The Rhetoric of Death by Judith Rock Read Free Book Online Page B

And whether we do or not, we have a ballet to present in just two more weeks. Not to mention the tragedy.” He cocked his head, his eyes bright with curiosity. “Though I am pleased to have you here, I have been wondering—so late in our rehearsals, a bare two weeks before a show, is a peculiar time to acquire an assistant. Not that I am ungrateful, of course.” He waited hopefully.
    Smiling blandly, Charles shrugged and gave the answer he’d prepared. “My superiors decided I had been at Carpentras long enough. In addition to teaching at the school, I had also been a student there, you know.”
    â€œI see. Well, your arrival comes just as I am realizing that this production is hopeless.”
    â€œHopeless? Do they really dance so badly?”
    â€œNo, no, thanks to Beauchamps, they dance very well, most of them. But they do not care why they dance. They do not care that the dance is meant to show every movement of the emotions and the eloquence of the soul shining through the body. Without that, it is nothing. Yet these wretched boys only want to show the shapely leg, jump higher than their confrères , and wear the richest costume. Though surely you know all that. Boys are boys, even at little Carpentras.”
    â€œTrue,” Charles laughed. “But as long as they didn’t trip over their feet and the ballet amused parents and patrons, the rector there was satisfied.” Though Charles hadn’t been. Only rarely had he come across a boy who had it in him to make what he danced burn with beauty. “After all, the ballets are to adorn the yearly prize-giving and provide some enjoyment for the boys near the end of the school year, are they not, mon père ?”
    â€œOf course, but you are at Louis le Grand now. The king himself is our patron, my dear Maître du Luc, which means that he helps pay for the ballet. As well as the year’s academic prizes. Do you have any idea what those suitably bound tomes we give as prizes cost? So the ballet must be superb, because we cannot afford to lose the king’s money! Anything less would be an insult, since King Louis was such a very gifted dancer himself. And I do not say that only because he is the king. Look.”
    He pointed to the wall behind Charles. Charles turned in his chair and saw a gilt-framed painting of a half-grown boy in a golden tonneau—a stiff, tight-waisted coat standing out over his breeches like a very short skirt. The coat’s full sleeves were tied with yellow ribbons at elbow and wrist, and the shoes, heeled and square-toed, sported rayed golden suns. The boy’s face was still softly rounded and his silky light brown hair curled on his shoulders. He wore a crown with golden rays, and above it a tall sheaf of waving white plumes.
    â€œThat is the king,” Jouvancy said reverently. “Only fourteen, dancing as France’s Rising Sun in Cardinal Mazarin’s Ballet of Night . I was there and I tell you, it was magnificent. My father wanted me to see the king reclaim his kingdom after the horrors of the nobles’ revolt—the Fronde, that was, before your time. Anyway, the room—in the Petit-Bourbon palace—was crowded beyond belief, and my father and I, being of little importance, were shoved away in a corner. It was February, but the room was stifling from the crowd, and I soon fell asleep on the floor—I was just ten. The ballet really did last all night, twelve hours. My father shook me awake at daybreak and lifted me up onto his shoulders in time to see our young Rising Sun come in at the east windows. Ah—” Something of the ten-year-old’s wonder on that long-past morning glowed on Jouvancy’s face. “It seemed to me that the sun himself had truly danced down into our midst. He did his sarabande down the room, with all the Graces dancing in his train. All around me courtiers were weeping and kneeling. Such a fine dancer he was, a