Monsieur Charpentier.”
“The doctors would be able to continue caring for her night and day. As it is, they are now wanted at Versailles and can no longer give Émilie the attention she requires. You’ll see, she’ll recover much more quickly there.”
“How can we keep her here, when the count is making such a kind offer? You have seen how these great men pay such attention to her,” Madeleine said, approaching her husband. “And what has that singing teacher to do with anything? If he had been more careful of Émilie, she might not have gotten sick in the first place.”
Marcel was silent for a long while. Charpentier had returned day after day, and Madeleine had steadfastly refused to let him see Émilie. Although his wife clearly had her reasons, Marcel was uncomfortably aware that they owed the composer some explanation at least. But he had to make a decision, and Madeleine clearly wanted to acquiesce to St. Paul’s wishes. Marcel saw St. Paul shift a little and wince, the wood of the chair hard against his slender frame. “When would she
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