“Signor Scarlatti the younger,” said the master of ceremonies, “playing the harpsichord.”
Little Domenico Scarlatti, dressed in satin and ribbons and a perruke, walked stiffly to the harpsichord. He bowed elegantly to His Majesty. The audience rustled and murmured, remarking on the child’s youth and reputation.
“M. Antoine Galland,” said the master of ceremonies, “reading his translations of Arabian stories, made at the command of His Majesty.”
M. Galland was a skittish young man. He nearly forgot to bow; he nearly dropped his slender leatherbound book as he opened it onto the lectern. He caught it; candlelight sparkled from its jeweled decorations. M. Galland bowed again to His Majesty. At the King’s gracious nod, M. Coupillet brought the orchestra to attention. The musicians and the little boy played.
M. Galland read aloud, his voice whispery.
Marie-Josèphe hardly perceived the words of the story, though M. Galland’s translation was the centerpiece of His Majesty’s entertainment. Marie-Josèphe wished only to listen to her own imagination made real by Domenico, by M. Coupillet and the orchestra.
Her little song spun and danced with the candlelight. The notes painted a background of distant deserts and gardens, dangerous adventures, exotic scents and songs.
After years of music that played only within her mind, she immersed herself in the melody that flooded the court of the Sun King. Music could never sound as she imagined it, unless angels — or demons — performed it.
Perhaps I was right, she thought, and Démonico is angel, or demon.
Marie-Josèphe let her eyes close. She pretended she was alone. The rustle of silk and satin and velvet, the murmur of restless courtiers with aching feet, the whispers about her handsome brother, all vanished behind a melodic picture of a daring and erotic story from mysterious Arabia.
“`Scheherazade, my wife,’” M. Galland said, his voice now confident and loud,
“`thou shalt live one more night,’ the Sultan proclaimed, `Thou shalt tell me one more story. Then thou shalt die, for I know the treachery of women.’”
The story and Marie-Josèphe’s song ended with Domenico’s flourish at the harpsichord.
Breathless, Marie-Josèphe opened her eyes. Her heart pounded. Elevated by the orchestra, by little Domenico’s performance, the piece was unimaginably wonderful.
M. Galland, Domenico, and Signor Scarlatti bowed to His Majesty. As they leaned into the silence, Marie-Josèphe fastened her attention on the King. She hoped for some sign from him, some indication of pleasure.
His Majesty applauded his musicians, his translator. His approval freed everyone to express their appreciation, or to feign it. Acclaim filled the Salon.
M. Coupillet presented Domenico, Signor Scarlatti, the other musicians. M. Galland bowed again.
Pope Innocent barely reacted. Marie-Josèphe wondered if such a holy man was permitted to take pleasure in any worldly entertainment.
How sad if he cannot, Marie-Josèphe thought.
Lotte fanned her face and neck urgently. She paused, fanned, snapped the fan shut with an impatient snick, snapped the fan open, and fanned again. Marie-Josèphe brought herself back to her duties, snatched Lotte’s handkerchief from her sleeve, and dabbed perspiration from Lotte’s cheek. Mademoiselle’s rouge was not too badly smeared.
“An excellent story, M. Galland,” His Majesty said. “A rousing tale.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” M. Galland bowed again, blushing. He handed his book to a page, who gave it to the master of ceremonies, who presented it to Count Lucien. Count Lucien in turn offered it to His Majesty.
“In honor of Your Majesty’s patronage,” M. Galland said, “I caused to have made a copy of the first story in my translation of the Tales of Scheherazade: The Thousand and One Arabian Nights.”
His Majesty took the book from Count Lucien, admired the lavish binding, and returned it to the count. “I accept it with pleasure.”
“I am grateful for your approval, Sire.”
“Signor Scarlatti.”
Scarlatti stepped quickly forward and bowed again.
“Signor Scarlatti, my compliments to your patron monsieur the Marquis del Carpio, and my thanks to him for sending you and your son.” His Majesty smiled at little Domenico. “Charmingly played, my boy.” Domenico bowed stiffly from the waist, like a little string toy. His Majesty gave the boy a gold coin from his own hand.
“M. Coupillet.”
The music master hurried forward, bowing repeatedly.
“A charming piece, M. Coupillet, unfamiliar to me. Composed for this occasion?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Coupillet said.
“Excellent, excellent — though rather daring.”
Marie-Josèphe waited, first baffled, then with growing outrage. His Majesty believed M. Coupillet composed the piece, and M. Coupillet said nothing!