Harpsichord

The Harpsichord is the instrument Marie-Josèphe de la Croix needs to compose a cantata at court, and its arrival turns a royal commission from an abstract demand into practical work. The ornate keyboard promises the pleasure and precision of composition, yet it arrives unusable in an important respect: it is out of tune, and its tuning key is missing. Marie-Josèphe’s effort to obtain a functioning instrument also becomes a small test of her artistic independence, because the proposed solution would put M. Coupillet, who has already disparaged her as an amateur and a woman, in control of the process.

Commission and Request

The Harpsichord enters the story when Count Lucien asks whether Marie-Josèphe will need an instrument for the cantata. M. Coupillet responds with an exclamation that her lack of progress is unsurprising without one, then asks whether she can compose entirely in her mind. His intervention recognizes the practical need even as it frames her as incompetent and dependent on his expertise. Marie-Josèphe, keeping her attention on Count Lucien to avoid rudeness to M. Coupillet, asks to borrow an instrument. Count Lucien answers that she may have whatever she requires because it is Louis XIV’s wish.

Marie-Josèphe specifies a small Harpsichord for a very small sitting room. The modest request is concrete: she needs an instrument suited to the space in which she will work, not merely permission to compose. At the same time, M. Coupillet proposes to oversee the cantata’s progress, arguing that her status as an amateur and a woman makes his help necessary to prevent work that might offend the King. The Harpsichord is therefore bound from its first mention to two kinds of access: access to the material means of composition and access to the authority to direct her own work.

Arrival and First Use

Later, Marie-Josèphe goes to Yves de la Croix’s dressing-room carrying a candle and her drawing box. There, she pulls aside the drapery covering a Harpsichord whose polished wood, delicate inlaid frieze, ebony keys, and matching bench make it an extraordinary object. The scene attends closely to its surfaces and materials: the wood shines, the inlay seems to move in the candlelight, and the instrument carries the scent of exotic wood, beeswax, and rare oil. It is not presented as a bare tool. Its craftsmanship and sensuous finish give the promised instrument an immediate appeal before it can serve its musical purpose.

Marie-Josèphe sits and brushes her fingertips over the keys, then plays a chord. The sound is discordant. When she searches for the tuning key and cannot find it, the mismatch between the Harpsichord’s beauty and its condition becomes practical rather than merely aesthetic: the keyboard is present, but she cannot make it sound as she needs it to. Tears rise from disappointment and frustration. She tries to reassure herself that she can compose on it and correct its tones mentally, but that workaround would deprive her of the pleasure of a true instrument. The moment distinguishes the ability to produce a composition in thought from the embodied pleasure and sonic feedback of working at a properly tuned keyboard.

The Missing Key and Marie-Josèphe’s Choice

When Count Lucien’s carriage is leaving, Marie-Josèphe calls for it to stop so she can explain that the Harpsichord is beautiful but out of tune and that she cannot find the key. He tells her M. Coupillet has been instructed to tune it in the morning. Her dismay at hearing his name recalls the earlier offer to supervise her composition: tuning the instrument through him would solve the immediate problem, but would also make his involvement part of the work she is trying to undertake.

Marie-Josèphe thanks Count Lucien and says she would prefer a Harpsichord key to M. Coupillet. The distinction is pointed and practical. She does not refuse assistance with the instrument’s tuning; she asks for the tool that would let her address it herself. Count Lucien agrees to her preference and asks whether the matter can wait until morning. She says it can, since otherwise the twanging would wake her brother. The exchange ends without the Harpsichord being tuned on the spot, but with Marie-Josèphe’s choice respected: the missing key is to be supplied instead of making M. Coupillet the immediate intermediary.

Function and Significance

The Harpsichord makes visible the material conditions behind the court’s request for a cantata. Marie-Josèphe needs more than a commission and a room; she needs an instrument that can give her usable sound. Its discord and missing key interrupt the expected transition from royal authorization to composition, showing how access to artistic work can depend on small, tangible necessities. The instrument’s elaborate appearance cannot compensate for its faulty tuning, and Marie-Josèphe’s tears register the difference between receiving an object and being equipped to use it.

Its role also sharpens the contrast between M. Coupillet’s authority and Marie-Josèphe’s agency. He treats her lack of an instrument as evidence that she cannot work and presents his oversight as protection for the King. She responds by naming what she needs, identifying the specific defect, and asking for a key rather than accepting his supervision as the only remedy. Count Lucien’s willingness to honor that preference makes the Harpsichord a point at which the commission’s power relations become concrete. At the close of the episode, it remains out of tune until morning, but Marie-Josèphe has secured the means to approach it on her own terms.