Emilie's Voice by Susanne Dunlap Page A

daughter, after losing so many other babies. It seemed a shame, as though she were cheating herself out of the one consolation of life. But there was nothing he could do to change Madeleine. And they were happy in their own way. Perhaps tomorrow she would let Émilie talk about all the fine clothes and jewels and tell them how the guests had clapped and fussed over her. Then maybe Madeleine would be able to take some joy in her daughter’s triumph.
     
    The next morning, when Émilie failed to be roused by the noise of logs being dropped onto the fire and the smell of breakfast, Madeleine went to prod her into action.
    “Oh, let her sleep a little longer!” Marcel begged.
    “What? Just because she was out making merry with the rich folks to all hours, she should lie in bed all day?” Madeleine asked. “Come on, time to be up!” she said, clapping her hands as she marched over to Émilie’s bed.
    But Émilie didn’t so much as budge. Madeleine nudged her daughter in the shoulder. “Émilie, wake up! It’s a beautiful day, and breakfast is waiting.”
    Émilie’s eyes opened halfway but did not see.
    “Marcel!” shouted Madeleine. She noticed beads of sweat on Émilie’s forehead and realized that she was unconscious with fever. Marcel came running.
    “Émilie! Émilie!” They shouted and rubbed and patted, but all Émilie could say was “Shoes … shoes.” Without knowing the manner in which she had come by the slippers, which Madeleine found on the floor by her bed, soggy and water-stained, the two parents quickly came to the conclusion that she blamed the inadequate footwear for bringing on the fever.
    “Damned flimsy—! If that Monsieur Charpentier has murdered my girl—!” Madeleine’s face was pale and her eyes bright.
    Marcel was beside himself, but he realized that his wife must feel even worse. She had been so unkind to Émilie the night before. He continued to rub Émilie’s wrists and call to her, trying to rouse her out of her delirium.
    Madeleine picked the slippers up off the floor. They were a mess, and no substitute for Émilie’s practical leather boots, although she could see that they must have been very beautiful once. No wonder she’s caught her death, she thought. They must have made Émilie walk home in the cold. Madeleine was about to hurl the offending footwear into the now blazing fire when she noticed that the pattern on their toes was defined by tiny jewels that had been sewn carefully in place. She paused in mid-gesture. Madeleine looked to see that her husband was completely engrossed in trying to rouse Émilie, then took the slippers to her workbox, swiftly cut out the jeweled bits, and tucked the precious scraps away beneath the coils of thread. Then she threw what was left of them onto the flames.
    Marcel’s efforts to get a response from Émilie were futile. He approached his wife, who stared absently into the fire, watching it flare up in magenta and blue as it gobbled the delicate satin.
    “I cannot wake her. I’ll fetch an apothecary,” he said, already putting on his cloak.
    Madeleine reached up and took down a pot that was on the wooden mantelpiece. It was where they kept what money they had for emergencies and to buy items they could not barter for. Out of it she took the velvet bag Émilie had given her the night before. Madeleine’s rough fingers untied the silk cord that held it closed. She upended the bag. The shiny, irregularly shaped yellow disks, stamped on one side with the image of a young King Louis XIV, clinked softly against each other as they poured into the palm of her hand. Madeleine stared at them for a moment. She had never held gold coins before.
    Marcel scooped the money up, charged down the steps, and flung open the door to the street, in the process nearly crashing into a very well-dressed gentleman who had his fist raised in preparation to knock.
    “Out of the way! My daughter is ill!” Marcel gasped, too distraught even to ask the