Goddess (27 page)

A
DIM CORRIDOR
. The windows, the mirrors, the galleries that once blazed with light are covered. The chandeliers remain unlit. A serving-girl scurries out of sight. Somewhere a door slams.

The young Duc d’Uzès hesitates. Smooths his waistcoat, sighs. The thing will be distasteful, no doubt. There’ll be a scene. Perhaps a fight. It may come to blows, to a challenge. But it must be done. It is time.

He has walked these hallways many times, although not in the past few years. But he has heard—from d’Albert, from the whole of Paris—how they sparkled, how the Marquise and her precious singer threw open the doors in midwinter and danced in the snowflakes, how laughter rang through the galleries, how every gallant in town longed for an invitation here—to the Friday salon, a soirée, a discreet dinner. He was never invited, naturally, but he knows—everyone knows—all about the Christmas ball that lasted three days, and the luncheon parties in the
orangerie
, about Couperin playing harpsichord in the ballroom while the singer amazed her guests by singing every part of
Tancrède
. Even the King has heard of the dazzling days of La Maupin and her beautiful de Florensac. Everyone knows. Everyone adores them. Or did.

His footsteps sound sure as they echo through the house. It’s not empty, he knows. But its light has gone. The magic. The heart.

He comes to a door—his sister-in-law’s boudoir. One hand on the doorknob, but he can’t turn it, can’t look inside, where once there was giggling and velvet and music. Keeps walking.

Family portraits—his, hers—stare down at him. His father, the late Duc. His brother and his wife.

That’s right. This is his house, his brother’s house, now. All of it. The fabulous de Florensac wealth, the houses, the five carriages, the stables, the baby. By royal decree. By all the laws of humanity, of nature. By right. There can be no argument. He will not be provoked, not this time, not by her, not again.

In the south wing, there’s a small salon. A music room. Another boudoir—the one they used, the one in which they hid their shame from the world.

If she’s anywhere, it’ll be here.

He doesn’t knock. Why should he?

The singer is waiting for him. Heard his footsteps, heard the news from a maid who ran breathless from the courtyard. She sits, in a black gown, with both feet on the floor, a cushion gripped in both hands.

She’s not ready. Not for this. That’s not possible. But she’s composed. Her fingernails are tearing the cushion to shreds but he will never know. Must never know.

He doesn’t bow. Why should he?

‘Madame de Maupin.’

‘Duc d’Uzès.’

‘You know why I’m here?’

‘Of course.’

‘Is the infant ready to travel?’

She blinks. ‘Yes. She is being taken to your carriage as we speak.’

‘Good.’

‘Keep her warm. She’s not strong. Not after … The doctors fear for her.’

‘You need not concern yourself,’ says d’Uzès. ‘The wet nurse has been in the family for years.’

A pause. He looks around for the first time. It’s as if every candle in the house—every candle in Paris—is here, in this room, and alight.

He raises his eyebrows.

‘It’s for Thérèse.’ The legendary voice is strangely hoarse. ‘She doesn’t like the dark.’

‘I see.’

‘My father said—my father always lit a candle in the window—every night. He said if you lose someone—you light a candle, you see, and then they can find their way back to you.’

‘I’m afraid, Madame de Maupin—’

‘Not her body, of course. That’s gone. I do realise.’

‘Yes.’

‘Her soul. You never know.’

‘May she rest in peace.’

‘I don’t know,’ says Julie. She stares into a candle’s flame. ‘Do you think she will?’

‘I can’t say. God willing.’

Another pause. Another moment.

‘Madame, if you will permit me—’

Then Julie looks straight at him for the first time.

‘You are a good man,’ she says. ‘I see that now. Defend your family, your friends. D’you remember that night, at the ball?’

‘I still bear the scar.’

‘The night we met.’

‘No, we met earlier,’ he says, ‘with d’Albert, at Villeperdue.’

‘Not you. I didn’t mean you.’

He brushes away a wisp of sorrow, of pity. It’s the gown that confuses him, pains him, the black silk, lace, dark smudges under her eyes. She is far from beautiful, far from fearsome, far from strong.

‘Madame, I regret to say—’

‘I am not your enemy. I hope you know that.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘We have fought,’ Julie says. ‘Many times. It must stop now.’

He bows, just slightly. ‘Agreed.’

‘You don’t need to say anything more, sieur. My bags are packed. By nightfall I will be well beyond the city walls, beyond reach.’

‘I’m not sure how to put this, but my brother has asked—’

‘Don’t worry. I take nothing with me that is not mine. Her jewels, her—everything—it’s all still here.’

‘Perhaps I might be permitted to—an inventory—just so I can reassure him …’ He sees her flinch as if slapped. ‘Forgive me.’

Julie snarls at him, ‘Do what you want. It’s your house now. His house. His wife. I have no place here. Nothing.’

‘It’s my duty.’

‘I wonder if he ever loved her at all?’

‘I’m sure … when they were young. Before that night …’

‘So it’s my fault?’

‘I meant only—’

She flings the cushion, bleeding feathers, into a corner.

‘Go about your sordid business, d’Uzès. I must be on the road before sunset.’

He nods, turns to go.

‘One last thing.’

‘Yes, madame?’ He faces her for the last time.

‘Take care of d’Albert for me,’ she says.

‘I always do.’

‘He’ll miss me.’

D’Uzès closes the door quietly behind him. It’s the least he can do.

N
OW YOU’VE MADE ME
cry. I never cry. But recently it seems I can’t stop. At her bedside. For days afterwards. Weeks. And now, remembering those long hours in the darkness.

Sorrow is an eclipse of love. For the truth is that I will never love again. That’s it. Over. Even if I lived another forty years, I’d be alone. I am empty. Bereft. Beyond grief, beyond affection, beyond reach. I’ll never be touched, never kiss, never feel a lover’s hand in my hair or the small of my back. Never exchange secret glances across a room, laugh with my head thrown back in abandon, whisper in the night or dance in the dawn hours.

Not without her, without Thérèse.

I’ve lived through many griefs, many scars, many wounds. Until now. This—this life without her, without any point to it, without the rustle of her hem or her shadow in the candlelight—this is nothing. Nothing. I don’t want it, whatever it is. It’s not life. It’s just grief and memory, memory and grief, layer after layer.

I have cried so much I frightened myself, slept so little I no longer know if it’s dusk or dawn, prayed and sung and begged for release. Now it has come. My lungs hurt with every breath. My eyes sting—it’s the sweat—the fever—yes, the tears.

I don’t sleep. There’s time enough for that. But now—now.

Now there is only a deep ache, a scar like a sword slash—crimson—across my chest.

I’m running. Drowning in my own blood. In hers.

Falling.

I’m dead. I must be.

I taste Hell between my teeth. I can smell the sulphur from here, but I swear to you that this life of mine is not worthy of the tar pits and the never-ceasing fires.

I can also feel the dampness of clouds on my face. I am in between.

I’ve returned from purgatory before this. I have come home triumphant from exile—from squalor, from despair—in finer voice, to greater acclaim, than ever.

And yet. And yet.

This time I fear it’s beyond my strength. Where once there flared an unquenchable flame there is now—nothing. No Thérèse. Nothing else that matters.

I won’t see her in the beyond. She’s too good, too beautiful, to be anywhere but at Christ’s right hand. The Apostles will fall over themselves and each other to offer her their seat—yes, even Saint Paul, who, you must admit, doesn’t like any woman but the Madonna.

Thérèse will wait for me, I know—she is watching even now, as my body readies itself to release my spirit, to soar like the stained-glass dove in the chapel. She will hold out her hand to me and smile. Perhaps her longing and mine will even make the difference between Christ’s pity and damnation.

What else can I do? I’m confessing as fast as I can.

I escaped the flames once. Perhaps I will do it again. My heart is pure. Not as pure as some, I grant you—I am no saint. But I was loved. I made people happy. Surely that must count for something? God is love, you recall, and he
who abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him. Or her. So said an undisputed saint, and who are we to argue with him?

But there is a love of which the saints have no idea, there is a purity of being, in the stillness of the night, in the warmth of someone’s arms, their breath on your neck, their skin like magic against yours—it happens rarely, but that is communion.

There lies redemption. Salvation. All lost to me now. But I felt it once. I held it close in these hands that now quiver—but not tightly enough. It slipped from my grasp in the night, in a fever, in dread and horror and the unutterable loneliness of someone who has truly loved and can do so no more.

I’m tired. The fever settles deep in my heart.

Release me, Father, for I have sinned. You can’t forgive me. Nobody can—only Clara, only Thérèse, and they are gone.

But you should bring out your oils and crucifix, make your preparations. It is time.

You refuse?

Even this? Even now?

God help me.

So be it. I will make my own peace with Him. Your rites, your mutterings, don’t matter. I am long dead.

But make sure they sing for me.

For God’s sake.

And my own.

You should leave me now.

Hurry.

Close the book and go.

[Curtain]

J
ULIE
-É
MILIE D
’A
UBIGNY, KNOWN AS
La Maupin, died in a convent in 1707. She was thirty-three years old. She has no known grave.

[May everyone on earth feel the horror of such a cruel death]

Lully,
Armide

Julie-Émilie d’Aubigny:
Known as La Maupin, our heroine.

Antoine Le Bal
*
:
Assistant to the musical
surintendant
, Académie Royale de Musique.

Gaston d’Aubigny:
Julie’s father, secretary to Comte d’Armagnac.

Louis de Lorraine, Comte d’Armagnac:
Grand Écuyer to the King of France, addressed as Monsieur le Grand. Portfolio includes the Grande Écurie, the King’s stables. Lover and protector of La Maupin.

Louis Gaulard Duménil:
Haute-contre
, Académie Royale de Musique. A poltroon.

Marthe Le Rochois:
Soprano and goddess, Académie Royale de Musique.

Séranne:
Duellist, fencing master, ‘a gentleman from the Midi’.

A vicomte’s son
*
:
An unsuccessful duellist.

Clara
**
:
A young woman of Marseille, beloved of La Maupin.

Maréchal:
An actor and drunkard.

Louis-Joseph d’Albert de Luynes:
Titled Comte d’Albert, later Prince Grimberghen. Lover and friend of La Maupin.

Duc d’Uzès:
Friend of d’Albert, brother of the Marquis de Florensac. Opponent of La Maupin.

Gabriel-Vincent Thévenard:
Baritone, Académie Royale de Musique. Lover and friend of La Maupin.

The Comtesse
*
:
Lover, confidante and friend of La Maupin.

Jean-Nicolas Francine:
Directeur
, Académie Royale de Musique [Paris Opéra].

Monsieur:
Philippe of France, Duc d’Orléans, brother of Louis XIV. Friend and protector of La Maupin.

Fanchon
[
Françoise
]
Moreau:
Soprano, Académie Royale de Musique. Lover and friend of La Maupin.

Marie-Louise Desmatins:
Soprano, Académie Royale de Musique.

Her sister, Mlle Desmatins:
[first name unknown] Soprano, Académie Royale de Musique.

Madame Marquise de Seneterre de Florensac:
Marie-Thérèse, lover of La Maupin. Described by Duc Saint-Simon as the most beautiful woman in France.

Madame:
Elisabeth Charlotte, Princess Palatine. Wife of Monsieur.

Abbé Noye
**
:
Opponent of La Maupin.

Marcel
**
:
A cousin of the Marquise de Florensac. Opponent of La Maupin.

Maximilian II Emanuel:
Elector of Bavaria, Governor of the Spanish Netherlands. Lover and friend of La Maupin.

Comtesse d’Arcos:
His mistress.

Comte d’Arcos:
Her husband.

Countess Marino:
A pig.

Count Marino:
Her husband.

Baron de Servan:
An oaf. Opponent of La Maupin.

Comte du Saint-Rémy
*
:
His reluctant acquaintance.

Chevalier de Raincy:
A phantom.

Madame Marguerite Foré:
A maid.

Monsieur Langlois:
The unfortunate landlord of La Maupin.

Duchesse de Luxembourg:
Mistress of Comte d’Albert.

Chevalier Frédéric du Bouillon:
Lover of La Maupin.

OFF-STAGE

Father Fabrice
*
:
Confessor, parish of Saint-Pierre, Avignon.

Monsieur Maupin:
Husband of La Maupin, later a tax official in the provinces.

Louis XIV:
King of France and Navarre, known as the Sun King.

Madame de Maintenon:
His mistress, and later secretly his wife.

The Dauphin:
His heir.

Rousseau brothers:
Fencing masters.

Monsieur de Liancourt:
A fencing master.

La Reynie:
Lieutenant-General of Police.

Gautier:
Directeur
, Académie Royale de Musique, Marseille.

Sister Carmella
**
:
A nun [deceased].

Monsieur d’Aubigny:
A phantom.

Madame de Sévigné:
A lady of letters.

Philippe, Chevalier de Lorraine
: Lover of Monsieur, younger brother of Comte d’Armagnac.

Louis de Crussol, Marquis de Florensac
: Husband of Marquise de Florensac, younger brother of the Duc d’Uzès. Described by Duc Saint-Simon as the stupidest man in France.

Mademoiselle Pérignon:
A dancer, Académie Royale de Musique.

Count Rantzau:
A duellist.

Count Schwartzenberg
: A duellist [deceased].

Chopelet:
A singer, Académie Royale de Musique.

Monsieur le Perche
*
:
A fencing master.

A baby:
Later named Anne Charlotte, born to the Marquise de Florensac.

ENSEMBLE

Abbess and sisters of the Order of the Visitandines, Avignon.

Peasants at a tavern in Provence.

Audience members at the Opéra, Marseille; a cabaret near Poitiers; the Opéra theatre, Palais-Royal; l’Opéra du Quai au Foin, Brussels; Versailles.

Stagehands, dressers, chorus, dancers and musicians of the Académie Royale de Musique, Paris and Marseille; and l’Opéra du Quai au Foin, Brussels.

Backgammon players, salon gossips, ball attendees, guttersnipes, secretaries, stableboys, gendarmes, court pages [various].

COMPOSERS AND LIBRETTISTS

Jean-Baptiste Lully:
Composer
surintendant de la musique de la chambre du roi
, and
directeur
, Académie Royale de Musique [deceased but apparently immortal].

Marin Marais:
Composer, master of the
basse de viol
. Musician, court of Louis XIV.

Philippe Quinault:
Dramatist and librettist, collaborator with Lully.

Marc-Antoine Charpentier:
Composer,
maître de musique
at Sainte-Chapelle, Paris.

François Couperin:
Composer, harpsichordist, organist at Saint-Gervais-et-Saint-Protais and later the Royal Chapel. Musician, court of Louis XIV.

Marguerite-Louise
Couperin:
His cousin. Soprano and harpsichordist—first female musician to appear in the Royal Chapel. Musician, court of Louis XIV.

Théobalde:
Composer, master of the
basse de viol
, player in the orchestra of the Académie Royale de Musique.

François Bouvard:
Composer, singer, Académie Royale de Musique. Master of the violin.

Molière:
A playwright. Collaborator with Lully.