Emilie's Voice Read Online Free PDF Page B

more slowly than usual on her way home that evening. It was cold, but she did not feel it. She did not even mind very much when a fiacre rolled through a puddle and splashed her. She still felt the warm pressure of Charpentier’s hand on her stomach. She still heard their voices curling around each other, blending and touching. This intimacy warmed her all the way through, although she did not really understand why. She wanted to turn her steps back toward the Hôtel de Guise and sing again, but she knew it was time for dinner, and that her parents would worry if she did not come home.
    When at long last she arrived at the Pont au Change, Émilie let herself into the workshop with her latchkey and found her way across it in the near dark. The fire had been doused about an hour earlier when the light went, and Marcel could no longer see to do his meticulous work. Odd how much smaller it looked to her now, she thought. She still loved the smell of varnish, and the faint outlines of unfinished musical instruments hanging from the ceiling and covering the walls exuded a certain potential for beauty. Sometimes she wished she lived down here, surrounded by all these curving shapes, instead of upstairs, where everything was plain and square. At the Hôtel de Guise, everywhere one looked was beauty. All the rooms were made to delight the eye. Even Charpentier’s humble apartment was draped with curtains and had beautiful Aubusson carpets on the floors. Émilie knew it was unfair to compare her parents’ little apartment with the home of a princess, but each day the contrast became more stark, and each day she walked home a little more slowly, postponing the moment when she must return to her old life.

Five
    To be a great man, it is necessary to know how to profit from luck.
    Maxim 343
    Early in the morning about a week later, there was a knock on the door of the Atelier Jolicoeur that was loud enough to hear all the way up on the top floor of the building. Madeleine was busy clearing up from breakfast, and so Marcel went down to answer it. He returned with a letter in his hands.
    “What could it say?” asked Marcel. “We shall have to take it to the market to have it read.”
    “No, Papa! Let me try to read it myself!” said Émilie. She looked at the writing on the outside of the folded paper. “It’s for me! and it says, ‘ Son al-tesse Mademoiselle de Guise requests the honor of the’ something … ‘the presence of Mademoiselle Émilie Jolicoeur in her s-s-salon, December eleven, at six o’clock in the evening.’”
    Marcel watched his daughter struggle over the words on the page. He was astounded. She could read. This fact obscured for him the even more astounding one that she had been invited to the most glittering salon in Paris. When she finished, Émilie danced around the room with joy, her exuberant movements filling every inch of space in their tiny apartment.
    “I shall need a new dress, Maman!” Émilie said, breathless.
    “There, what did I tell you, Marcel? Nothing but expense. And for what? We have no money for this dress. You shall have to stay at home with us.” Madeleine’s voice was sharp and she closed the cupboard door so hard that the dishes inside rattled.
    Marcel watched the light go out of his daughter’s face as if someone had thrown a bucket of slops over her. Never did he feel more sorry that his business did not thrive, that he could not provide more material comforts for his family. He shot a look at Madeleine and met her implacable gaze. “Surely there is something we could do without, just so Émilie could have this opportunity?”
    “What could we do without? Supper?” Madeleine faced her husband without flinching.
    “I could sell something, maybe one or two of my tools.”
    “No, Papa!” Émilie ran to him and took his hand. “It’s not so important. Maybe I don’t need a dress to go.”
    “What, and be laughed at by those idle folk?” Madeleine walked over and stood