Le Cadeau Chapter 5
Late July 1862
The interior of the small theater is stifling. Even though the house remains quite dark, with only odd shafts of sunlight illuminating the stage and a single candle for the repeteur, the nine vocal students are panting with the heat from this unusually warm day in July. They lounge on the velvet seats like odalisques in a Turkish bath. However, their vocal coach, the formidable Madame Pauline Viardot, will have none of it.
"Get up, all of you! I should make you sing the sextet from "Don Giovanni!" she yowls. "Singers are spoiled, lazy creatures these days! Believe me, we never had the luxury of lolling about when I was on the stage."
Mme. Viardot clatters down from the stage, leaving a surprised Erik seated behind the piano. He has been working as an accompanist for the renowned voice teacher since Easter. The arrangement has worked out to both their satisfactions—Erik has been able to leave the physical labor of masonry behind and Mme. Viardot has been astonished to obtain such a fine player for her students' lessons.
Mme. Viardot can trace her musical pedigree from her father, the Spanish tenor and vocal coach Manuel Garcia, who had studied with the great composer Gioacchino Rossini. She is not willing to accept mediocrity at any time.
A cherub-faced tenor plaintively cajoles the Madame, "Please, can't we wait until the sun is lower? I feel like my flesh is melting away in this Purgatory…" He gives a charming pout, too, one that usually works on older ladies.
"Baldinito, you must be able to sing in all conditions. Dreadful heat, piercing cold or thunderstorms—it doesn't matter. You are here to serve the music. I only mean to prepare you for anything." Mme. Viardot's eagle eye looks over this latest batch of fledglings. Pitiful, she thinks to herself, the only real musician is the one at the keyboard.
A young soprano gets up from her seat and saunters toward Mme. Viardot. "I am ready for anything," she chirps arrogantly. The girl proffers her sheet music portfolio to the bemused teacher.
Mme. Viardot flips through the shiny, crisp pages. "Lucia's mad scene—no, "Qui la Voce?" child, you'll kill us all… "Senta's Dream," are you mad? Don't you have something suitable for the soubrette you clearly are?"
The soprano pouts and turns to an aria in the back of the portfolio, one that is well worn and thoroughly marked. She silently hands it to Mme. Viardot. The teacher nods in approval and hands the music back to the girl. With assurance, Mme. Viardot turns to the other students and announces her selection.
"Chacun le sait, chacun le dit" from "La Fille Du Regiment" by Donizetti. An excellent choice for a young singer—something she actually has a chance of being hired for! Now hop up on the stage and let us hear you, Mademoiselle…" Here the teacher is at a momentary loss—the young woman has only recently arrived from Seville and has not yet begun to study intensively with Mme. Viardot.
"Carlotta, madame."
A beam of sunlight knifes through the dim atmosphere of the theater as the lobby doors are opened. A woman carefully picks her way down the aisle to join Mme. Viardot. She taps the music teacher on the shoulder and the older woman wheels around, startled.
Mme. Viardot breaks into a brilliant, toothy grin as she recognizes her visitor.
"Blandine D'Agoult Liszt! Or should I say, Madame Ollivier? Look at you," Mme. Viardot crows as she embraces Blandine. Then, the voice teacher pulls back in surprise. "My God, child, do you mean to have your baby here? You should be at home!"
Blandine laughs nervously. "I know, I'm foolish, but I had to see how my own pupil was coming along. He will never boast about himself, you know. Has he played you any of his compositions?"
Mme. Viardot shakes her head. "I had no idea he composed. Here, sit down. We are about to have a little Donizetti." She motions to the soprano on the stage. "We are ready for you, mademoiselle."
The young soprano hands the sheet music to Erik. As she draws near enough to discern his mask, she gives a little gasp and backs away. Erik regards the girl coolly as he looks over the music. He softly inquires, "In this key, mademoiselle, or do you require a transposition?"
The soprano cocks her head arrogantly as she retorts, "I assure you, I have all the high notes necessary." She strides to the middle of the stage, finds a patch of sunlight to sing in, and nods to Erik to begin.
After the initial chords, the aria begins with a cadenza fashioned to echo a bugle call, with repeated staccato high A's. As the soprano attacks the vocal line, she manages two high A's on pitch, two flat, and one so sharp that it is practically a B flat.
"Oh, dear," Blandine whispers to Mme. Viardot. The vocal coach reflexively puts a finger to her lips and keeps listening.
Erik begins the measures of the aria itself. The young woman struts and gestures as she sings the saucy phrases of the melody, a song introducing Marie, an orphan girl who has been collectively raised from infancy by the 21st Infantry Regiment. The soprano poses, she smiles coquettishly, she winks; she does almost everything except put together two coherent musical phrases at a time. And yet…the voice is large. The kind of voice that can cut through heavy orchestration without strain. The girl herself has a certain undeniable charisma, too. Neither Mme. Viardot nor Blandine can turn away from her.
Mme. Viardot sinks into her seat and steeples her hands. "Sweet suffering Christ," she moans, mostly to herself, "it's a voice."
Blandine echoes her, "It's a voice?"
Mme. Viardot nods, "It's a voice and five years' work to get it under control. At least." She clears her throat and calls out to the young woman. "Take it from 'Il est la' in the first verse, but this time, just stand still and sing it for me. No dancing, please."
The soprano snorts, "Your accompanist is throwing me off. He plays too slowly!" She turns toward Erik and boldly snaps her fingers at him. "Like this! A tempo¡por favor!"
A little gasp arises from the other students. Erik icily nods, and gives the pitch for the soprano to begin. He has learned from Mme. Viardot that when a singer is struggling with an aria, the repeteur should slow down until the singer can manage the phrases. But if Mademoiselle wants it fast…
"Il est la, il est la, il est la, morbleu!" As the soprano finishes the first phrase, Erik is well into the second, She gasps a breath, and tries to catch up.
"La voila, la voila, la voila, corbleu!" By this time, Erik is two measures ahead. She skips to the end of the verse to catch him, but he has already played the final chords, leaving her singing an off-key phrase in solitary splendor. She closes her mouth in mortification. Erik stands up from the piano, takes three long strides toward the soprano, and snaps his fingers under her nose.
"A tempo, mademoiselle, s'il vous plait." he mutters in a voice only she can hear, and then stalks down the stairwell to join Blandine in the audience.
Mme. Viardot has many years of experience behind her to assist her in keeping a straight face, yet she still struggles to maintain a professional air after this display.
She calls out to the soprano, "Two things I always tell my students; never annoy the people who touch your food, and never, ever vex your accompanist." Blandine muffles her laughter in a handkerchief at this. Mme. Viardot continues, "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. You have learned enough for today."
As the abashed students shuffle through the aisle toward the lobby, Blandine draws a large envelope from her reticule and hands it to Mme. Viardot. With just a trace of nervous anticipation, Blandine shyly declares, "I really hope that you will be able to join us. It will be such an honor."
Mme. Viardot breaks the seal on the creamy vellum and scans the invitation. "A musicale in September! I would be delighted, Blandine, but will you be recovered enough to entertain?"
"I don't see why not. My mother was holding her salons three weeks after giving birth to each of us. She was famous for breastfeeding while my father would play the piano."
"I remember," Mme. Viardot chuckles.
Erik does a double take at this revelation, a reaction which does not go unnoticed by the women. Blandine laughs a little as she sees the young man blush.
"Oh, calm down, I have no intention of emulating that practice. But I do wish to establish my own salon. Erik will debut his songs, and if you want to introduce one of your singers…" Blandine's eyes shine with excitement and anticipation at this prospect.
"Hmm," the voice teacher muses, "The plump tenor you saw might be sufficiently house-broken by that time…Are your songs for tenor voice, Monsieur LaFosse?"
"They can be." Erik mind begins to race at the prospect of his songs being formally presented. The image of beautifully bound sheet music, ornate covers bearing his name featured in the windows of the music shops…it could be the beginning of a dream, he thinks.
Suddenly, all of Erik's attention is seized by Blandine. She turns deathly white and begins to crumple. As Mme. Viardot lets out a little cry, Erik takes hold of the young woman so that she does not fall to the ground. With a single movement, he takes her in his arms and carries her to a chaise in the theater's lobby.
As Erik rubs Blandine's wrists, he barks at Mme. Viardot, "Find the carriage. Get the driver to come in here and help me." The two musicians look down at Blandine's hands to see that her fingers are grotesquely swollen, almost purple with distension.
"She needs a doctor, Erik," Mme. Viardot gasps.
"Do you have a good physician?" he asks, while desperately trying to revive the young mother-to-be. "Monsieur Ollivier is out of town, in Montpellier, and I don't know who the family uses."
"I will go to him myself. This looks serious, Erik. Get her home." The older woman moves quickly to the street. Erik can hear her trained voice echo through the thoroughfare, summoning Blandine's driver. The horses' hooves clatter on the cobblestones as the coachman pulls up as close as possible to the theater door.
Blandine weakly protests as Erik and the driver pick her up and carry her to the carriage. As they lay her inside the compartment, Erik instructs the driver to go quickly but carefully. "Take the main roads—she must not be jostled or shaken more than can be helped." Erik climbs inside the compartment and tucks a blanket against Blandine's side, keeping her firmly in place on the carriage bench. He claps his hand on the side of the carriage. "Drive on!" he shouts.
As the carriage sways, Erik keeps his eyes fixed on Blandine's ashen face. Her brow is damp with perspiration and she seems to labor for each breath. There is fear in her eyes as she reaches for Erik's hand.
"I'm going to die, aren't I?" the young woman whispers.
"Not at all! You will rest and you will feel much better." Erik tries his best to force confidence and assurance into his voice, but Blandine can tell it is false bravado.
"Will you stay with me? Emile is so far away…I asked him not to…" Blandine's eyes roll up into her head as she faints again. In panic, Erik leans his head out the carriage window.
"Go faster, man! Like all the demons of Hell are chasing you!"
Jeanne Marie screams when the front door of the Ollivier mansion bursts open. Erik and the coachman struggle to gently carry Blandine up the stairs to her boudoir. Erik shouts out orders to the frightened girl as they ascend with their precious burden.
"Send a telegram to Monsieur Ollivier—tell him he must return at once! Then fetch the midwife and make her come back with you—no excuses!"
Jeanne Marie is rooted to the floor, in shock.
Erik roars at her. "Move, you goose!"
The girl finally rouses. "Shall I send for the priest, too?"
Erik snarls, "No one is dying today."
"But to baptize the baby…"
The men are at the top of the stairs. Erik calls out over his shoulder, "Fine. But send the telegram and get the midwife first."
As the men place Blandine on the bed, Erik pulls out what little money he has in his pocket. "Go with Jeanne Marie and make sure she comes back with the midwife. Stop for nothing." The driver stolidly nods and departs.
As Erik removes Blandine's shoes, he sees that her ankles are also dreadfully swollen. The child is poisoning her system. She must give birth or perish, he realizes with horror.
Blandine becomes somewhat conscious as she reacts to Erik's touch. She shudders a little, and then opens her eyes fully.
"You are home, Madame. Be calm, I am here." Erik stands at Blandine's bedside, a little unsure of what to do next.
Blandine's eyes sweep around the room. She tries to sit up, but her strength fails her. Weakly, she lifts one hand and points to the ornate wardrobe that stands against the wall.
"Erik, open the wardrobe for me. There's a trunk…take it out, please…"
"Madame Blandine, this can wait--"
"No, it can't! Get out my trunk. I want to show you something."
Erik does as Blandine bids him and opens the heavy mahogany doors of the wardrobe. At the very back of the closet stands a battered trunk. He lifts it out and carries it to the side of the bed so that Blandine can see it clearly.
"Open it," she commands in a voice that is barely a whisper.
As he unlatches the brass fittings, he hears Blandine begin to softly weep. "Please, Blandine, don't cry," Erik pleads in a shaky voice. "You will have your little baby, and your salon, and I will sing for you. All will be well."
"Erik, listen to me closely. I want to tell you about Daniel."