My own devotion brought me to Pauline’s Mozart shrine, though I did not come for Mozart. A portrait of Pauline’s sister, Maria, looked down from over the mantel in that room. I went in and stood before it.
This was my talisman. I had memorized her long white neck, her large dark eyes as familiar to me as those of anyone else’s in the house. The lesson Pauline wanted us, her students, to take from her stories of her sister was that she had died too young, a victim of her own reckless ambition. But I, increasingly certain I lacked Pauline’s genius, had become enchanted with the portrait and had, more and more, taken another lesson. While Pauline was not the same kind of beauty as she and had suffered for it, at least Maria would not know the ignominy of being a voiceless singer with no other talents.
I understood Maria’s recklessness differently. Nothing waited for her if she could not sing, much as I suspected nothing would wait for me. But I still believed that fame could save me, somehow, even from this, and I would for some time.
This movement—between my room, her music room, this library, this is how I spent my time in Baden-Baden until the war began.
Three
IN THE SUMMER OF 1870, when French society declined their usual visits to the spas and casinos in Baden-Baden, it was clear to Europe there would finally be war between Prussia and France.
For nearly a year Pauline had hoped to at least have her good friend, George Sand, come to see Le Dernier Sorcier performed and then, when that failed, had begun to plan a trip to her—we would perform for her there, in Nohant in her theater instead. We were to go in July, around the time of their birthdays, and the performance would be in her honor.
It was a great compliment to be asked, and as the tenor had been gone for a month at least, with no sign of returning, I said yes, excited at the thought of a trip without him.
The news of the possibility of war cheered me at first, as the talk in Germany was of how quickly it would be over; the French, we were assured again and again, could not hope to prevail. Surely it would be the end of the regime, Pauline said one night, when this sentiment was expressed at her dinner table.
The end of the regime meant, to me at least, if not my outright freedom, the beginning of it. Inside France, the idea of a France without the Emperor and Empress had seemed impossible for me to imagine. But from inside Germany, it seemed certain. When this was done, I would be able to leave the tenor then, I was sure. This trip could be the first of many without him, I hoped.
We must go to her sooner than July, it would seem, Pauline then said to the table and us, her assembled troupe. She did not need to say Sand’s name.
Several weeks later, as we packed to depart, Pauline appeared at my door, stricken, a letter from the tenor in her hand. He’s gone mad, she said, holding it out to me.
Thank you for informing me of your plans, and I’m so sorry I won’t be able to join you there except very briefly; for you see I must return to Paris, and Lilliet should come with me—I think she has learned all she can from you for now. I will collect her from Nohant then, as I will already be in Paris when you arrive, so be sure to tell her to pack all and make her good-byes and send what she will not need in Nohant to the avenue de l’Opéra address. I will be making arrangements for her debut there for the spring season, where I know she will be the talk of Paris.
The letter read as if it were from a stranger, almost a forgery, except I knew his hand by now. Pauline had been carefully training me for a year to debut in Weimar, in Bellini’s La Sonnambula, performing the role of Amina. This was an effort she and the tenor had both undertaken, and so I knew she felt variously betrayed, as did I. Pauline was famous for her Amina, and as I could have no better teacher for it, wouldn’t my debut and my safety be assured if we continued as we were? Why this change? He’d discussed with us how, even after the debut, I should remain a student of Pauline’s for at least another year, perhaps two.
How could he do this to us? And to you most of all, Pauline asked, though I knew she knew I did not know the answers. This is just so disappointing. Well, I will send my maid to help you pack everything, then.
None of the agreements we’d made from before this letter were visible except in his insistence I return to Paris, the one only I knew of, the one that required me to be with him. Something had happened out of my sight, a cord pulled tightly where I’d expected it to go slack. I understood then that I knew nothing of what would happen next.