The Academie (7 page)

I ink in the notes on the staff I have created, letting them flow out of me. As the notes form, so do words. I close my eyes and hear the tune. But no matter how hard I try, what finds its way onto the page is not a love song. It is a patriotic anthem. I force myself again and again to think of Michel and the sweet, thrilling feelings he inspires in me, yet my hand betrays me. Before long, I have fashioned a new, stirring piece, an anthem that lauds France’s new glory.

What is love? I love France. I love my Maman and my brother so fiercely that I would do almost anything to protect them. I love Napoléon because he has been so kind to us after the fearful days of the
Terreur
. I have witnessed my mother fall in love in a way I could never imagine for myself, where she will set her children aside in an instant for a man who promises her protection and who adores her.

My love for my family has left little room for any other feeling, except for one. It is that quiet, personal love I bear for music. It feeds me, takes me away from the agonies of the present, letting me wander off into other worlds where all is beautiful and kind and people aren’t cruel to one another—and they don’t die. Music is the only love I have that gives itself to me without expecting or needing anything in return.

And now, Michel. He is music. And yet, he is a man. That’s what I saw when our eyes met. The possibility, just the possibility, that my spiritual love could have a physical embodiment.

What am I to do? He is only the son of the music master. He could have a noble background—there is nothing to say he does not, except that I imagine if he did his father would claim it loudly to enhance his reputation among the bourgeois families whose daughters are his students.

How strange it is that only five years ago no one would admit to having noble blood, because it could lead to torture and death. Now, as the specter of those days begins to
fade, the old lines are redrawn. Madame Campan treats her aristocratic pupils differently from the others. The nuance is subtle, but unmistakable. Those lines, I fear, will make it more and more impossible for someone like me—the daughter of a
vicomte
—to marry someone like Michel—the son of a music teacher.

Somehow, in this quiet hour before sleep, I have managed to complete my anthem. The melody is there, and the words, and I have noted the harmonies. It’s a sketch only, but anyone who knows how to read such things would see on these sheets the heart and soul that created something from the mere suggestion of an idea. I cannot say where the impulse comes from; I can but attest that it takes me over with a power few would understand.

It is for this reason that I have come to an important decision. I have decided that I shall open my heart to Michel—if he wishes to receive it. It may be a foolhardy thing to do, but the time has come, I feel, to seize my life. Until now, I have looked to Maman for guidance in everything, never giving her a moment’s resistance or questioning her at all when she has said,
You shall go to school here; you shall wear these dresses; you shall befriend these young ladies; you shall make yourself look beautiful for this party
.... Now I shall have my own reasons for what I do. I will not do as I have done in the past: willfully ignore the stirrings of my heart and discourage the person who is the cause of them. Instead I will embrace the troubled
feelings I have, and press upon them, even loving the pain they cause if that is the result.

How else will I ever know if I can take the next step, from girlhood to womanhood?

11
Eliza

Today I have my first comportment lesson with Madame Campan.

“I advise you to study the movements and actions of Hortense, Eliza,” she says at the beginning, before we have started. Everyone is there except for Caroline, who is often late.

“Let us begin with the correct manner of greeting a bishop, or other high-ranking cleric,” Madame Campan says, drawing herself up as though she is preparing to enter the audience chamber of a queen. I cast my eye around the parlor, with its old-fashioned, slightly worn furnishings. The paneling on the walls is delicately carved, but the paint on it peels here and there. Three paintings—all portraits from before the revolution, with the ladies’ hair powdered and piled up high—gaze down upon us disapprovingly. I see the
faintest outline on one wall of a space where another picture hung once. Perhaps it was sold in a time of need.

I listen to the young students saying, turn by turn, “I am honored, Your Grace” or “Charmed, Your Eminence,” and realize that in Virginia there is little need for such knowledge. People are either “mister” or “doctor” or “mistress” or “miss.”

“Mademoiselle Eliza, perhaps you could tell me how to greet one of the members of our own Directoire, our equivalent to your Congress. What would you say after being introduced?”

Before I can answer that I would say, “Good afternoon, Congressman” or “Enchanted to meet you, sir,” we are interrupted by Caroline, who sweeps in, a hat upon her head and gloves in her hand as though she is preparing to go outside.

“I beg your pardon, madame,” Caroline says with a pretty curtsy, making up a little for her rude interruption before, “but I have just received a message from my mother, who insists that I go to Paris to be with my family.”

“Oh?” Madame Campan says, clearly put out that the message went directly to Caroline instead of passing through the proper channels. “What can be so urgent that you must depart like this, in the middle of an important lesson?”

“She did not say, but I believe it may have something to do with the ball she is arranging in my honor.”

A ball? Caroline has said nothing of such a possibility, and I cannot imagine she would not be crowing about it if
she could. I certainly would in her place. And of course, after our late-night excursion, I know how devious Caroline can be.

Madame Campan smiles, although I have observed that she is capable of adjusting her expression to suit the moment, without letting any hint of her real feelings seep through. “Of course, Caroline,” she says. “Your future will be decided soon and you will be making such arrangements yourself. When will you return?”

“I am afraid that is not certain as yet. I shall send word.”

I don’t know why, but the idea of Caroline leaving just now, just as I am beginning to understand how things work in this school, fills me with dismay. “Must you truly leave, Caroline?” I ask.

“Yes, but I shall return soon. I will write to you every day while I am gone. Do not be downhearted,” Caroline says.

I see that she has no feeling of obligation or friendship for me, and is just as quick to drop me as she took me up. I cannot help the sigh that escapes me, and I look toward Hortense. She gazes back at me with a sympathetic expression. Could she really be so good as to understand my fascination with Caroline, even though Caroline has been revealed to me as her enemy?

“I suppose you will attend parties while you’re there,” I say, looking back at Caroline with a slight smile. I remember what Hortense said. I have a secret to keep for her.

One of Caroline’s eyebrows twitches almost
imperceptibly. I see her shoot a quick glance at Hortense, then approach me.

“If she does, I hope she will practice some of her skills of discretion and conversation,” Madame Campan says, reminding me that we are not alone, but are putting on some kind of delicate ballet of hints and suggestions for the benefit of the entire school.

“What shall I do, then?” I ask.

Caroline’s face brightens. “Would you like to visit my mother with me—with Madame’s permission, of course?”

“Oh! May I? Must I ask Mama first?” I turn to Madame Campan, as though it is really her decision about whether or not I go with Caroline.

“Your
maman
gave me permission to allow you whatever diversions I thought would be advantageous to your education,” Madame says. I can hear the “but” in her voice, though. “
Tout de même
,” she says, “I hesitate to interrupt your studies, so recently begun.”

“I shall ensure that she keeps up with her lessons,” Caroline says.

“Please, madame?” I clasp my hands together like a child. Perhaps that is overplaying my game, but I can see from Madame Campan’s softening expression that it has worked.

“
Eh bien
. But you must return in three days, regardless of how long Caroline is to remain.” Three days! Much can happen in three days, I have already discovered. I smile.

“The drawing master will be here soon,” Madame says.

“I must prepare to leave,” Caroline says.

“So must I,” I echo. Besides, drawing is my least favorite lesson. I am hopeless at it, and only frustrate my teachers. And I have seen Hortense’s work. It is very skilled. I smile at Hortense, who has the good grace to smile back.

Within an hour we are settled in a fiacre with our valises tied to the back. “Will I meet Madame Bonaparte?” I ask Caroline.

“My mother? Of course,” she says.

I realize my mistake. I should hold my tongue, but I cannot help wanting to know. “I meant, actually...”

“You mean Joséphine. Hortense’s mother.” Caroline looks cross. “Very likely. But there are some things you ought to know about her first.”

“I know that she is a Creole, from the island of Martinique. My mother told me. And that her first husband was executed in the
Terreur
.”

Caroline takes hold of my arm and turns me toward her, almost angrily. “Joséphine’s first husband was estranged from her almost from the hour of their marriage,” she says. “Hortense never knew him. He abandoned the family before she was born.”

I cannot help feeling a trifle shocked. She continues. “But that is not the worst of it. Joséphine became so accustomed to admiration that she had many lovers, and has continued this habit even while married to my brother.”

“How can that be? When Hortense is so—”

“So virtuous? I wouldn’t assume her appearance and her character to be one and the same.”

This is as close to a direct insult to Hortense as Caroline has come with me.

It seems impossible that it was only a week ago that my mother and I made the trip from Paris to Saint-Germain. My life has changed so dramatically since then. I’m not certain that what I have learned is everything my mama hoped I would learn, but the lives the young women lead in France are certainly much more interesting than in Virginia.

Caroline is quiet on our way, and so I have a little time to reflect. I asked Hortense last night about the Marquis de Valmont, thinking she might confide in me that—although he is younger than she is by a year—she is in love with him. But instead, she thought I was the one who is fascinated with Valmont. “Oh, no!” I protested. “I just saw you speaking with him, and he appears so sad in a way.”

Hortense sighed. “He has reason for sadness. He has a great talent that his family will not permit him to exercise, and so he must do it in secret, during stolen hours of the night, with only a few candles to illuminate his work.”

She told me that he is an artist. I immediately thought of the empty space on the wall of the school’s drawing room. “Perhaps we can persuade Madame Campan to commission a painting,” I suggested.

Hortense’s laugh surprised me. “Even if he does not go
into the army, Madame Campan would hardly encourage him to take up a trade.”

“So how is he to support himself then?” I asked. In Virginia, young men become apprentices, or study the law or doctoring. Everyone has to earn a living, even if they come from a wealthy family.

“Perhaps you can save him,” Hortense said, a strange look in her eye.

I smiled and our conversation ended, but I have been intrigued since then to discover what she means by me saving someone like the Marquis de Valmont.

After an hour or so we pull up at a fine house in the Rue du Rocher, a short way down from the church of the same name. There are three carriages outside, none bearing crests but all looking as though they are preparing to depart. We enter only to be stopped at the door.

A plump older woman dressed in black scurries up to Caroline and greets her with a kiss. Caroline turns to me and says, “I’d like to introduce my American friend, Mademoiselle Eliza Monroe. Eliza, this is my mother, Madame Bonaparte.”

I curtsy, but Caroline’s mother hardly pauses to glance in my direction. Instead, she takes hold of Caroline’s shoulders, pulling her down to her level and talking directly into her face.

“We must go to Malmaison at once. At once!”

Caroline stands upright and shakes her shoulders, as if shooing away a bothersome fly. “Why?” she asks, not making any effort at politeness or affection.

“Because your brother is there, and so are... others.”

“Which others?”

“Barras. Captain Charles... the rest.” Madame Bonaparte makes a face as though she has tasted something sour. The names mean nothing to me, but judging from Caroline’s expression, they are not popular with her family.

“I see. Then we must go at once.” Caroline turns to me. “Eliza, the servants will take care of your bag. Don’t remove your cloak. We depart immediately.”

Instead of climbing back into the fiacre, we make the two-hour trip out to Malmaison in a much more comfortable private carriage. Caroline and I sit next to each other, with her mother across from us. Caroline’s brother Joseph and another young man climbed into one of the other carriages and left before we were quite ready to go.

Almost as soon as the motion of the vehicle is steady, Madame Bonaparte closes her eyes and leans into the corner of her seat. Within minutes, she is snoring softly.

“I detest Malmaison,” Caroline says. “It’s in a terrible state of repair. Or it was. The workmen were still there the last time I was forced to visit, in the summer, just after my brothers returned from Egypt. Napoléon was furious.”

Caroline looks out the window with a cold smile upon
her face. “Joséphine had spent an enormous sum on the place and at the time was planning to spend even more to make it truly habitable. And the gardens! They’re like a forest run wild. You’ll soon see for yourself.”