Rondo Allegro by Sherwood Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

leaned
forward. “We have been talking on that very head, Paisiello and I, about what
we are to do for our cherished students if the French return, especially if the
English abandon us to our fate. Money is indeed scarce for those such as us.
The king is not to be relied upon, especially with the political scene so
unsettled. It is our belief you ought to quit Naples altogether, and go to
Paris.”
    “Paris!” Anna exclaimed. “But . . . the war,
the soldiers!”
    The signora waved her hand to and fro. “There is no war in
Paris. Even the guillotine rusts from disuse. Why, from what I hear, Buonaparte
is soon to declare himself king of France. Think of it, an Italian on the
throne of France, ha ha!”
    “I thought he was from Corsica?”
    “The Buonapartes are Florentines,” Signora Paisiello stated
with a moue of disapprobation. “He may call himself Bonaparte however much he
likes, but I never shall. Bonaparte! Such an impossible name! It will never
stick.” And, as Anna had nothing to say to this prediction, the signora went
on. “It’s rumored the family ran to Corsica after the Ghibelline troubles, as
did many others. But a leopard does not change his spots, even if he calls
himself a lion.”
    She poked her finger through her high-piled powdered wig to
scratch at her scalp. “Here is what is important: Buonaparte loves music. He
has written Paisiello a hundred times, saying he still hums the march written
for General Hoche’s memorial, and promises a fortune if we would come to Paris.
Paisiello wavers, for he is deep in rehearsals, with the music near finishing, and
the stage near to ready. But you? No such trouble binds you.”
    “I do not write music,” Anna began.
    The signora laughed, shaking all over. “No! But you sing!
Perhaps it might not have been possible over the past years, for everything was
revolution, revolution, revolution, I hear, but they say the comic opera is
coming back into fashion in Paris. Now, you are yet too young for the great
roles, for you are not the equal of the great Mrs. Billington, but who is? There
are a great many opportunities for a singer of your talents in a city just
beginning to rediscover the arts!”
    Anna clasped her hands.
    Seeing her flushed, smiling face, the signora went on. “We
could send you to Buonaparte’s wife with a letter of recommendation. Lei è così volubile! They say that she
is kind, therefore she must get thousands such. Perhaps it would be better to
send you to Constance de Pipelet de Leury. I will write ahead to prepare the
way! She is a poet, a rich one, who champions the women of the theatre. She might be able to approach Madame
Buonaparte, or failing that, will surely find you a place if Paisiello asks it
of her.”
    “A place! But . . .” Anna’s joy vanished. “I
promised my mother . . .”
    Signora Paisiello remembered the Signora very well, and her
peculiarly English notions. “When I say ‘a place,’ it means you must become her
guest! And if it chances you perform for a select audience, and they happen to
reward you, who is to say anything?”
    Anna left shortly afterward, and crossed the palace thinking
hard about all she had heard in the past few days. It was plain that staying in
Naples was not just a difficulty, but it was fast becoming a danger. The royal
family might flee, and they would not care a whit for anyone but themselves.
    “I like the idea of Paris,” Anna said when she rejoined
Parrette. “If I still have not heard from Captain Duncannon, or this Mr. Jones,
by the next packet that arrives, it will prove that he does not think of me at
all. So I must think of myself, and I am determined to go. Only how are we to set
about traveling? We’ve only a few coins left from the sale of Papa’s violin.”
    Parrette said firmly, “That bracelet Lady Hamilton gave you.
I will sell it, and those rubies, and any other jewels you can bear to part
with. We will probably never see their true worth, but I can