MADELEINE STARES DOWN at the two paddles sitting in her lap.
An accident? Marguerite inquires.
Madeleine shakes her head.
I feared not, the woman sighs.
And straightening up, she resumes a conversation that Madeleine can't recall their ever having:
Among the first parts written for me was Lucretia. An old story: a woman raped by the son of a tyrannical king. There is nothing left of her but shame and rage. From hell I shall seek his ruin, she sings. With savage and implacable fury And then she does herself in at the end. Sword through the breast—I pantomimed the whole thing. The Marquis Ruspoli said he felt shivers running up and down his spine.
When the composer came to kiss my hand, I hissed at him, Don't ever write such a role for me again.
Marguerite draws her scissors from her pocket as though she were unsheathing a terrible blade.
I told him, Make me a general. Make me a son. If you give me a sword, let me bury it in Ptolemy's side. For who wants to be a woman wronged? With no recourse but wretchedness and death?
Not I, Marguerite declares, her blade flashing. Not I!
Her gaze falls suddenly upon Madeleine, who is caught unawares. She thought that Marguerite, in the throes of her story, had forgotten her.
The woman narrows her eyes: Do you understand me?
The girl shrugs. I suppose so.
Marguerite takes the injured hands in her own and says, coldly, You are disgraced. Disfigured. So what will you do now?
Madeleine announces an idea that has occurred to her only a few seconds before, as she reflected on how pleasant it felt to be wearing only her underclothes. She says, with dignity: I plan on being a tumbler. Or a contortionist. Whichever I am better at.
Marguerite claps her hands. Her severity gives way, in an instant, to laughter.
My dear child! she cries, voice lifting into song.
If drinking is bitter, Marguerite sings, become wine.