stranger’s name.
“Mademoiselle Émilie?” asked the gentleman.
Marcel nodded and was about to push past him, but the visitor stood his ground. “Monsieur Jolicoeur, if I may be of service. I have it in my power to procure the very finest physicians. Come with me, if you will.”
“Who are you—begging your pardon, Monsieur?” Marcel asked, finally noticing that the caller was a person of quality.
“I am le Comte de St. Paul, godson of Mademoiselle de Guise,” St. Paul answered with a flourish of his hand.
“Then you heard Émilie sing last night?” Marcel shifted his weight from one foot to the other and looked past St. Paul, afraid of delay but eager to hear something about his daughter’s triumph the night before.
St. Paul smiled. “Yes. A rare talent. But we are wasting time.”
He gestured for Marcel to climb into his coach, and the two of them took off toward the right bank.
When Marcel and St. Paul returned about an hour later with three bearded men who, she was told, were His Majesty’s own physicians, Madeleine was nonplussed. “We cannot afford their fees!” she whispered to Marcel, knowing that the money she had given him earlier would never cover everything.
Marcel shrugged. “Monsieur le Comte is the godson of Mademoiselle de Guise. He insists that we are not to trouble ourselves about the cost, that it will all be taken care of.”
Madeleine narrowed her eyes, and went to prepare a fresh bowl of vinegar water. She and her husband watched as the physicians laid on poultices and compresses and measured out drops of mysterious liquids from ominous-looking bottles.
“What are you giving her?” Madeleine asked. She did not like to relinquish the nursing of her daughter to these strangers.
“Only something to help her rest,” one of the doctors answered.
The other one uncovered a bowl with leeches, shiny and black and squirming.
Madeleine recoiled at the sight of them. “Must she be bled?”
The doctor did not look at her but turned to St. Paul. “This room is very small. Perhaps you would clear it of distractions?”
“Well, I—” The color rose into Madeleine’s cheeks when she realized they were pushing her out of the way.
St. Paul took her by the elbow and steered her in the direction of the table. “I think the best thing you could do is make us all a nice tisane.”
Marcel stood silently by the fireplace, his brown leather clothes almost blending into the wooden walls. He could not bear to watch the doctors examine and then bleed his daughter. “Will she be all right?” he asked St. Paul.
“The doctors must watch her closely. I think it would be best if we left them to their purpose.”
Madeleine tried to occupy herself by making a tisane, and Marcel reluctantly retired to his atelier. He realized he was completely incapable of contributing anything more to Émilie’s well-being, and their apartment was so small, he felt as if he could not move around it without bumping into someone or something. But down in his workshop Marcel found it hard to concentrate on what he was doing. He kept imagining Émilie there with him, peeking up at him every once in a while from beside the table. Sometimes he even thought he heard her sing, but it was just the wind whistling through the cracks in the walls.
The doctors stayed around the clock. They had brought their own candles, and they refused Madeleine’s offers of tisane and bread. St. Paul came to visit again the next morning. When he was there, Madeleine became a little nervous, and blushed—things that rarely happened to her. They had let this elegantly turned-out nobleman into their home and were suddenly on the most intimate footing with him. It seemed indecent, and yet somehow thrilling. When he arrived, St. Paul greeted her with a smile and gazed deeply into her eyes, before bowing over her hand and kissing it. Madeleine brought the best chair over to Émilie’s bedside for him to sit in, and she stood
“Mademoiselle Émilie?” asked the gentleman.
Marcel nodded and was about to push past him, but the visitor stood his ground. “Monsieur Jolicoeur, if I may be of service. I have it in my power to procure the very finest physicians. Come with me, if you will.”
“Who are you—begging your pardon, Monsieur?” Marcel asked, finally noticing that the caller was a person of quality.
“I am le Comte de St. Paul, godson of Mademoiselle de Guise,” St. Paul answered with a flourish of his hand.
“Then you heard Émilie sing last night?” Marcel shifted his weight from one foot to the other and looked past St. Paul, afraid of delay but eager to hear something about his daughter’s triumph the night before.
St. Paul smiled. “Yes. A rare talent. But we are wasting time.”
He gestured for Marcel to climb into his coach, and the two of them took off toward the right bank.
When Marcel and St. Paul returned about an hour later with three bearded men who, she was told, were His Majesty’s own physicians, Madeleine was nonplussed. “We cannot afford their fees!” she whispered to Marcel, knowing that the money she had given him earlier would never cover everything.
Marcel shrugged. “Monsieur le Comte is the godson of Mademoiselle de Guise. He insists that we are not to trouble ourselves about the cost, that it will all be taken care of.”
Madeleine narrowed her eyes, and went to prepare a fresh bowl of vinegar water. She and her husband watched as the physicians laid on poultices and compresses and measured out drops of mysterious liquids from ominous-looking bottles.
“What are you giving her?” Madeleine asked. She did not like to relinquish the nursing of her daughter to these strangers.
“Only something to help her rest,” one of the doctors answered.
The other one uncovered a bowl with leeches, shiny and black and squirming.
Madeleine recoiled at the sight of them. “Must she be bled?”
The doctor did not look at her but turned to St. Paul. “This room is very small. Perhaps you would clear it of distractions?”
“Well, I—” The color rose into Madeleine’s cheeks when she realized they were pushing her out of the way.
St. Paul took her by the elbow and steered her in the direction of the table. “I think the best thing you could do is make us all a nice tisane.”
Marcel stood silently by the fireplace, his brown leather clothes almost blending into the wooden walls. He could not bear to watch the doctors examine and then bleed his daughter. “Will she be all right?” he asked St. Paul.
“The doctors must watch her closely. I think it would be best if we left them to their purpose.”
Madeleine tried to occupy herself by making a tisane, and Marcel reluctantly retired to his atelier. He realized he was completely incapable of contributing anything more to Émilie’s well-being, and their apartment was so small, he felt as if he could not move around it without bumping into someone or something. But down in his workshop Marcel found it hard to concentrate on what he was doing. He kept imagining Émilie there with him, peeking up at him every once in a while from beside the table. Sometimes he even thought he heard her sing, but it was just the wind whistling through the cracks in the walls.
The doctors stayed around the clock. They had brought their own candles, and they refused Madeleine’s offers of tisane and bread. St. Paul came to visit again the next morning. When he was there, Madeleine became a little nervous, and blushed—things that rarely happened to her. They had let this elegantly turned-out nobleman into their home and were suddenly on the most intimate footing with him. It seemed indecent, and yet somehow thrilling. When he arrived, St. Paul greeted her with a smile and gazed deeply into her eyes, before bowing over her hand and kissing it. Madeleine brought the best chair over to Émilie’s bedside for him to sit in, and she stood
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