Read Online The Shadow Queen A Novel by Sandra Gulland - Free Book Online Page B

squinting. I guessed he might be as old as fifty. He had tufted eyebrows and a high forehead. A thick black moustache almost covered his lips. He was dressed in black with a crumpled white collar—an accountant, I surmised, by the look of him, some kind of clerk. A humble, dull, settled sort of man.
    “There’s a woman here to see about employment.”
    “Send her to Monsieur la Roque, Madame Babette,” he said, not even looking up, pulling on the tuft of hair under his lower lip.
    “Bonjour, Monsieur,” I said, boldly stepping forward nonetheless. I slipped off the hood of my cloak and edged into the cubicle. A coal-filled brass brazier was set on the table, giving off a welcome heat. A half-empty flagon of milk was perched on a shelf. “I’m of a theatrical family—between my mother and me and my strong brother, there isn’t any stage work we haven’t done.” I was talking too fast; I coached myself to slow down. “My mother and I could be loge attendants, but we can also help build, sew, paint sets. I can do sums, read; I know how to prompt.” The room smelled of cheese and garlic, which sharpened my hunger. (How long had it been since I’d eaten cheese?) I feared my stomach would growl.
    “The troupe has all the hands they need,” he said, returning to stacking coins.
    “I can juggle.” I looked around the tiny chamber for objects I could use to demonstrate.
    “The Marais does not perform farces anymore.” On the word farces he revealed a hint of a stutter, the way Gaston sometimes did.
    “We will work for a mere sou or two,” I persisted, already lowering my price. “You would not regret it, I promise you.”
    “We employ too many as it is.” He rolled a stack of coins into a square of cloth and placed it in a wood box, tapping it in to fit.
    “My mother is a wonderful actress,” I pressed on. “She performed here, at this very theater.”
    “I advise you not to tell false stories, Mademoiselle,” he said tiredly. His eyes were watery but bright. “This theater has been closed off and on for some time.”
    “Monsieur, I speak the God’s truth! It was a long time ago, around the time that the King’s cousin was publicly baptized.” I didn’t know the year, but I recalled Father saying that La Grande Mademoiselle had been nine at the time, and had screamed with laughter when dunked. Gaston, as a child, had to be distracted with a reenactment of the story the few times he was bathed—it was the only way we could get his hair wet.
    “Your mother must be of an age,” he said with a bemused expression, putting the box into a trunk and locking it with an iron key, which he pressed into the side of his boot.
    How old was Mother? It shocked me to realize that she must be nearing forty. “She played in the very first performances of The Cid, Monsieur.” There, I had said it, said it all. “She worships the work of the Great Corneille … as I do,” I added, shy about revealing a matter so tender to my heart. “As does everyone, of course,” I said, abashed now. (And flailing.)
    “Which part did your mother play?” he asked, testing me.
    “Leonora, the Infanta’s lady-in-waiting, Monsieur. She talks of that performance often.” Well—at least Father had.
    “Then she would have known who played the Infanta, I should think.”
    I felt my cheeks and neck flush. “Mademoiselle Beau …” Something to do with a building. “Beauchâteau,” I said, relieved when the name jumped into my head. (Thank you, Father!)
    “And Rodrigue?”
    What a question! “The great Montdory, Monsieur.”
    He pressed his thumb into the cleft in his chin. “What color is your mother’s hair?”
    “Red,” I said uneasily; women with red hair were regarded with suspicion. “And my father played one of the minor nobles,” I added. But which one—Don Arias, Sancho, or Alonzo?
    “Are you certain of that?”
    I could hear people laughing in the foyer, both men and women. “Don Sancho,” I said,