OPENING NIGHT

Opening Night

El Staplador (elstaplador)

Summary:

No one disturbs the prima donna when she's warming up. No one except Mlle D'Armilly.
For the ladiesbingo prompt 'Artist'

It would have been an impressive bouquet, by ordinary standards; but far lovelier, grander ones had already been ignored, dismissed to the chorus' dressing room, and Henri was losing patience.
'Alas, monsieur, it is impossible to disturb her. She will see nobody before a performance. The artistic temperament, you know.' And even if it were possible, it would call for rather more than what had been pressed into his hand. A reputation as a reliable doorkeeper must be sold more dearly than that.
'Then will you at least see that these are brought to her dressing room?' The man thrust the flowers at him.
Henri examined the bouquet carefully. Not lilies, which made the great lady sneeze, and not freesias, which gave Mlle Louise a headache. And there was something clinking gently in the man's hand. He relented. 'I'll see what I can do, monsieur. Georges,' he called, 'would you mind watching the door?'

There was, as it happened, not much to be done. The door to the prima donna's dressing room was locked, or, at least, her dresser swore it was. Victorine had a chair backed up against it, and she was knitting. 'Madame is warming up.'
'Is that really so?' Henri liked Victorine. He thought Victorine might like him, and he didn't want to push his luck. Still, he had taken the man's money and he felt vaguely that he should earn it.
Victorine scowled and cocked her head at the closed door. 'Don't you hear her?' And indeed the tinkle of a piano was audible, and the closed-lipped drone that was Madame exploring her lower notes.
'What should I do with this?' he asked.
Victorine looked down at the three other bouquets at her feet. 'Leave it, if you must. Or I dare say the ballet would appreciate it.'
Somewhat against his better judgement, Henri left it. Victorine returned to her knitting.

The acoustic in here was flattering. Louise thought this an accident, but Eugénie affected to believe that one of her predecessors had had it made so deliberately. She prided herself on the lack of any similar impulse. If anything, she had told Louise, it irritated her; she felt impelled to compensate. Out on the stage there would be no such comfort, and she needed no flattery now.
'Play me the entry in the second act,' Eugénie commanded Louise, authoritative even in her chemise and corset. 'From Margaux's lead – and then hold the C major chord.'
The score lay closed on the stand. Louise did not need to open it; she had played this section often enough over the past weeks.
Eugénie sang the entry; then, as Louise depressed the pedal, she hung on the top G, coaxing it from piano to forte and back again, then introducing a little shake, and smoothing it out again.
She nodded, and Louise let go of the chord. Eugénie ran up and down the scale one last time, two octaves. Louise, free now to listen, thought it good. The low notes were secure, the top notes placed beautifully, the whole tone rich and open.
Eugénie smiled, cautiously satisfied. 'Now,' she said.
Louise's breath caught in her throat. She tipped her head back to look at Eugénie, who came behind her, and, putting one bare arm either side of her, gently closed the lid of the piano over the keys. Then, taking Louise's waist between her two hands, she pulled her up to stand. Louise twisted around to face her, leaning one knee on the piano stool. Eugénie tightened her embrace and kissed Louise fiercely.
'Are you certain...?' Louise murmured, knowing the answer. This was how it always began, every opening night: the notes once being in place, Eugénie's abrupt change of interest, her own token demurral, and then -
'Yes.' Eugénie pulled her closer, dragging her upwards so that she knelt on the piano stool. 'Come...' One arm around Louise's back, the other behind her knees. Louise, knowing what was coming, looped her arms around Eugénie's neck and let her carry her to the chaise-longue at the other end of the dressing room. She gazed up into dark, intent eyes, and shivered with anticipation.
Eugénie could be gentle when she chose. She was gentle now, laying Louise down and arranging a cushion under her head, drawing her skirts up and kissing along her thighs, further, further -
Always it was like this, had been ever since Eugénie had attained the right to a dressing room of her own: the bustle of the opera house locked outside the door, Louise stretched on the chaise-longue as if she herself were the prima donna whose every whim must be indulged, and Eugénie's dark head among her skirts.
Once or twice she had tried to reciprocate, but every time Eugénie had caught her wrists and pinned them down, making it clear that in this moment they must not confuse artist and audience. Eugénie needed nothing but Louise's undivided attention. And Louise, contented, captive, did not scruple to give it her, then or now.
The combination of past memory and present sensation brought her to the edge, and past it, and she cried out. Flushed, triumphant, Eugénie straightened up, then dropped to her knees to kiss Louise. 'Well?' she murmured.
'I'm yours. You know it.' Louise's breath was quick, her heart racing.
'Dearest Louise,' Eugénie murmured, with uncharacteristic tenderness. 'You're so patient with me.'
Louise let herself smile up at her for a second – two seconds – leant up impulsively and kissed her – then stood up and smoothed her skirts down. 'Shall I call Victorine?'
Eugénie nodded. 'Thank you,' she said.
Louise crossed the room quietly and turned the door handle. Victorine had already wound her knitting around the needles. Now she was gathering up the collection of flowers from the floor.
Louise did not speak, contenting herself with a conspiratorial smile at Victorine and a glance backwards at Eugénie. Already she seemed taller and more remote, her being concentrated in that glorious voice. Every time, Louise thought, as she slipped through the door that led to the auditorium, every time I lose her. No. She lost nothing, nothing that she would not be repaid with interest when the curtain came up, and – Louise smiled – again when it came down. Every time I give her... give her what? I give her to them. I give her to herself.
Her breath still coming a little quickly, she settled herself in the red velvet seat and waited for the curtain to rise.

ARS LONGA, VITA BREVIS

Ars Longa, Vita Brevis

El Staplador (elstaplador)

Summary:

If Louise can't sing, and Eugénie won't sing, the future looks bleak for the two runaways.
For the ladiesbingo prompt "The Theatre"

Eugénie pulled the flimsy curtain back from the window, and Louise, blinking, saw the dust motes toiling in the sunbeams. She was conscious of a vague sense of shame connected with the state of the room, though she supposed that the doctor had seen worse in his time. He was a tall, wavering figure, dark against the sunlight, looming over her bed. He seemed somewhat nonplussed; perhaps Eugenie's lordly tones had deceived him into thinking that he was summoned to some grand house.
'This is the patient?' he was saying. 'Very good, very good. Let me see. Tell me, when did this begin?'
Louise tried to say, ten years ago, but her throat was raw and her lungs empty. Had she been able to speak this morning, she would have stopped Eugénie going for the doctor. She thought of the ever-dwindling pile of coins in Eugénie's trunk. How many would the doctor carry away with him? How few could they give Madame Fournier before she threw them out into the street? And if she could not sing, and Eugénie would not, then the pile would never be replenished.
For Eugénie would not sing – at least, not on any terms except her own, and those were such that it was unlikely that any impresario would accept them. She demanded parts to match her vocal ability, wilfully uncomprehending of the fact that she had not the theatrical experience that would justify her so doing, and that, perhaps most damningly of all, she had no patron to persuade the management of her assets on her behalf.
Louise, who had feared that this might be the case, produced the Count of Monte Cristo's letter of recommendation and took the modest part offered her, a temple priestess who stepped out from a trio for a few bars of solo recitative. In vain did she attempt to persuade Eugénie that it was better to sing 'Third Lady' and live than to starve to death because she could not be prima donna. In vain did she show her the calculations of their meagre income and inevitable outgoings.
Eugénie announced her intention of turning to literature. 'Words,' she said, 'can be had for nothing.' But, for all that, there seemed to be precious few of them coaxed from Eugénie's pen, and those words could hardly pay for bread without assuming a more solid form. Louise sought occupation during the hours of daylight as a piano teacher, but found that the respectable mamas, those who would have paid a rate that was not an insult, were chary of a woman from the stage. She sighed, and went off every evening to sing, and tried not to notice that every performance left her more and more weary, her lungs aching, her throat raw.
And Eugénie sulked and wept and cursed, writing ten or twelve words in a day, and declining to leave the house. Their cramped little room seemed to shrink; Louise was grateful to leave it each night as twilight fell, to escape Eugénie's directionless, sullen disappointment. She could feel the weight of Eugénie's envy on her shoulders, knew that Eugénie envied her being on the stage even in such a lowly part, never forgot herself so far as to reproach her, either for turning down the opportunity in the first place, or for regretting it now. Louise kept silence at home, and sang for their bread in the theatre, and prayed for some resolution to the impasse to manifest itself swiftly, before -
The day came sooner than she had expected. She remembered little of it. A cracked G sharp. A coughing fit that would not stop. Blood. The footlights flaring and whirling in front of her dizzy eyes. An interminable journey home, jolting, jolting, wrapped in Simone's cloak, propped between Madame Leclos and little Jean-Marc. And then flying – no, she was carried in Eugénie's arms – and some hoarse, angry sobbing, and then nothing.
And now this.
The doctor poked and prodded, and had Louise open her mouth and blow against a feather. 'She sings, you say?' he asked, and looked grave when Eugénie nodded. 'I will prescribe a mixture that will help, and I will return in three days. In the meantime, she must use her voice as little as possible.'

Eugénie insisted that Louise must not overtax herself, and Louise felt guiltily grateful for the extended period of rest. Had it not been for the prospect of a penniless future glowering over them, she would almost have welcomed her enforced unemployment. 'Don't worry, dear heart,' Eugénie said, and indeed it was true that Madame Fournier had not yet evicted them. Louise supposed that Eugénie had sold some of the few treasures she had brought away with her.
Louise's voice returned, whisper by whisper, murmur by murmur. Eugénie was comically strict, insisting that she take the treacly concoction regularly and insisting that she communicate by writing in a little memorandum book.
The doctor returned. He was unequivocal. 'She must not sing again, particularly not on the stage. Another attack might well be fatal. It would be as well to avoid all forms of vocal strain.'
'Well,' said Eugénie, when she had paid the doctor and sent him on his way. 'What have you to say to that?'
Louise laughed grimly. 'I am forbidden to say anything,' she muttered. 'I know what Eugénie Danglars would say.'
'She would say that she would be lost without her Louise; that a song is precious but lasts but a breath, and that none will hear you in the grave: therefore heed what you have been told.'
'That,' said Louise, 'was not quite what I meant. Had the doctor said to Eugénie Danglars, that she must cease to sing or she must die, I do not think that he would have heard that same answer – would he?'
'No -' Eugénie exclaimed, and fell silent.
'She would say,' Louise pressed on, ruthlessly, 'ars longa, vita brevis, that a single day in the courts of the muse were better than a thousand years among mortals, and that, must she keep silence or die, she would gladly die and sing.' Louise smiled in spite of herself.
'Oh! beloved, don't tease me so! Yes, it's true, but I've never come to that pass. It's you we speak of.'
'And my art is worth sacrificing, where yours is not?'
Eugénie buried her head in her hands. 'How can you bear to laugh about this?'
'Because,' said Louise, 'I am so very afraid that I cannot find it in myself to speak soberly. My voice is, if not precisely my life, then at least my living; I know not if I can afford to pay our rent on what I could make from pianoforte lessons alone; and -'
'Yes?' Eugénie was glowering.
'Could I live with you, and not sing with you? Would you not tire of me, did we not share that?'
'So! You doubt my fidelity; and you tire of supporting the pair of us.'
'There will come a time,' Louise said steadily, 'when I will no longer be capable of doing so; and the more I sing, the faster it must come.'
'I will never leave you,' Eugénie promised grandly. 'You might do me the same courtesy.'
'Very well,' said Louise. 'I prefer living, myself.' And, she did not say, she had spent enough years making her living by her art not to feel sentimental. Moreover, she knew that Eugénie's was the greater talent.

Even without the doctor's dire verdict, Louise would have known that she was gravely unwell. She found herself faint and dizzy after crossing from one side of the room to the other, and she slept longer and more frequently than she had ever believed permissible or possible, at any hour of the night or day.
She was woken by the click of the doorknob at about noon the next day. Eugénie was unwinding a shawl from about her head.
'You've been out?' Louise croaked.
Eugénie sat down on the edge of the bed. 'I went to your theatre. I demanded to see the chorus master. I explained to him that you were still unwell and that I was prepared to sing in your place.'
'Goodness,' Louise said faintly; M. Lebrun was a Tatar. 'What did he say to that?'
'That I am too tall to replace you in his formations; but that if he can see a way to persuading M. Pinault that Zélie Ferrand is up to singing your part permanently, then he can use me in the chorus of peasants.'
'And what did you say to that?' For the peasants had less to do even than the priestesses, and the pay was proportionately diminished.
Eugénie assumed an expression of martyred pride. 'If the muse wishes me to be a peasant, then a peasant I shall be. Besides, if there is any justice I shan't remain one long.'

The next night, when Eugénie had departed for the theatre, Louise crept out of bed and, wrapping a shawl about her shoulders, scrabbled in the trunk to find pen and paper. She found to her dismay that she had underestimated the effort it required, and had to retreat, breathing fast, between the sheets, but she put the writing materials just under the bed, where she could reach them.
Weeks passed. Eugénie was promoted from the chorus of peasants to Second Lady, and also understudied the High Priestess, which meant less singing and better pay. The run ended, and M. Pinault cast her as Emilia in Otello. She complained occasionally to Louise that Lebrun had no musical sensitivity, or that Signor Andretti's voice put her in mind of a cup of cold coffee, but she was, Simone reported, as good as gold in rehearsals. The muse was smiling upon her at last, and Eugénie returned the compliment.
And Louise wrote. Every night, when the door had shut behind Eugénie, she brought out her own work. At first she was able to write only for a few minutes at a time, but as she grew stronger those minutes stretched to half an hour, then an hour, then two. Louise was careful, but all the same, it was inevitable that Eugénie would catch her eventually. Knowing this, she became careless, and let herself write for as long as the candle burned and her strength allowed and inspiration flowed. And, one night, all were generous, and Otello was over and Eugénie home while Louise was yet sitting up in bed with paper strewn across the blankets and an aria half-written.
'Louise! What are you doing? You mustn't tire yourself!' Her face was streaked with greasepaint, her expression indignant; it was an oddly endearing combination.
'When I'm tired,' Louise said defiantly, 'I sleep. At the moment I'm perfectly awake.' It was true: though her eyelids had been drooping, Eugénie's sudden entrance had roused her to a feverish alertness. 'See what I've been doing, all these evenings.' Though she affected calmness, her fingers trembled as she handed the stack of manuscript to Eugénie.
'The Death of Sappho: an opera in four acts by L. d'Armilly.' Eugénie turned over the pages, politely at first, and then with what seemed to be genuine and urgent interest. 'Louise: this is good.'
'You mean that.' There was no need to pretend disbelief, not for Eugénie, who would never pretend admiration. 'I thought I might write to the Count of Monte Cristo, to see if he might use his influence in our favour again.'
'He must, if he sees this. Fame will be mine, but you shall have immortality.' Her eyes glowed.
'You too,' said Louise, 'for much of the libretto is yours – your poems, which you wrote in Paris.'
'Oh,' Eugénie said, pleased, 'but they won't remember the librettist. Only the name of d'Armilly will go down in history.'
'Perhaps not on account of this opera,' Louise said, 'for the more I write, the more conscious am I of my deficiencies. Besides, Pinault wouldn't look at it twice if he knew that I was the composer.'
'Your useful brother Leon might make another appearance,' Eugénie suggested. 'I believe you had that idea in mind all along.'
Louise laughed and did not deny it. 'All the same, the name of Eugénie Danglars shall appear on the playbill in larger letters, for she shall sing Sappho.'
'M. le directeur won't have that, not while Célestine's in his bed.'
'I've written an aria for Cleïs that she won't be able to resist. And if he makes me rewrite that for Sappho then you shall be Phaon.'
'You know my fondness for the trouser roles. But, my heart, if it will only make them produce your opera, I'll gladly be the call boy. All the same,' switching suddenly from the artist to the nurse, 'you're working too hard, and you ought to be in bed.'
Louise smiled. 'I am in bed, and so should you be.' She took her manuscript back and laid the stack of paper on the floor: there was no need to hide it any more.
Eugénie took her shawl off and spread it over the bed. She unbuttoned her dress deftly and let it fall to the floor, and clambered into bed in her chemise. 'You're quite right. I admit the superiority of your argument.' Her face flickered into a sudden grin, and at last Louise knew the certain hope that their own story was not, after all, to be a tragedy. She blew out the candle.

A PRACTICAL METHOD OF ITALIAN SINGING

A Practical Method of Italian Singing

El Staplador (elstaplador)

Summary:

Scenes from the illustrious careers of Mlles Louise d'Armilly and Eugénie Danglars, set to music by Nicola Vaccaj.

Notes:

Nicola Vaccai wrote his 'Metodo Pratico de Canto Italiano de Camera' in 1832, setting words by the poet Pietro Metastasio. In this story, each section is headed by one of Vaccai's exercises. I've done my best to provide a rough translation within the narrative.
This is a Yuletide treat - hope you enjoy it! I am extremely fond of Eugénie and Louise.

Lesson I
The Scale
Manca sollecita
più dell'usato,
anchorche s'agiti
conlieve fiato,
face che palpita
presso al morir
1836
'What's this?' Eugénie asked. 'A new way of singing scales?'
'More or less,' Louise said. 'M. Neuchâtel sent it to me.' She showed Eugénie the cover.
'Metodo pratico di canto italiano per camera,' Eugénie read. “'A Practical Method of Italian Singing for the Chamber'.” She flicked through the book. 'It's rather below your level, surely?'
'Certainly. But if for any reason I'm unsuccessful on the stage, I could teach singing – as a profession, I mean, rather than simply for your amusement. It would come in useful as a textbook.'
'Indeed, if you are teaching rich young ladies with no aspirations towards serious singing.'
'It's rather below your level, too,' Louise said sweetly. 'If we'd had it when you first started learning to sing it would have been very useful, but you have long passed that stage. Still, it couldn't hurt to go through it – for after all, you are still a rich young lady.'
'Oh, Louise, if you knew how I long to -'
'To what?'
'To be like you. To live for nothing but my art, to leave this wearying round of men and money! Indeed, I had much rather teach rich young ladies than be one! At least I should then feel that I was contributing something to my muse.'
Louise smiled. 'Very few artists – Mozart excepted; one must always except Mozart – had contributed much by the age of fifteen.'
Eugénie was not to be placated. 'I see my life stretched out before me – an interminable scale, one dull note after another. First the suitors, then the marriage, then the children - and all punctuated by dull women discussing their dull lives!'
'One has to sing scales,' Louise said, feebly.
'Signor Vaccaj seems to think not,' Eugénie said, indicating the Practical Method. 'See this - why, it was years before you let me attempt an acciacatura! And here he introduces it in lesson eight.'
'Why, you said yourself - this method is not for those who wish to be serious singers, but only those who wish to make a charming noise in the drawing room.'
'That's true,' Eugénie said, mollified by the implication. She looked more closely at the first exercise. 'How would you translate this, do you think?'
'Italian is not my strong point, as well you know,' Louise said. 'I know enough for music, and my pronunciation is acceptable, but I am not sure that I could produce a respectable translation. However, since you insist, something like this: a candle flame, beginning to flicker even more than usual, is restored by the action of a light breath, though it was close to dying.'
'That's close,' Eugénie said. 'Close, but not exactly right. I think you have the opposite sense from what the poet intended. He is saying that a light breath makes the flame flicker. But then you are an optimist.'
'Am I?' Louise murmured. 'Am I indeed?'
'Say, for example,' Eugénie said, 'that the poet, Signor Metastasio, speaks not of a literal candle flame, but of the fire that burns within the heart...'
'What then?'
'Well, in my translation, a tiny setback, a doubt or a fear, is enough to extinguish that flame. In yours, the lover is not daunted by that doubt, but loves the more fervently. I believe -'
'Yes?'
'I believe,' Eugénie said, 'that I prefer yours.' And she bent and kissed Louise on the lips.


Intervals of Thirds
Semplicetta tortorella,
che non vede il suo periglio,
per fuggir da crudo artiglio
vola in grembo al cacciator.
1838
Eugénie lowered the blinds but, even though she could no longer see, she still could hear, and the sound of sniggering reached her.
'Oh, why is the world not a desert?' she exclaimed, throwing herself into Louise's arms.
As the barouche rolled away from the Bell and Bottle, Louise did her best to keep from laughing, but at length the desire overwhelmed her. Eugénie sprang away from her, hurt.
'Louise, you too? Isn't it bad enough that those peasants outside are laughing at me? Must you join them?'
'My love, I'm not laughing at you. It was - Cavalcanti's face! Do you know, I believe that up until he saw us he really thought that you would be pleased to have him - and now he understands that you despise him.' She buried her face in her hands, once again overcome with mirth, and then added, 'And do you remember that song we used to sing? Signor Vaccaj's intervals of thirds?'
'Which was that?' Eugénie asked, distracted momentarily from her insult. She hummed a third, and said, 'Ah, yes. The turtledove.'
'The foolish turtledove, fleeing from the falcon, that finds itself into the hunter's snare. That was us - almost.'
'Ah, but the hunter was himself hunted,' Eugénie said, smiling. 'Well, my turtledove, since you contrive to laugh about it, I shall do my best to see the funny side myself. And after all, we are still heading in the right direction - away from Paris, and towards our freedom.'
'You will have to change your clothes again,' Louise said after a little while. 'While my passport looks well enough made out to Léon d'Armilly travelling with his sister, I fear I'm not so good a forger that I can change that to Léonie without arousing suspicion when we come to the border.' She paused, a little afraid that Eugénie would not care to risk a double unmasking. 'Nor do I make nearly such a convincing Léon.'
'Very well,' Eugénie said, and she almost laughed.
The carriage bumped over the cobbles. They would be in Belgium by nightfall.

Lesson II
Intervals of Fourths
Lascia il lido e il mare infido
a solcar torna il nocchiero,
e pur sa che menzognero
altre volte l'inganno
1839
'Well, tesorina?' Eugénie asked the moment Louise returned from her audition. 'What did they say?'
Louise sank into a chair. 'The usual sort of thing. That I have an exceptional talent, but that there are two or three others who might suit as well or better, and if I perhaps display some special advantages – ugh.'
Eugénie's eyes flamed. 'How dare they!'
'I shall have to go back,' Louise said. 'Or, if not back, to another such. We can live perhaps three, four, years on the money we brought away with us, but what then? We cannot continue to live without work, without money. And I would rather earn my living singing than skivvying.'
'Where you would be equally likely to be molested. Men!' Eugénie said, with inexpressible contempt.
'What else is there to do? Lascia il lido... The sailor returns to the sea, though he knows it betrays him.'
'How I wish...' Eugénie began, and then, 'Yes! Louise, you shall go back once more and audition for Signor Colorni, and you will leave the rest of it to me.'

Intervals of Fifths
Avvezzo a vivere
senza conforto,
ancor nel porto
paventi il mar.
'I fear I have changed my mind,' Louise said. 'My resolve has deserted me.'
'With your protector at your side?' Eugénie said. 'Shame!' Once again she had cropped her hair short and donned a suit of men's clothes.
'Ah, but you won't be at my side – you'll be outside. And you know how it is: even when one is accustomed to hardship, it is difficult to leave the harbour and face the open sea.'
'Why such a change, chicken-heart?'
'Yesterday,' Louise said, 'I didn't believe that you would do this. Today – you seem bent upon it.'
Eugénie laughed. 'It's like this: whether this sailor of yours fears the sea or not, he still has to go out upon it. You and I, we must earn our living, and this is the only way to stop this nonsense. Therefore – onwards!'

Lesson III
Intervals of Sixths
Bella prova è d'alma forte
l'esser placida e serena
nel soffrir l'inguista pena
d'una colpa che non ha.
She sang Come dolce all'alma mia, and she knew that she had not sung it well. In order to keep her composure, her mind had clung to a much simpler piece: Vaccaj's exercise featuring intervals of sixths. 'It is a beautiful proof of a strong soul,' she murmured to herself, 'to be placid and serene, suffering the unjust pain of a guilt one does not have.'
For Colorni was smiling, an oily smile that assumed things about Louise that were not true. 'As I said last week, Signorina d'Armilly, you have a substantial talent, one that I would be delighted to cultivate, subject to our coming to a... mutually satisfying agreement.'
Inwardly, Louise shuddered, but her countenance remained calm as she said, 'What kind of agreement were you thinking of, Signor Colorni?'
One must, after all, give him enough rope to hang himself.
'Come, come, my dear, you must know that very few auditions are concluded without... well, that is to say, our artistes must not only be mere singers, but must be actors, too, capable of great passion...'
'I've heard enough,' Louise said. She rose to leave and coughed twice. That was the signal.
'Oh, Signorina d'Armilly, be reasonable!'
At that moment the door burst open and Eugénie, looking every inch the furious young gentleman, dashed into the room.
'Sir, you have insulted my sister!' she exclaimed. 'I demand satisfaction!'
And indeed, Eugénie had in her hand a small pistol, that appeared to be none the less deadly for that.
Colorni turned white, but managed to say, 'I wonder that you are her brother, for I never saw two siblings look less alike.'
'And that's twice!' Eugénie exclaimed. 'She's my step-sister. What's that to you?'
'Well, I...'
'Pistols?' Eugénie said. 'Or do you prefer the sword?'
'Neither! That is, either... but really, my good boy, you can't be of age; it would be most dishonourable of me to fight you.'
Eugénie smiled as if she had not heard him, and looked thoughtfully at the pistol. All the while, Colorni grew whiter.
At last, Louise said, 'Come, Léon. I believe there's little use in our staying here.'
'Very well,' Eugénie said, though proving her own acting talent with a convincing show of reluctance, and followed Louise to the door. Then she turned and said, 'But remember, Signor, it was not I who refused to fight...'

Lesson IV
Intervals of Sevenths
Fra l'ombre un lampo solo
basta al nocchier sagace,
che gia ritrova il polo
gia riconcosce il mar.
'Now what do we do?' Louise asked.
A smile had been playing round Eugénie's lips since they had left Colorni. Now it grew broader. 'Now, cucciola mia,' she said, 'we go to the Teatro Fenice.'
A single light is enough to show the sailor the true direction, and he sees his way across the sea he traverses.
**
'Colorni refused to fight?' said Vincenzi, manager of the Fenice. 'Oh, that's priceless!' He threw his head back and roared with laughter.
'We thought that you might find that amusing,' Eugénie said, 'and so, before we told anyone else, we came to you. After all, it would be quite a coup for you, wouldn't it, to engage the woman that your great rival was afraid to fight?'
'Forgive me, signorina – I was under the impression that the other lady was the singer?'
'Mlle de Servieux,' (for Eugénie had appropriated her mother's maiden name) 'was my pupil,' Louise explained. 'She is a singer of great talent and character. And indeed, you might see your way to engaging the pair of us. You would not regret it.'
'I will not do anything of the sort -' Vincenzi said – 'without first hearing you sing. But, as it happens, I am looking to revive Tancredi within the next few months. That scheme of yours, Signorina de Servieux, was worthy of that noble gentleman; Signorina d'Armilly, you could make an adorable Amenaide. And,' he twinkled, 'as you say, it would be one in the eye for Colorni.'

Intervals of Octaves
Quell'onda che ruina
balza, si frange e mormora,
ma limpida si fa.
And so began the operatic career of Signorina Louise D'Armilly and Signorina Eugénie de Servieux. Tancredi (in the version with the happy ending) was a roaring success: the singing was magnificent, the love scenes touching, and the general spectacle divine. The two ladies, already known throughout Naples for being both eccentric and (what is essential if one chooses to be eccentric) rich, now became famous throughout Italy.
(History does not record whether or not Baron Danglars, now settled in obscurity in Rome, ever learned of his daughter's success, or, rather, that it was his daughter who was so successful.)
Eugénie took lessons in both fencing and in the use of firearms 'for,' she said, 'one never knows when Colorni may think better of turning down my offer to fight. And the fencing at least proves useful on the stage.' She was a great sensation, lauded particularly for her interpretation of Bellini's Romeo, Handel's Julius Caesar, and Rossini's Falliero, besides, of course, his Tancredi.
Louise, more reclusive than her dear friend, became none the less fêted in the world of the opera. Unlike Eugénie, she rarely sang en travesti, but excelled as the high soprano heroine. Much to her delight, she was also able to take on a couple of pupils at the same time, and contribute to the development of a new generation of singers.
The mountain stream tumbles down the Alpine heights, falling, falling, with a noise of thunder, but underneath it flows in a clear current. So it was with Eugénie and Louise, whose lives, on the surface a confection of operatic tinsel, were grounded in a love that was deep and enduring.

CAN YOU OUTRUN THE NIGHT?

Can you outrun the night?

El Staplador (elstaplador)

Summary:

A wild night, a traveller who may already be too late...

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

 

 

He would have known her name, if anyone had told him what it was, but he did not recognise her face. A handsome woman, already well into her forties, but lively and active, with flashing, autocratic dark eyes. To him she was merely another passenger, one more unfortunate on the way to the sanatorium high on the mountain. For they were all unfortunate who passed this way; either doomed to die themselves, or to lose one they loved.
It was good business for a carrier, this hospital. All summer they had toiled up and down this steep, new-laid, track, him or his master, on foot or on horseback or driving the carriage, bearing letters and flowers, patients and visitors. Once there had even been a pianoforte, a beautiful piece of work whose safe delivery had been superintended by the maker himself, coming all the way from Paris, it was said.
Now – autumn was here. First, the rain. Soon, the snow would come; but there was time to worry about that and to spare. He did not like the look of the weather today. The mountain was veiled deep in mist, and a great black cloud was rolling up the valley behind them. It was already spitting with rain, and threatened worse.
He could just see her if he looked over his shoulder. She sat in the carriage with her back straight, proud as a queen, her brow furrowed in a little frown (of worry, or displeasure? he did not care to find out), her hands clasped tightly on the handle of her bag.
The day grew darker. Night was falling, and, though it was close to full moon, the clouds blocked out all the sky. It was with a profound sense of relief that he brought the carriage to a halt in the tiny lamp-lit square of Ste-Marie-des-Montagnes. Surely, he thought, she would not want to go on tonight.
But, 'Why have you stopped?' she demanded as he opened the door for her.
He touched his cap. 'I thought you might care to stop here for the night, Madame. There's a storm coming, and we have yet an hour's drive, at the least.'
The first clap of thunder came just as she said, 'No. We carry on. I must get there tonight. I may already be too late.'
He nodded, closed the door, and climbed back on the box.
It poured steadily for the next forty minutes. The road became mud and he was forced to slow to a crawl. He could barely see ten paces in front of him; over and over again he had to wipe the rainwater from his face. And soon they came to what he had dreaded since the storm began. The ford ahead was a torrent of brown, swirling water. It was already as deep as would reach to a man's waist, he calculated, and the horses were as reluctant to go forward as he was.
This time she opened the door herself and stepped out without claiming his assistance. She stood, careless of the way that her skirts dragged in the mud, and called to him, 'We must keep on!'
'The ford, Madame! The river is in flood!'
She surveyed the scene, but shook her head. 'I cannot delay,' she said.
'I won't go further,' he protested. 'It's not safe.'
'I must go on,' she insisted.
'We'd never get the carriage across the ford.'
She looked at him, impatiently but not unkindly, then she drew a purse from her bag and held it out to him. 'Then take this, and let me have one of the horses. I will return it tomorrow. If you are an honest man, there is enough here to recompense your master for the loss if I do not keep my word; if dishonest, there is ample to set you up in business elsewhere. I do not care which; only, give me the means to go on.'
He gaped. 'Your luggage?' he said, stupidly.
'Dross. Do with it as you will. Now, will you release to me a horse?'
The purse was heavy, and after all it was her business if she chose to die sooner than God intended. He hastened to do as she told him, his cold hands fumbling with the buckles and sodden straps. She nodded. 'One moment,' she said, and climbed back into the carriage. Busy with the reins, he did not look to see what she was doing, and was shocked when she emerged dressed in men's riding clothes, her heavy cloak abandoned on the seat.
'Come, then,' she said, and he handed her the bridle. 'Thank you,' she said, and she led the horse on, up the track, towards the river. He watched until they were through the ford, soaked but still defiant. Further than that, he could not help her.
'Good luck!' he cried after her. But she could not have heard him over the wind.

Notes:

Rather depressing premise, sorry! It's sort of implied when Louise is introduced for the first time. Most of the time I choose to ignore it.

A TERRIBLE SCANDAL

A Terrible Scandal

El Staplador (elstaplador)

Summary:

'The possibility that Mlle. Louise d'Armilly might one day appear on the stage meant that Mlle. Danglars, although she received her at home, did not appear with her in public.' - The Count of Monte Cristo, ch. 53
(Somebody had to explain that to Mlle. Danglars...)

Notes:

For the Ladiesbingo prompt 'It will be a terrible scandal'.

 

The pretty clock on the mantelpiece chimed the half hour and broke the sulky quiet. Hermine Danglars was the first to speak. 'You had better go and dress. The Vicomte will be calling for us shortly, and you spoke most particularly of your desire to hear Madame Prévost's first aria.'
'I shan't,' said Eugénie. 'I won't stir a step without Louise.'
Why, Hermine wondered, must the child be so unreasonable? Surely it was obvious that the situation was impossible. 'It's out of the question, Eugénie. To receive your friend in your father's house, that's one thing, but to be seen with her in public, that's quite another.'
Eugénie scowled. 'It's ridiculous.'
Mademoiselle d'Armilly herself was not present, having removed herself from the scene at the first sign of trouble with a grace and delicacy that Hermine envied on Eugénie's behalf.
'It simply won't do,' she said patiently. 'You tell me that Mademoiselle d'Armilly intends to go on the stage.'
Eugénie's face glowed. 'Yes, and surely the more opera that she sees from one side of the curtain, the better she'll be when she's on the other.'
'Eugénie! We are not a charitable body for the education of destitute musicians.'
'Why not? Papa can afford it.'
The provoking child! She might have been a decade younger than she really was, with her constant why? Hermine, doing her very best to keep her temper, said, 'That has nothing to do with it.'
'I don't see how.'
Hermine sighed. 'Let me explain. You are our only child, and everything that your father and I do, we do for your sake. We wish to secure your future, Eugénie! Your painting, your verse, your music – they're all desirable accomplishments, and we are pleased with the talent and dedication you show to them. And it's good for you to be seen at the opera and to learn how to behave in society.'
'I don't care about any of that,' Eugénie said.
'That much is obvious,' Hermine retorted. 'Nevertheless, it's a fact of this world that we live in. We acceded to your request to have Mademoiselle d'Armilly here both in order to please you and in order to improve your musical skills yet further. But letting you be seen with her at the opera would undo all of that good work.'
'Do you doubt her propriety?' The girl seemed genuinely puzzled.
'Not in the slightest; we would not have received her here if we did. But for as long as a career on the stage remains a possibility for her, you cannot be seen to associate with her in public. It would be a terrible scandal. And I'm afraid, Eugénie, that if your lack of maidenly decorum, renders you unable to understand that, then you must just take my word for it. Mademoiselle d'Armilly is not coming with us.'
Eugénie regarded her mother with an angry stare. Hermine returned it coolly. 'I shan't ask the Vicomte to wait for you.'
The slam of the door set the ornaments rattling. Hermine said nothing. That was a battle for another day.

* * *

Two scant years later, the Baron was bankrupt, the Baroness was in hysterics, the house was in uproar, and nobody paid any heed to where Louise d'Armilly was going. Eugénie, dressed already for travelling in men's clothes, paused for a brief moment in the act of cutting off her long black hair, seeing in her mind's eye the journey that lay ahead of them, and the stories that would be told in Paris. 'It will be a terrible scandal,' she murmured to herself, and she laughed.

FALSE ANGOSTURA

False Angostura

El Staplador (elstaplador)

Summary:

Héloïse de Villefort had, in all aspects save one, the gift that the true scientist must desire: that detachment from human loves and hatreds that allowed her to perform certain actions and to observe the results, without distressing herself about the means that she was obliged to employ.

Notes:

For the ladiesbingo prompt 'Abuse (physical or emotional)'

Héloïse de Villefort had, in all aspects save one, the gift that the true scientist must desire: that detachment from human loves and hatreds that allowed her to perform certain actions and to observe the results, without distressing herself about the means that she was obliged to employ.
Or, indeed, the obstacles that she was obliged to remove.
She listed them, carefully but without feeling, as she might have made an inventory of the instruments and chemicals in her possession:
Monsieur and Madame de Saint-Méran.
Noirtier de Villefort.
Valentine.
Yes, Valentine was the crux. Valentine was the point where it all met: two noble lines; two inheritances. Valentine was the final, the most important, link in the chain. And Valentine was young. Had she only had the grandparents to consider, Héloïse might have been patient; she might have left matters to nature. As things were, that was out of the question.
She had no quarrel with Valentine. Had she ever wanted a stepdaughter, she could not have asked for a meeker, sweeter, more pliant, one. But Héloïse de Villefort had not asked to become a stepmother when she was herself barely out of her teens. And when she became a mother – well.
Neither one of them desired Valentine's inheritance for herself. Valentine had a detachment of her own, an infuriating indifference to her own fortune. Why, it was scarcely a year ago that she would have renounced it all, and her freedom as well – would have confined herself to a convent for the rest of her life, would have flung aside all the riches that Héloïse would have crawled on the floor to retrieve. Not for herself. No, not for herself.
'Oh, but if she had!' Héloïse whispered to herself.
Well, there was no use thinking about that. Valentine was to inherit a vast fortune from her grandparents. Valentine was to be married.
This, of course, was entirely as matters should be. And Valentine's stepmother was obliged every day to agree that nothing could be more suitable than the match with Franz d'Epinay, to wish her a long and happy marriage, to accept with a gracious smile society's praise of her obedient stepdaughter.
No, there was nothing to complain at in Valentine's behaviour. She was inconvenient, that was all it was. Inconvenient as her maternal grandparents had been. Inconvenient as her paternal grandfather still was.
Héloïse de Villefort felt no more for Valentine than she felt for any of her scientific explorations. No – less, for she granted to this particular vial a respect that she afforded no human being. Sometimes she took it out and held it up, this little bottle of liquid, so that the light shone through it and made it glow. She murmured its names aloud, when nobody could hear her. Nux vomica. Saint Ignatius' nut. False angostura.
It had one name that she did not ever utter, not even to herself. And in this name was its power. This it was that would grant her the power to take life, and bestow riches where they were rightly due.
What, beside that, was Valentine?

A FORCE FIELD AGAINST DESPAIR

“Poems are handbooks for human decency and understanding. Poets hold water in their cupped hands and run back from the well because someone is parched and thirsting. The poem is a force field against despair. ”