Emilie's Voice by Susanne Dunlap

her ear, his lips just touching occasionally and sending a thrill right through her. “Would you like some tea?” She motioned him to sit in Marcel’s chair and waved her hand at the maid, who vanished into the kitchen.
    St. Paul reached into his waistcoat and took out a small package, wrapped in paper and tied with a silk cord. “Just a token, for our friendship.” He placed it on the table, then perched himself on the very edge of the chair Madeleine had directed him to.
    “And how does my daughter?”
    “She is fully recovered, I am delighted to say. Is that not a new gown you are wearing?”
    Madeleine ran her hands proudly over the silk. They were not so rough now, and did not catch on the smooth fabric as they used to. “I had it made. The silk was left over from the ball gown of a marquise. There was almost enough for a dress—only the sleeves are of flax.” Her nervousness made Madeleine rattle on.
    Once she had exhausted the subject of her dress, Madeleine had no idea what to say to St. Paul. They sat facing each other from the two chairs on opposite sides of the room for a minute or two. The count smiled in her direction but did not appear to be looking at her.
    They both stood and spoke at the same moment.
    “I’m afraid—” “Would you like—”
    “It grieves me that I cannot stay longer to enjoy your company. I must call on the Duchesse de Montpensier—a frightful bore, but I’m sure you understand,” said St. Paul, bowing again.
    Madeleine curtseyed, and the nobleman left, just as the maid entered the parlor with a tray bearing two tea dishes and a little jug of milk.
    “Take it away!” she snapped, sending the girl back to the kitchen. Once she was alone, she opened the package St. Paul had left behind. It contained a lace-edged silk handkerchief that concealed three bright, silver coins. Madeleine stared at the gift for a moment or two, then walked to the fireplace. She put the coins in the earthenware pot that held their savings, and then threw the handkerchief onto the fire.
    The next time St. Paul came, he brought her a small wooden box that contained a silver thimble, and after that it was a bit of lace tied around an ivory spindle. They were always objects of some value, but never anything worth enough to sell or to make a material difference in their lives. His visits were brief and awkward, and Madeleine never knew what to say to him now that they did not have the common ground of Émilie’s illness. She did not really know why he continued to come, and she began to suspect that he was using her. But for what? It made no sense to her, and so she tried to dismiss her uneasy feelings.
     
    For a few weeks after the salon, Sophie’s life at the Hôtel de Guise returned to its normal pattern of mending Mademoiselle de Guise’s gowns, doing her mistress’s hair, and entertaining her with gossip about court that she picked up from the lady’s maids in other households whose mistresses came to visit the princess. Sophie had a wicked sense of humor, and she knew how to tell a story and derive the most entertainment from it. At first Émilie’s failure to return the slippers did not worry her very much. She assumed the girl would bring them when she came for her lessons with Monsieur Charpentier. But time passed, and there was no sign of Émilie. Sophie was annoyed at this apparent breach of trust, but she did not expect Mademoiselle de Guise to notice that one was missing from among her dozens of pairs of shoes. The princess usually wore black these days anyway, since the death of her nephew.
    In this, Sophie was correct. But she failed to estimate how intently a young housemaid, Mathilde, was looking for an opportunity to discredit her so that she could step into, literally, Sophie’s shoes.
     
    “Madame Coryot,” began Mathilde, some time after Émilie had been whisked away to Versailles, “they’re missing, her slippers.”
    “Whose slippers? I don’t know what you’re