It was ridiculous, and yet the music was extraordinary, and I loved it—and it was not Il Trovatore. I had found a role to focus me that was neither the role I lived for nor lived inside of.
The tenor had adjusted his disappointment and kept assuring me we would perform this together at the Paris Opera next spring as my debut, a season I doubted would come. And yet I knew there was the slightest chance that I would still be allowed to debut, and so I knew there was nothing else for me to do. Whatever was to happen to Paris, it was time to leave. He would wait for us in the music room; I would be gone. And would try to convince Aristafeo to come with me.
§
The next morning, after the tenor had left, I asked Lucy to have the phaeton rigged up, then thought better of it and asked for just my horse.
I wore the general’s coat, my jewels bound in plain pouches hidden at my waist and ankle. My face hid even the slightest hint of a good-bye. Until later, I said.
Pardon me, but if I may say something, Lucy said.
By all means, I said.
Take a driver, she said. Or perhaps your horse won’t be there when you return. If you take ours, he may still sell it while you’re away, but if you tip him, he may fight for the horse and wait for you.
I hired a driver to take me to the Place Vend?me instead; and near there, at a chapel I didn’t recognize, I asked the driver to stop.
I haven’t had confession, I said, and stepped out of the carriage, though I didn’t need to explain to him.
In case I was being followed, I entered the church, slipped a few sous from my purse into the slot by the door, and took a candle, following the line of women ahead of me, kneeling and lighting it, crossing myself as the sisters had taught me. I looked up. A figure I didn’t recognize presided above a thick field of candles—so many had come to ask for favors, the flames had the warmth of a hearth fire, so I lingered until the women behind me glared and then I left to find Aristafeo.
There were no men in the line as I passed out of the church; the men of age to fight were at war. We were a city of women, children, and old men. The streets had filled with garbage that was no longer collected. The stench overpowered any fear I had of being caught.
At the address Aristafeo had given me in the Marais, I found an elegant town house within a courtyard, which impressed me. I rang the plain bell knocker and heard the sounds of dogs running and barking inside, vicious. I drew back from the entrance and was close to leaving when he pushed his face out, straining with the exertion of holding back two large black dogs. One moment! he said. And then his face vanished as the door closed again. I could hear the yelping and begging of the dogs and his voice, weary as he spoke to them in stern, swift Spanish until they were quiet.
He unlatched the door again, smiling. Forgive them, he said. They are loyal protectors but also quite hungry. I had not expected you, and so they were outside.
I stepped cautiously through the wooden gate, pausing at the sight of the dogs before entering completely. What are their names? I asked.
Gaston and Frédéric. Or, as I call them, the Lords of the Lower Garden.
I took in the courtyard. The dogs, both large black hounds nearly the size of ponies, sat grinning at me, anxious to approach but clearly having just been disciplined.
Come this way.
He walked so that he stood between the dogs and me. Once inside, he closed the door, and they began to whimper. He shouted to them again through the door and then turned to me, and said, I have nothing to feed them, of course. I am worried that soon they will turn on me.
I unfastened the ribbon on my hat and then undid my hair.
Take me upstairs, and then we will speak of food. And everything else.
He stepped close to me, studying my face, curious, amused again. His eyes betrayed nothing of the bitter appraisal I’d seen the day before—if he had not forgiven me for the insult of the day previous in rehearsal, he had upon my arrival. In the carriage over, I had been full of fears, each of them turning over to reveal another one underneath until, by the time I stepped through his door, I had a single mission I could be sure of: I was here to see him this one last time and to ask if he would leave with me. Here in his house I could admit what I hadn’t previously, that I did not know him—I only desired him. Was it only lust, the lust I might feel for any beautiful thing, for he was beautiful, how had I not remembered? Had I somehow reduced his beauty in memory or had it grown? Why did I love him? Did he love me? And what if he would not leave with me? I might not have the strength to leave him behind and go on alone—and I would need to, to live; and yet I could not bear it if he was to die, even if it should be that he did not love me; and thus went my mind even as he reached for me and unlaced my dress at the back with a nimble, practiced hand.