Rehearsal

Armand told Joseph that his Spartacus was soon going to be staged in Paris.

"What about that battle song of yours? Is it ready?" Joseph asked.

"No." Armand shook his head. "Still, there isn't a single song anyone's satisfied with. But everyone thinks now is the best time to stage the play. It'd be a terrible shame to miss this moment. So, for now, we'll use Edgar's song."

Edgar was a young "composer" in Armand's circle. Just as in later generations, in this era's Paris, there were no fewer impoverished young people calling themselves "composers" than there would be people claiming to be "independent musicians" in the future. Edgar was one such "independent musician." A few of his songs had made the rounds in the little bars of the Saint-Antoine District, but writing a battle song for Spartacus was still beyond the young man's abilities.

"This is the best time?" Joseph said. "In terms of making a sensation, it certainly is. But staging the work now could also put you in danger. They might..."

At this, Joseph pointed upward and said, "They might throw you into the Bastille for it."

"So what? Then I really would go down in history," Armand replied without a care. "At worst, I'll spend a few years inside. To trade that for the chance to go down in history is more than worth it!"

Since Armand felt that way, and Joseph knew that even if Armand really was thrown into the Bastille, he wouldn't be stuck there for long. The French Revolution would begin, and the Bastille would be stormed. Naturally, the prisoners inside would be set free. Besides, if Armand ever went into politics, having been inside the Bastille would be a rare qualification.

"If that's how you feel, I won't try to talk you out of it." Joseph patted Armand on the shoulder. "Anyway, be careful. When's the rehearsal? I'll come by and watch."

"The day after tomorrow, at the Peterson Theater. Starting at eight in the morning," Armand replied.

The Peterson Theater stood between the Saint-Antoine District and City Hall, not far from the Bastille. The Saint-Antoine District was where the poor lived, and the theater nearby naturally couldn't compare with those in the wealthy neighborhoods to the west. But Armand's play was better suited to a place like this.

"Good. I'll be there," Joseph replied.

Two days later, Joseph went with Lucien to watch the rehearsal of Spartacus. It went very smoothly, including Edgar's battle song, but Armand kept frowning, looking troubled and restless.

"What's wrong, Armand?" Joseph asked. "Isn't it going smoothly? The actors are doing a fine job, too."

"They are, damn it!" Armand said. "If it weren't for that idea you gave me before, I'd be perfectly satisfied. But whenever I hear Edgar's song, I can't help feeling... I feel like... it's like sitting down to a grand feast, only to find that none of the food has been salted. It's just... damn you, Joseph! If it weren't for you, I'd be as delighted as the others right now... No, I'd be even happier than they are. Damn it! Damn it!"

Armand stamped his foot, spat out several curses in a row, then turned to Joseph with a miserable look. "Joseph, you have to help me..."

"What can I do about it?" Joseph asked, eyes wide.

To be fair, Edgar's song wasn't bad. Its melody was spirited, yet still graceful. It was just... just as Armand had complained before: "It's a little too light. I need a booming Urban Cannon, and he's given me a trumpet."

Armand froze for a moment, then smiled bitterly. "True. If there were a solution, we would've found one by now."

Then he turned to Lucien, who was standing nearby, and joked, "Lucien, you're studying music, too. Wouldn't it be wonderful if you could write a good song?"

Unexpectedly, Lucien replied, "Sure. After watching today's rehearsal, I've been wanting to give it a try."

That answer caught Armand off guard. He paused, then laughed. "Then you'll have to hurry. The play's going on in half a month."

Armand had no idea that four days later, Joseph would suddenly bring Lucien to see him.

"Armand, take a look at this." Joseph handed him a sheet of paper.

Armand took it and lowered his head to read. Then he began humming the melody on the page. At last, he jerked his head up and grabbed Joseph by the sleeve. "Joseph, this, this is outstanding! Where did it come from?"

"Lucien wrote the music," Joseph said, glancing at Lucien. "I wrote the lyrics. What do you think, Armand?"

"What do I think? It's wonderful! It's just like something from my dreams. No, I've never even heard a song like this in my dreams. If I had, I'd remember it." Armand was so happy he could barely keep himself from leaping into a dance.

"Armand, do you think this song will work?" Joseph asked.

"Of course, of course it will. Nothing could be better." Armand replied, beaming.

"But Armand, if you want to use this song, I have one condition," Joseph said.

"Name it, my friend. Even if you asked me to run naked through the streets or offer up my chaste backside, I'd agree!" Armand replied with a hearty laugh.

"Stop talking nonsense. You'll corrupt the children!" Joseph said.

"All right, my friend. Tell me what you want."

"Until I give you permission, don't tell anyone else that I wrote the lyrics and Lucien composed the music," Joseph said.

Armand could understand Joseph's request. He didn't mind being thrown into the Bastille, but that didn't mean Joseph felt the same way. Being sent to the Bastille was his own problem, but Joseph was raising two underage younger brothers. If he went to the Bastille, what would happen to them? Besides, he knew—or at least, that was how he saw it—that Joseph's main goal in life was science. He didn't want matters in other fields interfering too much with his research. As for Lucien, he was very talented, but he was still a boy not yet fifteen. They couldn't drag him into anything that might get him thrown into the Bastille.

"No problem. I give you my word of honor: without your permission, I won't tell anyone, not even at the Last Judgment," Armand said solemnly.

"My friend, there's no need to be so serious." Joseph laughed. "I just want to avoid some unnecessary trouble."

"I know," Armand said. "I'm not afraid of going to the Bastille, but I don't want to see any of my friends there."

Armand didn't immediately take the song to the troupe for rehearsal. If he did, even without naming the authors, people might notice that he had just met with Joseph and Lucien and immediately come away with a new song, then guess who had written it. Armand was actually a careful man.

Only two days later did Armand bring out the song and have the troupe try it. The result was said to be excellent, but Armand still wasn't satisfied. Apparently, he felt some of the lines didn't do the song justice and still needed revision. The actors also made many suggestions about the staging and performance. So Armand got busy again.

Another week passed, and Armand once again invited Joseph and Lucien to watch his play's rehearsal. But Joseph happened to have a business trip to make, so only Lucien went with Armand to watch this rehearsal. A few days later, when Joseph returned to Paris, rehearsals for Armand's play were nearly complete. At least, in Lucien's view, the play "was already no worse than Moliere's works."

But Armand still seemed dissatisfied. He now spent all day in the theater, pacing and hesitating over trivial matters until his cheekbones seemed to jut out much farther. Joseph knew Armand had gotten stuck in a rut and was in a bad state of mind. If he kept this up, he might fall seriously ill after the successful premiere—or even be "called to the Lord." No, considering the veiled mockery of Christianity in his work, how could he be "called to the Lord"? Surely he'd be "struck down by Heaven" and dragged to Hell by the devil.

But Joseph didn't want to see Armand collapse onstage after the premiere's success and take his bow—though it might have been a beautiful scene, it wasn't time for Armand to fall just yet.

Joseph knew that the so-called "problems" troubling Armand weren't really major problems. Whichever choice he made, the difference wouldn't be significant. He'd simply gotten stuck in a rut and couldn't make up his mind.

"Armand, have you heard this story? Someone put two identical piles of fodder the same distance from a donkey, one on each side. What do you think happened to the donkey?" Joseph said, putting an arm around Armand's shoulder.

"I know. The donkey stood between them and starved to death. Joseph, you're a scoundrel for comparing me to that stupid donkey! But are you really sure the piles of fodder were identical?"

"You donkey! If they weren't identical, would you be hesitating for so long?"

"Of course they aren't identical. There are some differences between them. I just don't know which is better."

"That's easy, then." As he spoke, Joseph took out a somewhat irregularly shaped silver coin—ancient Roman silver coins were struck by hand and generally weren't perfectly round—and said, "Let this decide. Look. On this side is Bacchus's likeness, and on the other is a bunch of grapes. My friend, you know that tragic art came from the rites held in worship of this god. Let's have him help us make the decision. Toss the coin. If it lands with the portrait facing up, Bacchus approves of this choice. If the grapes face up, he rejects it. What do you think?"

Bacchus was the Roman name for Dionysus, the Greek god of wine. Art wasn't among his divine domains, but considering that ancient Greek tragedy had originated in rites held in his honor, Joseph's suggestion that he make the decision was quite fitting.

"A Roman Denarius?" Armand took the silver coin from Joseph and examined it closely. "It must be from the Republic. Perhaps Crassus himself once held this very coin in his hand. A pity it's in such poor condition. Without the grapes on the reverse, I could hardly make out that the portrait on the front was Bacchus. Still, it's a fine thing. Well, let's do as you say."