The Metropolis Case_ A Novel - Matthew Gallaway [26]
Confronted with her at such an unexpected moment, he took several seconds to respond. “Yes, Your Highness,” he managed, “my name is Lucien Marchand.”
“Lucien, I’m enchanted,” she said and frowned. “But please, young man, Codruta will suffice.”
“Yes, Codruta.”
“That’s better. Now, you are a singer, if I’m not mistaken? The one I’ve heard practicing downstairs?”
Lucien nodded and then hesitated. “Is—is there a problem?”
“That depends, but I would hope the answer is no, since I’m here to invite you to sing at my next mercredi.” This, as Lucien knew, was her weekly salon, reputed to be one of the most prestigious in the city for the emerging composers and writers honored to attend. Though it was something he had often considered a natural step in his own musical career, which made him wonder exactly how he might go about introducing himself to the princess, it had never occurred to him that such a fortuitous invitation might arrive at this juncture. She held out an envelope between her thumb and her index finger, like the stem of a wineglass, before she turned it over in a slow arc and offered it to him. “I’ve also invited a young daughter of a friend of mine to perform, and thought it would be appropriate to enhance the program with additional jeunesse.”
Lucien murmured his thanks as Codruta pivoted, a slow maneuver that reminded him of a battalion on a parade ground, before she retreated down the path to the street, where he could see a manservant in livery waiting next to a carriage. Back inside, he traced his fingers over the calligraphic letters of the invitation as though memorizing a map to a secret treasure.
WITH JUST THREE days to prepare, on Monday he skipped school, which in light of his father’s periodic directives he continued at best to endure. If anything, the past year had only increased Lucien’s desire to vacate academia for the stage now that he was fourteen and—because his voice had broken—he could sing with a strength and authority that had obviously been beyond him as a child. His teacher claimed that he would develop into a natural baritone, which disappointed Lucien a little, for he had always wanted to be a tenor, to play the hero and the lover, to break hearts, to kill and be killed, and—it must be admitted—to be paid accordingly for delivering such high, aching notes.
With a thought to find something appropriate to wear, he went to a tailor on Rue St.-Honoré, where he managed to spend all of his spare money, in addition to some his father had given to him, on a new black velvet jacket with silver silk wristbands. On Tuesday he skipped school again and—still wearing the jacket—rehearsed until he developed a slight rasp, which delivered him into a panic until the following morning, when his prayers were answered and his voice was fine. Once again he skipped school, a decision he almost regretted as he watched the minutes crawl by like slugs on one of his father’s plants until he finally sallied forth to the entrance of the Georges to be escorted by one of Codruta’s footmen through the courtyard. As he walked, he attempted to move with the same deliberate quality he had observed in the princess, and in doing so he felt indescribably mature; when he glanced at his apartment’s tiny window, he saw a younger and more childish version of himself peering out.
But once inside, he was dismayed to find that, despite his preparations, he felt cowed by the crystal chandeliers, gilded picture frames, and assemblages of velvet, silk, taffeta, and moiré that greeted him at every turn.