"Bravo!" I hear the little shouts of the children, no doubt imitating the shouts of their parents. But they mostly giggle and clap at my song, and point at the bright scraps of ribbon I've attached to the scroll of the fiddle.
I strike a wrong note and mentally reprimand myself. My mind is on other things, but I force it to concentrate on the task at hand: Winning enough money to feed my brother back into health.
Ferdain has slowly been improving, but if I do not feed him well each day, he relapses into his pale state of broken breathing.
As I finish the song, the children applaud and most go scampering off to complete whatever task they were distracted from. A few toss coins, and I pick them up with a sigh. The city is getting poorer, and thus it's people and my income have begun to dwindle. Finding the money to feed both of us is getting increasingly harder.
"Shame that the only payoff for such a performance is a few coins, eh Mademoiselle?" My head rises suspiciously. Such playful remarks usually come from Clopin Troullifou, but this voice is low and somewhat rougher. I find that the owner of it is an older man with the beginnings of a white beard and a broad hat on his head. He does not appear to be a gypsy, and is certainly not a guard. Gypsies, however, are not usually approached by random townspeople. I hold my fiddle protectively at my side.
"Many thanks for your compliments sir." The man laughs softly, coming closer to me. His bright blue eyes twinkle at me from his dirty face and beard, and I have a feeling that those eyes once had a very active life. I remember that I have seen him before. He has always been in the background of my performances, but I have never taken him for anything more than a townsperson with a similar schedule to mine.
"You've talent I've rarely seen, in either Parisian or gypsy." I blush.
It is kind to get such praise, as most gypsies have not the ear and most of the gadji do not listen. Better still to get it from the usually hostile townsfolk.
"You are most kind."
"Are you educated?" I shoot him a nasty look, but he only laughs.
"Your technical skill, mademoiselle, have you been educated in the ways of your instrument?"
I was never taught to play my fiddle. I have learned it on my own, from many hours of frustration and from watching the performances of others. Ferdain and I have never stayed in a place long enough for any kind of regular instruction. Every moment I play, I can feel the mistakes I know I am making but have no idea how to correct. Most do not notice. But I do.
"Only by imitation, sir." The old man grins, and I notice a gold tooth in his smile.
"You use too little of the bow, for one thing. Your intonation is sublime but you occasionally rush your pieces." I eye my fiddle and then eye the gentleman. He has obviously studied the instrument before. The way his blue eyes set upon it only makes me believe this more.
"Monsieur Everard, mademoiselle. And I hope you'll take my advice." Without another word, Everard tips his fraying hat and walks down the winding paths of the city.
I pick up my shawl and pack and begin my journey home.
Today's performance begins and ends quickly, as I discover that to play near the cathedral of Notre Dame is not appreciated by the holy men who occupy it. I do not begrudge them this: I understand why such things are sacred, despite my lack of belief in them.
To my great surprise, Monsieur Everard has again turned out to watch me. He leans against the stone walls of the cathedral, holding some books in his arms.
"You have improved." I have noticed no difference, but I am beginning to think that this man may know more about my talents than anyone else.
"You must put more emotion into your playing," He says, lifting up a book in each arm and imitating the motions of the fiddle. "Forget that you play for the townspeople, for their meager earnings. Play as though you play for all you hold dear."
Everard again tips his hat, and again exits without a word.
This continues for many days. I realize that Everard must have attended all my performances, and I wonder that I had never noticed him before. Each day he offers new advice, and the day after I subconsciously take it.
Ferdain is skeptical. I mix his herb medicine as he snorts in protest.
"Evalyne, he's a crazy old man from Paris. He is not those men you speak of, that Bach fellow or Handel whomever-"He pronounces both wrong.
"He may not be them but he obviously understands them, Ferdain." I say, raising an eyebrow at him. He folds his arms and, as he always does when faced with his own ignorance, pouts.
I reach for my rosin and rub it on his nose. He sputters and tries to brush it off as I laugh.
Life is good. As good at it can get for a gypsy, at any rate.
Clopin meets me the next evening as I am heading back to the Court.
"Ah, the fiddler of my court. How goes the beguiling of Parisian children?" I smile, balancing my bow upon my finger as I walk.
"Perhaps well enough to even rival you, O King." Clopin smiles devilishly as Puppet suddenly makes an appearance. The stick he holds in his little wooden hands strikes my bow, breaking the balance.
"Naughty Puppet! You should not court battles with little girl musicians." I make a face of mock outrage and engage Puppet in a swordfight, using my bow as the weapon.
"You must fight me, dear Puppet, if only to protect the honor of your King, who obviously cannot do so himself." Clopin simultaneously glares and smirks at me, making for a very odd, scrunched up look on his face.
"You're in high spirits, Cherie. That brother of yours must be getting better." I can only smile in response.
"He has promised to return to the land of living once more tomorrow morning." Even I must admit that I have missed my brother with me during the long days. His usually cheerful demeanor and complete lack of worry has kept me cheerful many a day when the threats of townsfolk marred my ego and my performances.
"Might I ask, Evalyne," Clopin begins, clasping his hands behind his back and affecting a leisurely stride. "How long do you intend to stay in Paris?"
I narrow my eyes at him.
"If you wish us to leave your Court, Clopin, you need only say the word." He smiles, staring up at the sky.
In this moment he looks every bit as kingly as any legitimate one; proud, wise, and burdened.
"No, Cherie. I don't wish you to leave." We stay silent for the rest of our return to the Court.