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Authors: Susanne Dunlap

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BOOK: The Academie
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I follow this with the seal. Maman would notice if it was missing. But I know my kiss was there first.

9
Eliza

Time has simply flown here at Madame Campan’s school. I didn’t expect it to be so wonderful, I confess. Our lessons are far more interesting than school in Virginia, and I have learned a great deal about society and how to comport myself in company.

Today is the day of the cotillion. It is a tea dance, and we are to assemble in the parlor, where the furniture has been rearranged so that a few couples can dance at a time. There is really only room for one square, but it will be enough to teach the younger ones, I suppose.

“There isn’t much space,” I whisper to Caroline, who looks bored already.

“The point isn’t to dance, but to converse. You wait and see.”

None of the visitors has arrived yet, but the servants
have brought in the spinet from the music room and set it up in the corner.

“Hortense has taken a great deal of trouble over her appearance,” Caroline says, nudging me in the ribs.

Hortense stands over to the side, surrounded by some of the Blues, who are wearing their best gowns. She looks much as she always does, except that she has a string of small pearls around her neck and a little lace tucked into her bodice. It occurs to me that Caroline is being facetious. Yet unlike Caroline, Hortense’s expression isn’t bored. I think she’s looking forward to the day.

“Does Hortense have a friend at the Collège Irlandais?” I ask.

Caroline laughs. “I’m afraid there are few young men there! Once they’re over fourteen, they either join the army or go into their fathers’ businesses.”

Now I understand why Caroline is so cross about the cotillion. There will be no one here for her, or even Hortense. As for me...

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the bell tinkling. By the way the young students are acting, it’s clear the boys have arrived. Although I’m interested, I decide I ought to pretend not to care, since that is what Hortense and Caroline must surely do.

The younger classes all turn at once to watch the entry of the guests. I admit, they are mostly a pathetic lot! The majority of them are shorter than I am. Perhaps only three
or four are my age or a little older, and one of those has a face so cratered with blemishes that I feel sorry for him. I confess I am disappointed. I had imagined the boys in Paris would be handsomer than those in Virginia.

They march in and spread out among us, each going up to a different girl and bowing. It’s quite comical. It seems they have been given some very specific directions about what to say and do, so that it appears that each one is acting out the same little play. There are fewer of them than there are of us, so I am mercifully spared this ritual.

I turn back to say something to Caroline, but she has wandered off. I decide to go to the tea table. There are some very pretty pastries arranged on trays, and I find I am thirsty.

As I reach for the cup a maid has poured for me, I hear someone close behind me clear his throat. I brace myself for disappointment as I turn around.

“I beg your pardon, but would you do me the honor of allowing me to make your acquaintance?”

To my complete surprise, standing before me is a young man. Not a little boy. I didn’t notice him among those who entered at first. He is an inch or two taller than I am, and he has hair of a nondescript sandy color and blue eyes. Although I prefer the looks of men who are darker, he is not unpleasant, and certainly better than I might have hoped for. I curtsy.

“Armand de Valmont, at your service,” he says, making a pretty bow that would not have been out of place in the court of Versailles. Only then do I realize that he’s speaking
to me in English. For a moment, I am nonplussed. I have said nothing yet, so how does he know I am not French?

I put my teacup down on the table and hold out my hand to him, rapidly trying to think of what to say. “Eliza Monroe” is all that comes out of my mouth. Questions at this early stage of our acquaintance would be impolite.

“Messieurs, dames!”
It is Madame Campan. She walks among us, pulling couples out of the assembled group and drawing them toward the small dance floor. Armand and I are among them. I look around, trying to see where Caroline and Hortense have gotten to.

Caroline is pretending to help the youngest ones with their ribbons. She is hiding, I see, from the boys. Hortense, on the other hand, stands like a statue near the spinet, where a young man sits, awaiting the command to play whatever is requested of him. She does not look at him, but I can feel her attention focused on him rather than on the rest of the company, and it makes me curious.

But I have no time to puzzle it out. Madame places four couples facing each other on the small dance floor.

“You have all been taught the steps of the quadrille.” She holds up a well-thumbed little book, a manual of dance, which I have never seen before. Fortunately, I know how to perform the steps. “Your mother tells me you are an accomplished dancer, Mademoiselle Monroe, and so you and the Vicomte de Valmont shall lead the dance.”

Although I am pleased by the notice, I blush. The spinet
strikes up a lively introduction, but I have hardly heard it, a little shocked to discover that my unassuming partner, who I was quite prepared to walk away from as soon as it could be deemed polite, is a marquis! He clears his throat, and I begin to dance just in time to avoid looking like a simpleton in front of the entire school and our guests.

I begin with confidence, knowing that first we must cross over and change partners, then return—the
chaine anglaise
. After that, we execute a few
balancés
, before beginning the
chaine des dames
. Madame Campan is nearby to nudge the younger girls when it is their turn. “Ladies, it is up to you to introduce a topic of conversation during the dance,” Madame says, as she taps the youngest couple to start their figure in imitation of the one my partner and I and the opposite partners have just completed.

“Where did you learn English?” I ask the marquis, in French.

“We are taught it at school,” he answers, in English. “Which is where I assume you learned to speak French?”

I can’t help feeling a bit foolish about my question. “But you speak it so well,” I say, hoping that flattery will save the day.

He nods and smiles. “We French have learned a great deal from you Americans. Including how to rise up against a monarchy.”

The figure we are dancing makes me turn away, so I can’t see whether his expression conveys sincerity or not.

“Ah,” I say, once we are facing each other again. “But the guillotine was a purely French invention.”

I hear a sharp intake of breath and catch the eye of Hortense, who has moved away from her position near the spinet and is close enough to overhear me. I feel ashamed that I could make such a comment in her hearing, remembering that her own father was a victim. And my partner is a marquis. Perhaps he lost members of his family in the
Terreur
. But that wasn’t my fault!

Madame claps, ending the dance in what would normally be the middle of the patterns. She motions us all to leave the floor so that others might have a turn.

“I didn’t mean...,” I say to my partner as he bows to me politely.

“The pleasure is all mine,” he says, ignoring my confusion and reciting the formula they have all been taught. He walks away and approaches Hortense, who appears to be acquainted with him. I watch their easy conversation from across the room, and my stomach sinks. What a miserable failure I have made of my first cotillion, even though it was only an artificial one.
I don’t care about him anyway
, I think, consoling myself with the fact that I don’t really find him attractive, even if he is graceful and noble in appearance. What’s a marquis in this day and age? I see that the cuffs of his dress shirt are worn, and when he turns away, I spy a small patch near the hem of his coat.

The cotillion drags on for an hour before the visiting
students assemble to return to their school across the street. We all line up by classes and curtsy to them. I try to avoid looking at the marquis, but I can’t help it. As he rises from his deep bow, I find he’s staring straight at me and not smiling.

After dinner, while we are in the parlor once again, now returned to its normal appearance, I seek out Hortense.

“You’re acquainted with Armand de Valmont?” I ask, handing her a small pair of scissors so she can snip her embroidery silk.

“We have known each other since we were children. He is a fine young man.”

“Why is he not in the army? Surely he is old enough?”

She lifts her eyes and peers at me. “You wish all young men to go away and fight, perhaps to be killed?”

I cannot help blushing. Why must I always be so stupid in conversation? It isn’t at all what I mean! “No, only Caroline implied—”

“It is true that many young men choose the army as the fastest way to achieve glory and wealth. But there are those who have different aspirations.” She focuses on the tiny stitches and I can’t see her expression. But I notice a delicate flush has spread up from her neck into her face. It cannot be the fire; we are turned away from it. Can she be in love with Armand de Valmont?

I do not know her well enough yet to pursue the
question. But if she is—perhaps there is more to him than I thought.

I think about the day and its odd events, and despite my initial impression and unfavorable encounter with the Marquis de Valmont, I find myself wondering, as I drift off to sleep, whether he or Hortense’s brother, Eugène, is handsomer.

10
Hortense

The cotillion was nothing but torture for me. I found myself forced to pretend I did not notice Michel, that I was unaware that every note he played on the spinet held a message for me. He was very polite, and very correct, and hardly looked toward me most of the time. But whenever our eyes chanced to meet, I could tell that he was trying to say something to me alone. It was the continuation of the conversation we had begun in the music room the other day, when I first met him. Something about him touches my soul. It is a safe feeling, unlike that other, which frightens me so that I can hardly breathe sometimes.

His choice of music—it cannot have been pure chance that led him to the very melodies I most adore. Yet how could he have guessed? Surely he would not have known something I have never told anyone, choosing only from
his own heart songs that speak of love and desire, that imply the meeting of minds and hearts.

But I am being foolish! How can someone I have so recently met know anything at all about my heart? How can I, having thought I would never be able to imagine love, be certain that I have at last found a worthy, attainable object of my affections?

The cotillion was mostly uneventful otherwise. The only other occurrence of note for me was my conversation with Valmont. I remember him from when we were young. Maman had taken my brother and me to his family’s elegant mansion to play. I found out only later that her motive was to borrow money from them, since my father’s family had all but disowned us.

Those times were difficult, but harder ones followed. Like so many others, Valmont lost both his parents—and all his family’s wealth—in the
Terreur
. The relatives who care for him now are distant, on his mother’s side. They were far enough away from the aristocracy to avoid danger during Robespierre’s reign. Their pity rescued him from complete want, but now he has become a burden. They object to supporting him at school, and are pressing him to accept a commission in the army. For most young men, that would be a perfectly satisfactory fate. How surprising that Eliza mentioned it! But Armand is an artist. To become a soldier is unthinkable to him. “I want to create, not to kill,” he said to me. How I sympathized with his torment! And indeed,
he has talent. His paintings are exquisite. If they would but allow him to earn his living that way, I think he could make a good name for himself. There is wealth enough in the new France to pay for skillful portraits. He says he is nearly finished with the one I sat for over the summer, but he will not show it to me until it is perfect.

His only other choice, I fear, will be to make an advantageous alliance. Valmont is handsome enough, and as he grows into a man, he is becoming even more so. He and Eliza made a pretty picture together. If she were just a little older, perhaps a match with her would be the answer. Her family is wealthy, or they would not be able to send her to school here, and as she’s American, the question of her background hardly arises. Unfortunately he disdains the Americans, blaming them for igniting the revolution here by their example. I fear he was not very polite to Eliza.

The hour is late, yet my mind will not cease its ramblings. I take out a quire of paper and line it with the special implement my stepfather gave me for my birthday last April, after I had written a song for him when he returned from the campaign in Italy. Its five nibs allow me to quickly ink in perfectly spaced lines for the staves where I can place the notes that comprise my music—an operation that used to take a great deal more time. Soon I have lined half a dozen sheets.

I pause and hold this valuable instrument, examining
it, turning it over in my hand. It was so like my stepfather to think of giving it to me. He appears to be focused on only one thing: glory for France. And yet, he has been a true father to me ever since he married Maman. That is what I, in turn, must focus on. Everything he does for me is as a father, who cares for me and Eugène as if we are truly his.

And yet, Napoléon is younger than Maman by six years. And she was just twenty when I was born. Only fourteen years separate me from my stepfather. Many girls marry men who are much older than they. How can I blame myself for idolizing Napoléon, who rescued us from poverty and ignominy?

Now, I hope that thoughts of Michel will drive away the hopeless infatuation I have allowed myself to indulge in for a man who is doubly forbidden to me: as the preeminent general of France and as my mother’s husband. Now, I shall let the musical link between Michel and me have expression in a new composition.

BOOK: The Academie
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