Glorious Ones by Francine Prose Page B

bewilderment, would invariably shrug his shoulders. “I am sorry,” he would say. “But you must consult her physician, Dottore Graziano.”
    You can imagine the pleasure it gave me when the entire room fell silent to hear me venture my learned opinion.
    “I too am sorry,” I would tell them. “But I am afraid that even the slightest confusion or distraction is contraindicated in our star performer’s delicate case.”
    The nobles took my warning so seriously that they began to walk on tiptoe, as if Isabella were asleep, and they were afraid of waking her.
    But they talked about her to their friends. And that is how our second invitation to France came about.
    One night, as we were playing for the Borromeo family in their island palace, a man stepped out of the audience. He was a forty-year-old white male. His physiognomy was of the bilious type. He was thin, like a little monkey of the Rhesus indica family, and he exhibited a slight asthmatic wheeze as he spoke.
    “Mesdames and Messieurs,” he addressed us. “Let me introduce myself. I am Count Marcel de Lavigne, of Paris. And I have come to invite you to our beautiful city, on behalf of our beloved king.”
    Francesco Andreini rushed forward; but, before he could speak, the Captain stepped between them.
    “We are flattered by your invitation,” he said. “But, quite frankly, the hardships involved in our last journey to your lovely country have made me reluctant to embark on another such venture.”
    “Hardships?” inquired the Frenchman.
    “Hardships!” cried Brighella. “They’d have to drag us back to that stinking country in chains!”
    “Be quiet!” Flaminio hissed at him. “Men have been hanged for less, or have you forgotten the sad tale of my three friends?” Then he turned back to the count with a sweet smile.
    “Hardships,” he repeated. “First, we were kidnapped by those barbarous Huguenots. And then, if that were not enough indignity, our visit was rudely and ignobly terminated by your great monarch himself.”
    “How long ago was your visit?” asked the count incredulously.
    “About five years,” replied Flaminio.
    “Ah, well then,” shrugged the Frenchman, “that explains it. Those were terrible days for my poor country. And it was only an unlucky accident of fate, my dear sir, which brought you to us at such an unfortunate time. Certainly, the forces of chance must have been working against you.
    “I swear to you, my good man: Henry is King of France now. We have no more problem with those unruly minorities, and our capital has become a place where great artists like yourself can flourish and grow. I myself will escort you to the city. And, if you do not receive a welcome worthy of the noblest monarch in Europe, you may hold me personally responsible.”
    So we decided to trust him, all of us, even Brighella. And he kept his word.
    He and his private army of soldiers escorted us across the border. The French count was never more than a few steps from my side; he rode beside me, pestering me with inquiries.
    “Monsieur,” he would say. “Tell me: is that lovely little actress of yours really as sad as she looks? Is there nothing that can be done? Tell me: do you not think that a good man—a wealthy husband, perhaps—might be the answer to all her problems?”
    “The Frenchman is in love with Isabella,” I decided. As always, I was mystified by the ways of passion—the only thing in the universal system which I did not thoroughly understand. And I decided that he was the one whose madness I should be treating.
    At that point, my extraordinary command of logic allowed me to draw the following conclusion: if this is the way a Frenchman responds to Isabella, I reasoned, then our trip will surely be a triumph.
    Once again, I was right. The king himself burst into tears at the end of our first performance. “I cannot bear it,” he moaned, polluting a goblet of his finest royal vintage with thick, salt tears. “I have