You imagine it, I told myself then, for the trovatore was still singing in the distance, unseen. And so I even believed this little lie for an instant more until the moment he stepped into the clearing and removed his mask.
I wondered if he could see me through the dark, sense me here in the box. I glanced at the Comtesse, who held her opera glasses close to her face, intent on the stage. Was this a trap? She betrayed no sign of what I suspected.
If this was a trap, it was a beautiful one.
Never, I silently swore there in the dark. Never will I be on that stage with you, singing this. Never.
The scene ended as Count di Luna and Manrico fought a fierce duel and Leonora threw herself to the ground in despair.
Manrico wins the duel but spares the Count’s life and returns to his Gypsy camp, where his Gypsy mother reveals she is the daughter of the Gypsy the Count’s father murdered. Manrico is really the Count’s brother—the bones found when her mother burned were her own son’s. This is why Leonora mistook them for each other. Manrico is told Leonora believes he is dead and is entering a convent out of grief, and so he runs to stop her but finds the Count there to do much the same. He and Leonora escape to the woods where they can live together as lovers, but a trick of the Count separates them, and the Count kidnaps her and imprisons Manrico. Leonora agrees to marry the Count if he would free Manrico, but she swallows poison instead and goes to the prison so she can die in Manrico’s arms.
After her death, Manrico loses his will to live without her, stays a prisoner, and goes to his execution willingly. The Count discovers the truth of his brother’s identity only when it is too late for the Count to save him. He has killed the brother his father had asked him to save.
Victory, defeat, victory, defeat, victory, defeat. Such is tragedy.
The Gypsy’s daughter cried out in victorious revenge: the audience again came to its feet cheering. The Comtesse rose to leave the box early. As I still expected the tenor as the Comtesse’s next guest, I was relieved to make an exit. We entered the lobby just as the rest of the audience flooded out, the Comtesse and I their first sight as their eyes adjusted to the light of the candelabras.
She studiously paused, and the crowd likewise paused to see her turning slowly to display herself in the black velvet gown she wore that evening, her hair piled high on her head and spilling down the back, the hair at her brow powdered à la Madame Pompadour, the enormous rows of pearls at her neck, a necklace of hers for which she was famous. I know there would be stories of her told describing all of this and ending with the slow turn she made, the lobby briefly her theater before she tossed her hair and departed with me.
As I turned to leave, I saw myself as I must have looked beside her to the crowd: the blue silk of my own dress a contrast to her black velvet, my dark hair swept back and curled to display the Emperor’s love gift to her. Our little tableau vivant.
She had been like an actress running for her cue. All was as she’d wanted it.
To the Café Anglais, she told the driver as we were seated, and we left, off to meet my prospective admirer.
§
When we were seated finally at our table, the Comtesse ordered for us, and after the champagne was served, she spoke.
You asked what you might do for me, she said. I have certainly found a position for you as well as an admirer. But first I must speak of a somewhat uncomfortable matter, which is that the Emperor has requested you.
I did not immediately understand her meaning, and so she waited until I did.
As I smiled and lifted a glass of champagne to my lips, she said, He does like a horsewoman. Eugénie, of course, and then also Marguerite Bellanger. You wouldn’t be one of the ones he has there at night, though, she said. You’re young but you’re not trivial, not at all. Even when you don’t speak, I think that voice is there. It comes with its own atmosphere.
All of my thoughts stilled as I understood she meant my singing voice. I had never discussed it with her.
I won’t let him have you, though, she said. But he did ask and then insist. I can still refuse him, and he’s not as well as he once was—I think such an audience would disappoint you. Still, the idea of being able to take the young woman who stole Eugénie’s lover from her is, well, it has an undeniable appeal for him. It makes you an extraordinary prize.
There was a beat of silence amid the din of the room around us, the wing of some terrible angel overhead.
You’re under the protection of the Italian embassy here in Paris, such as I can offer. You have, however, humiliated me to the Emperor. So I must set some conditions.