The Academie (5 page)

“I mean no disrespect to the greatest actress of the present day,” the young man replied to her.

“No disrespect is a world away from respect—and admiration.” Her voice was dark and smoky, just like her appearance.

I caught sight of the young officer turning his face away as she reached her hand out to him. Spurned, she backed away. “The stage has its generals and kings, you know,” the
actress said. “To get what you want in it, you must rise through the ranks.”

She turned, and as she left gave a throaty laugh, like a blue jay about to raid a nest.

I got out of the way just before the officer came striding through the doorway where I stood, went to the punch bowl, and quickly drank two glasses down.

“Eliza! There you are!”

Caroline had found me. She dragged me off to fetch our cloaks.

“Who was that young man?” I asked her, assuming she would know.

“Which young man? I didn’t notice him. No one of consequence, I’m sure.”

When we returned, Caroline insisted on playing a trick on Hortense, and I felt a little bad about it. But I didn’t know how to deny her, and I was too tired to try.

I shall find a way to make it up to Hortense.

7
Hortense

It is the hour after supper, when we sit in the parlor with Madame and read or do our needlework. She sometimes talks to us about the events of the day, pointing out an article in the
Gazette
that she thinks is important, indicating particular
bons mots
that have been uttered by famous hostesses. While she also prepares us for the rigors of running a household, Madame is well aware that many of us will be under great scrutiny as hostesses. That is the subject of her words to us this evening.

“As ladies, you can exert much more influence than you might imagine. I believe, for example, that your mother, Mademoiselle Eliza, was able to visit Madame de Lafayette and work alongside her to secure her husband’s release from prison.”

I glance at Eliza, who has positioned herself on a low stool at Caroline’s side, a book that she pretends to read open in her hands. She is clearly pleased by the reference to her family.

“But in order to work on behalf of one’s husband, a lady must maintain the utmost discretion and never call censure upon herself, or give others cause to doubt her sincerity or cast a shadow upon her character.”

I feel Madame looking in my direction and lift my eyes from the needlework on its frame in front of me. Her face is all questions, but only I can see it. Madame Campan possesses a rare skill of being able to convey without words exactly what she means, all the while keeping her thoughts hidden from anyone else in the room. I see now that she has heard the rumor that I left the school last night. No doubt my fatigue from a disturbed night’s sleep shows, and her concerns are reinforced.

How shall I contradict such a rumor without implicating anyone else? I dearly wish to know how it was discovered that someone had departed after the school gates were closed—and who discovered it. I know well enough who has started the rumor that I was the miscreant. I decide that the only reasonable course is to talk to Madame Campan as soon as I possibly can.

The mantel clock’s delicate chime strikes eleven. The youngest ones have already gone to the dormitory, leaving only Caroline, Eliza, Catherine, and me. Caroline stands
and reaches her hand out for Eliza. I expect Eliza to take it, but before she can, Catherine, who is a year or two younger than Eliza, jumps up and takes Caroline’s hand.

“Thank you, Caroline, for being so good as to see that Catherine goes to bed immediately. No reading by candlelight, mademoiselle,” Madame Campan says with an indulgent smile. Catherine is an intelligent girl, not as attractive as some of the others and tending to plumpness. She awakens my sympathy every time I see her round brown eyes looking up into Caroline’s face.

I stand and start to walk toward Madame, but to my surprise Eliza appears before me, smiling, and threads her arm through mine. “I’ll walk with you, if I may,” she says.

I cannot interpret the look Caroline gives her. I would expect it to be cross, but there is a kind of triumph in it.

Eliza’s actions prevent me from my planned conference with Madame, unfortunately. But perhaps it will be good to have an opportunity to speak with this young American girl alone. As we walk up the stairs, I say, “Would you like to join me in my room for a cup of tea? Geneviève will bring it for us.”

I know that Eliza has her own maid, a saucy creature named Ernestine. She spends her days hiding away in Eliza’s room, pretending to be caring for her gowns and jewels, staying aloof from the other servants. Even Caroline’s maid, Hélène, does not refuse to help the others during the busy hours.

We enter my chamber, which is the smallest of the private rooms, but quite adequate for my needs.

“How cozy,” Eliza says, looking around for a place to sit.

There is only one chair, at my writing table, and I motion her to it. I sit on the deep window seat and ring for Geneviève. She comes with two cups of chamomile tea, having already anticipated the need. “Good night, Geneviève. The cups can remain here until morning,” I say. Eliza opens her eyes a little wider as if I have just committed some terrible faux pas, but wisely says nothing. Perhaps she is learning a few important lessons from Caroline after all.

“So, Eliza, how are you enjoying your first days at our wonderful school?”

She sips her tea before answering. I think she is perhaps trying to put off saying something to me, but I simply wait in silence.

Before she has a chance to answer, she notices the miniature of my brother, Eugène, which I keep on my dressing table. She seems startled by it. “Who is that?” she asks, her voice carrying a hint of surprise.

“That is Eugène. My brother.”

She walks over and picks it up, holding it near the lamp. “He’s very handsome, isn’t he? What uniform is he wearing?”

I don’t really want to talk about Eugène right now. I am still bitter and disappointed after thinking he had surprised me last night and then discovering it was a trick. “I’m told he’s
very popular with the ladies who follow General Bonaparte’s troops.”

“Then he is back in Paris?”

“Yes. But I haven’t yet seen him.” Eliza knows something, or has heard something, I realize, for she is too young to be entirely successful at hiding her emotions. By the look on her face I see that she has let something slip.

“I... I have just heard... the generals have returned.”

“They have been here a month already. But I still have not had the good fortune to spend time with Eugène,” I say, letting my breath out in an involuntary sigh. “He was injured badly. It was his head and we don’t know for certain that he is entirely cured.”

After gazing at it for a moment or two longer, Eliza puts the miniature back and comes to me. She kneels down and takes my hand, laying her cheek against it. Her warmth and sincerity surprise me. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I wish ...”

She stops. She wants to say something to me. “What is it? You must trust me. I do not play the games that others around me play.”

“It’s Caroline,” Eliza says, standing and returning to her chair, as if the name alone is enough to distance her from me.

“Ah, Caroline,” I repeat.

“We did—that is, she made me—but not really...”

Poor Eliza. She is no match for Caroline’s scheming. “What has happened?” I press gently.

“We went out. It was us, last night. Now she has a secret that could get me sent back to Virginia.”

“But you, too, have a secret.” I point this out, knowing that no doubt Caroline has managed things so that she is in control. “Why did you go out? Where did you go?”
Was it just to torment me?
I want to ask. But I don’t.

“There is someone Caroline is in love with, whom she means to marry,” Eliza says.

“Ah. So she is still in love with Murat.”

“You know? I thought it was a secret!”

I could laugh at the look of shock on Eliza’s face, but I’m not inclined to be so cruel.

“It is no secret that Caroline loves him. Only whether he returns her affections. Murat is a man of the world. And my stepfather does not encourage Caroline in her infatuation.”

“But he is a great general!” Eliza insists. “Second in command to Bonaparte himself, so Caroline says.”

“Caroline is young, and Napoléon is rising to ever greater prominence. I believe her brother wants her to marry better in the end.” As I picture Napoléon, I have to suppress a sigh. I know how ambitious he is. When he wants something, he gets it. That thought frightens me, especially for my mother. And a little for myself. Maman is not ambitious for power, only for love. How I wish she had fallen in love with someone less important! Someone with less strength, fewer charms, and someone much less complicated.

“I see,” Eliza says, her brow furrowed as if she doesn’t
really. “Caroline wants me to take messages for her. Or, at least, to help her find ways to convey them. I am afraid I will be found out, but I don’t know how to deny her.” Eliza stares into her teacup as if the answers she seeks might be hidden there.

“Why are you telling me this, Eliza?” I ask.

“Because I think you should know something else...”

What can she tell me that I don’t already know? Caroline and her mother and brothers and sister hate me and my mother and will do anything to destroy us.

“You should know, Hortense, that Caroline will stop at nothing to separate your mother from her brother. And I truly mean nothing.” She puts her teacup down on the desk. “I’ve stayed too long already.”

Eliza stands and curtsies to me, formal once again. I have discovered nothing I did not already know, including the extent to which Caroline has the young American in thrall.

But there is something about Eliza’s visit that unsettles me and causes me to dream of terrible things.

8
Madeleine

Maman woke me when she returned from the ball that night.

“I need your help while I undress. I sent Marianne to bed. She has a cold.”

This was a lie; I knew it. Maman has no patience for the illnesses or indispositions of those who serve her. I imagine it is because she was born a slave herself, and fears somehow losing her position. But she is royalty in the theater. She need not worry.

I got out of bed as she commanded me and went with her to her room. Before I could even unfasten her necklace, she ripped the silver gown off her shoulders and let it slither to the floor. She stood before me in all her naked beauty.

“What are you staring at?” she asked, a hard smile on her face. “Do you see what it is that drives men wild with
desire? Even your father—your oh-so-virtuous father—could not take this from me, and nor will you.”

I said nothing, having learned that to respond was to risk a thrashing. I reached down to the floor to pick up the gown I would have to mend in the morning.

I heard my mother step to the screen that hid her untidy pile of clothes, and by the time I looked up again she had donned a silk dressing gown. “I met a very interesting young man this evening,” she said, taking her seat at the dressing table and gesturing to me to remove her necklace and earrings.

Again, I said nothing.

“He was a handsome young soldier. I have seen him here, in the theater. I thought he looked too young and insignificant to bother with, but he was among the generals this evening. He is aide-de-camp to Napoléon himself, apparently.”

I could not prevent my sharp intake of breath. I prayed Maman did not notice it. But when I looked up, our eyes met in her mirror.

“I thought I would invite him to supper the next time he comes to see a performance. Would you write a note for me, that I might have it ready?”

I’ve become accustomed to writing and reading all Maman’s love letters, all the lewd declarations from both merchants and aristocrats. She can neither read nor write. But this time... I knew who she was talking about. I would
be inviting my true love to an assignation with my mother. The thought brought bile into my throat.

Maman yawned and then climbed into bed, blowing out the candle that had illuminated the room, leaving me standing in the dark.

I knew the way through her chaotic mess of upholstered stools, discarded shoes, and upended empty wine bottles, and so I crept from her room noiselessly.

Today, I sit with the quill in my hand, holding it above a blank sheet of paper. I wait so long that the ink dries upon the quill, and I must clean and trim it and dip again. I could write anything I want to: Maman would not be able to decipher the letters, having disdained the exercise when Papa tried to teach her before we left Martinique.

But he who will receive it—will his response not betray my own treachery? And what if Maman shows the letter to someone else? I have no doubt that she knows exactly what she is doing. She has seen me with him. She can tell that I am in love. She knows that in forcing me to do this for her, she is breaking my heart.

I wonder if every woman behaves this way. When only her beauty can give her the means to live, is it not understandable that she would do everything in her power to ensure her survival—even if it means destroying her own children?

Yet it seems wrong. There is Marianne—my one friend—to
prove it. She cares for me as I imagine a sister would, even though she is poor and lowly, with no prospect of rising above her position as a dresser in the theater. Only Marianne dares insert herself between me and my mother at times, and yet she manages to retain the trust of my mother.

If Marianne reads the letter, she will lie for me. I know it.

And so at last I start to write. I tell him all, including that he must pretend to make an assignation with my mother. I explain it by saying that she is concerned for my well-being and does not want me to enter into an alliance where I will be cast off because I am unworthy.

Once the letter is written, I scatter sand across it, then lift the edges and make a funnel to return the sand to the little jar. I fold it carefully, then drip the wax that will seal it so that it falls exactly across the paper’s edge. I take up the seal with my mother’s initial, but I pause before pressing it into the still-liquid red wax, the color of blood. I blow on it softly, then press my lips against the wax, feeling the heat.