Authors: Susanne Dunlap
The Academie (11 page)
“Oh! Only that everyone is still sleeping, and we must not disturb their rest at this time.” She is whispering. “Joséphine does not stir until the afternoon on most days, and becomes very cross if anyone wakes her before then.”
I doubt that Caroline actually knows this to be the case, but decide to let it drop.
By now we have entered the vestibule, and a maid appears from nowhere to take our wraps. We wander into a salon, a small one, very elegantly furnished and welcoming. The pianoforte and music stand suggest this is the music room. “It’s so beautiful here I never want to leave,” I say, brushing my hand lightly over the long silk drapes at the windows. “What color is this? Does it even have a name?”
“It looks the color of a rainy day to me,” Caroline says. Indeed, I have to admit that the mist outside the window matches the fabric inside, as if there are no boundaries between one place and the other.
“Do you know that the entire army could have been supplied with new boots for the cost of decorating this room alone?” Caroline’s voice is knife-edged with bitterness.
“But Madame Bonaparte surely used her own money for this,” I say.
“Certainly not! She has none of her own. Her children—were it not for the generosity of my brother—would be penniless.” I cannot help feeling shocked, not so much by the fact that Hortense’s family is not wealthy, but by the fact that Caroline would say such things to me.
I don’t quite know how to respond, and am relieved to hear Hortense and Eugène entering the house just then.
“There is Hortense!” I cry and run to the music room door.
“Eliza! Good morning. You’re up early as well, I see.” Hortense enters, followed by Eugène. Her hair is disheveled, the bow tied around her midriff is coming loose, and there are streaks of wet on her dress. “It started to rain, so we ran all the way from the folly by the lake.” She is breathing fast and her cheeks are pink. Eugène’s too. His boots are muddy and he has left a trail of dirt on the pale carpet.
“Hortense, ring for the maid to come and clean the dirt before it damages my brother’s carpets,” Caroline says.
I exchange a look with Hortense. If I were in her place, I would say something to Caroline, who really has gone beyond rude. Whatever Caroline thinks of Joséphine, Hortense should not be treated so badly.
“There is no need. I’ll go down myself and apologize,” Eugène says, more to his sister than to Caroline.
“Oh, no!” I say, seeing a chance to do something kind
for Eugène. “Please, let me.” I run to the door, but somehow trip and, to my horror, I nearly bump straight into Eugène. He must think me such a fool! Now everyone will know what I feel, that I cannot be easy in Eugène’s presence.
Before I can make my apologetic way out the door, Joséphine’s maid enters and curtsies.
“Mademoiselle, monsieur, your mother wishes to see you immediately!”
Eugène and Hortense exchange glances before rushing away to attend the summons.
I am about to say something to Caroline, but before I can open my mouth, Madame Bonaparte enters. She looks pleased as a fat cat.
“My dear,” she says to Caroline, “have you breakfasted? Do join me. I have some interesting news.”
Caroline’s mother has a strange accent, which I can only imagine is Corsican. Madame Bonaparte looks at me as if to say,
Can she be trusted?
I cast a quizzical glance at Caroline.
“Come, Eliza,” she says after a brief pause. “Best friends have no secrets from one another.” She takes my arm and together we cross the vestibule and enter the breakfast room.
As we enter the room that has been equipped for breakfast, with dishes full of eggs and cold meats laid out on a sideboard, I am not thinking of Caroline and her mother, but of Hortense and Eugène. Why did Joséphine summon them?
My stomach gives a fierce growl. The smell of food has awakened it. I start to help myself immediately, but I stop when I see that neither Caroline nor her mother is eating anything. They take their seats and sit in silence for a moment. I bring my half-full plate to the table, wondering if it’s all right if I take some nourishment.
“You know that your brother has finally seen that the whore has been unfaithful to him.” Madame Bonaparte glows with pride. I am shocked. Joséphine? Unfaithful? Surely
the admiration of Captain Charles is simply that. And yet, I remember the way Bonaparte looked at her last night.
“And how exactly did this come about?” Caroline asks, also restraining her glee, I see.
“It seems some
billets doux
were discovered by one of Napoléon’s servants, just last night. He felt he must give them to his master, of course.”
The two of them laugh like schoolgirls, although Madame Bonaparte is older than my own mother. I wonder if the letters are real, and if so, what they could say. Although behavior like Joséphine’s would be cause for gossip in Virginia, I have always thought such things were quite accepted here. At least, that is what Mama has told me.
Even if she does flirt with Captain Charles, Joséphine is noble, charming, and beautiful, and both of her children have kindness and spirit. What could Caroline and her mother find to object to in that? Of course, they must be envious. Caroline is beautiful, too, but her mother, Madame Bonaparte, has a sharp edge to her. It’s in the way she speaks and moves. She seems more Spanish than French in her looks, and her French is not very good. I think mine is better.
A terrible commotion coming from upstairs interrupts Caroline and Madame Bonaparte’s conversation.
“Bonaparte! Bonaparte!”
I hear the screams of a woman. It does not sound like Joséphine, but I cannot imagine who else it might be. The
three of us sitting at the table look at each other and we all jump up at once. I cast one longing glance at my plate of breakfast, but it’s not enough to keep me there when clearly something important is happening up above us.
Madame Bonaparte goes first, followed by Caroline. I keep a slight distance behind them.
We sweep up the curved staircase and follow the corridor to its end, where Napoléon has his suite of rooms, just opposite my guest chamber. I can’t believe what I see before me. Joséphine is on her knees, a handkerchief clutched in one fist and a crumpled letter in the other. On either side of her stand Hortense and Eugène, looking down at their mother, who is now rocking on her heels like a lunatic.
“Mother, please come away!” Hortense speaks soothingly to her. So far they haven’t looked up at us. How embarrassing it must be! I could never imagine my mother displaying such volatile emotions.
“Bonaparte! There is only you!
Chéri!
Think of my children,” Joséphine continues, heedless of anyone around her.
Eugène sees us first and his face hardens. I shrink back. I don’t want him to think I’m enjoying this spectacle.
“This is a family matter,” he says to Madame Bonaparte.
“Yes, I believe it is,” she replies, standing her ground.
“Maman, come with me.” Hortense is trying to pull her mother to her feet, but Joséphine will not rise.
“You speak to him, Hortense,
ma petite
! He will listen to you. He loves you like his own daughter.”
Her words are so choked with sobs it’s hard to understand what she is saying. I cannot help but look at Hortense, who sees me. Her eyes are sad—resigned almost. I remember what I saw last night, and I don’t know what to think.
“Maman, if I talk to my step-papa, will you go to your room and wait for me?”
Joséphine looks up into Hortense’s eyes. I see her tears dry up like a puddle in the summer sun. She takes a deep breath. “Oh, my darling,
ma petite Eugénia
! Would you?”
I am surprised by the nickname. So Hortense is the female version of Eugène, to her mother.
Eugène takes Joséphine’s hand and finally gets her to rise up off her knees.
The three of us—Madame Bonaparte, Caroline, and I—are stuck to our places watching this family drama. Once Eugène has taken Joséphine away, Hortense turns, her back to Napoléon’s door, and stares at us. I have never seen her look so angry. I didn’t think she was capable of it, and I realize it must look to her as if I am on the side of Caroline and Madame Bonaparte.
“Please go somewhere else to gloat. Or better still, don’t gloat at all. You cannot imagine the life we have led, but at least we have each other.”
At that, she turns away and raps softly on the general’s door. “Papa!
Cher
Papa, it is I, Hortense. I want to speak with you.”
I look down, not wanting to witness Hortense’s humiliation. “Come, Caroline,” I whisper. “Let’s play cards.”
I am surprised when she comes with me, as does Madame Bonaparte. The three of us go into the game room, which it appears is always ready with cards and dice, and sit down to play an indolent game of bezique.
When I enter the room, at first I cannot see where Napoléon is. He is not sitting on the divan or at the desk. His bed—a narrow cot with a hard mattress—is perfectly made. At this hour, I can only assume he has not slept in it.
“So, Hortense, she has sent you.”
I whirl around at the sound of his voice. He is next to the door. His eyes are red. Not from drinking, which is what most men in his situation might be tempted to have done. Napoléon hardly drinks at all. His mind is always at work, calculating. And yet, he has much passion for my mother. I see that clearly. Whatever it is—pride, love, desire—he has been crying. I almost cannot bear to look at him.
“Sir, please have pity on my mother, your Joséphine. She is weak, but she loves you in the only way she knows how to love.”
His face does not change expression. I send my deepest gaze into his eyes. He must see that my mother needs him—that
we
need him.
“I ask little of her. I do not question her expenses, although my mother thinks I am foolish. I ask only for her loyalty, and this she cannot give.” His voice is rough and icy at the same time.
“What evidence, pray, do you have that she is disloyal? Has she not worked with every bit of guile and wit she possesses to help you rise in the government?” I try logic. I try reason. But I know even as I utter the words that reason is not what is required.
I have hardly noticed Napoléon’s gradual approach to me until he is standing only an arm’s length away. “She was once like you, I imagine.” His voice barely rises above a whisper. “So pure, so beautiful.”
My mother and I are alike, more than I sometimes care to admit. We both sing. We both love nature and the outdoors. We both like to be surrounded with beauty and kindness. And, as I have come to understand recently, we both feel the keenest pleasure at the admiration of a man, and an answering pull that comes not just from the heart, but from somewhere deeper. Hidden. Forbidden.
And it is worse now—now that I have glimpsed the possibility of something finer, now that I have felt that pull, have been drawn to the pure desire of Michel. His gaze, his
soft tenderness—surely these are the things I should value above the commanding presence of my stepfather.
I have never been so completely alone with Bonaparte before. He is vulnerable, I see. Saddened by the betrayal he feels from my mother.
“She adores you, you know,” I say, reaching out to touch his shoulder.
He frowns. It is a stern look I have only seen him wear when I observe him among his generals, plotting and planning. Does he think of Maman as an enemy? Perhaps an enemy to his peace.
“Why must she send you? You are innocent. This is no affair of yours.” He turns his head away so that I cannot look into his eyes.
“But it is, Papa,” I say, forcing myself to own the closeness of our connection. “If you leave us, Maman will be beside herself with grief. As will I.” The words catch in my throat, and I struggle to hold back tears.
“You don’t need a papa. You need a husband.” He turns to look at me again.
What is he saying? I feel the room spin around me and notice that I have not been breathing. I stagger. I feel his steely strong hand grasping my arm. I lift my face to his. Can he guess at the confusion in my heart?
“If I remain with your mother, will you do something for me?” he asks quietly, close to my ear.
My heart slows and the room comes into focus again. He did not mean what I thought he might. I am disappointed and relieved. “Anything. I will do anything for the sake of my mother’s happiness.”
“And for mine?” he asks. “Little Hortense, I wish you and your brother were my children in fact. Everything would be simpler.” He pats me and lets me go once he sees I am again steady on my feet.
“What shall I tell Maman?” I ask.
“Tell her she may come to me.”
“What is the matter?” I decide that if I don’t ask a direct question I may never find out the truth, and even then I’m beginning to understand that Caroline and her mother see things very differently from Hortense and her mother.
Caroline and Madame Bonaparte look at me at the same time, with the same expressions of glittering triumph in their eyes. It makes me wish I had my mother here too. “I expect my brother to take possession of Malmaison and turn Joséphine and her family out on the streets at any moment,” Caroline says.
“Do you really wish for such a thing?” I ask.
“She won’t be on the street,” Caroline says. “No doubt the wily Barras will take her in, and she has relatives.”
“Barras!” says Madame Bonaparte. “Not if Madame
Tallien has anything to say about it. He has never been in Joséphine’s power.”
Madame Tallien is almost as famous as Joséphine. I saw her at the opera when I was with my mother, who would not allow me to be introduced to her by a mutual friend. Madame Tallien is still married, and openly the mistress of the Vicomte de Barras, whereas Joséphine was a widow when she was said to be entangled with the
vicomte
.