The Academie (17 page)

Yet I can’t quite believe that Hortense has agreed to disguise herself as a man as well. She does not seem like someone who would consent to such a dangerous plan, especially one that involves escaping unseen from school.

She did not hold back, however, once the plan was made. Hortense is a very skilled seamstress. I don’t know what we would have done without her. My blue uniform and white trousers fit quite wonderfully. It’s very freeing to walk without a skirt, letting my legs stride out without the fabric catching between them.

Even Ernestine has gotten into the spirit of things. She
has agreed with Hélène to tell Madame that we are all indisposed and will remain in our rooms throughout the day.

Now I must try to sleep. I won’t write to Mama this evening. I’m still very cross with her, and a little hurt, although she did try to tell me ahead of time that she was leaving. In any case, my letters won’t reach her for weeks, so there is no hurry. I shall try to dream of Eugène. I imagine him standing out from all the others, a ray of light among a dark mass of men.

And I decide: I may not win his love—it may be too much to ask that he forsake another girl for me—but I will find a way to ensure that he will be the person who gives me my first real kiss.

I feel as if I have just closed my eyes, and here is Hortense, already dressed in her military garb, holding up a candle. Ernestine is behind her, looking sleepy but excited. She’s enjoying this as much as I am.

In a flash I am wide awake, although my lack of sleep makes everything seem strange, unreal. I see my hands pull on the trousers and boots and fasten the buttons of the jacket, but they feel as if they belong to someone else.

We accomplish our transformation quietly and assemble in the vestibule.

I look at the two of them briefly. “This just might work,” I say.

Caroline turns me around and then casts a quick eye
over Hortense. “We’ll have to walk like soldiers, not dainty ladies.” I can tell by the way she says it that she believes we can do it.

Hortense smiles. “I’m ready.”

“So am I,” I say, although my stomach is full of nervous jitters.

“Where is the coach?” Hortense whispers.

“We must leave the gates and walk a short way. I thought it best not to risk the noise of horses and wheels on gravel,” Caroline says.

Caroline opens the door, holding the latch so it does not make a click, and we creep out as softly as we can.

The coach is down the street, just as she said it would be. It is the same one we took that night to the ball, with the same coachman. I still do not understand how she arranges such things, when she is always either at school or under the close observation of her family. Before I leave Saint-Germain I shall have to find out, or make her tell me.

“Are you certain Ernestine and Hélène will give the correct message to Madame Campan?” Hortense asks. Her hands are knotted into each other. She is more nervous than either Caroline or I. I still don’t entirely understand why she has agreed to be part of this adventure. What has she to gain from it? Caroline has Murat, and I have Eugène. Hortense cannot wish to see Louis Bonaparte, who disgusts her—as anyone who saw them together the other night at Malmaison could plainly see.

“As certain as you are about Geneviève,” Caroline answers. This silences Hortense.

We climb into the coach, but it is not empty.

Hortense gives a little shriek. Caroline puts her hand over Hortense’s mouth. And I—I have to prevent myself from launching into an angry tirade.

“Good morning, citizens!” Valmont has dressed himself exactly as we are. Only he looks more like a soldier than we do.

“What is he doing here?” Caroline can barely suppress her fury.

“I don’t know,” I say, knowing that it’s my fault, that my moment of weakness might possibly have ruined our entire plan.

“I am merely here as your protector,” Valmont says, flashing his irritatingly lovely smile at us.

“There’s no time to delay our plans,” Hortense says.

Caroline shoots a look of absolute fire at me. I meet her gaze, trying not to give anything away. “Drive on!” she says to the coachman, who cracks his whip over the horses’ backs and jolts us into motion.

It is not far to Saint-Cloud. Not even as far as Malmaison. We soon arrive at a town that has not yet awakened fully to the day, only farmers with their carts and shopkeepers unlocking their doors to prepare for the morning’s business.

“How do we know where to go?” I ask. “Eugène didn’t say anything beyond simply Saint-Cloud.”

“You mean, that’s all you know?” It is Valmont.

“We didn’t ask you to come with us. If the situation doesn’t suit you, please feel free to return to Saint-Germain.” Caroline dismisses him with a wave, then turns back to us. “The château. It is the only building large enough to hold the Directoire and the Council of Five Hundred. But we cannot approach the place in this conveyance....” To the driver, she yells, “Stop the coach!”

He draws the horses to a sudden halt. We four descend, Caroline first, then Hortense, then me, then Valmont. I catch my heel in the step of the coach and nearly plunge forward onto my face. But Valmont grabs hold of my coat just in time to prevent it.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

In the dawning light I see the outline of a palace ahead of us, with the unmistakable contours of an army assembled around it.

“They are here already. We’re none too soon,” Caroline says.

“How will we know where to go, or what is happening?” I whisper.

“The directors and the council are not military men,” Valmont says. “Most likely everything will take place within the château, and we will not be able to see anything.”

Caroline glares at him. “Follow me,” she says, as if she has carefully planned everything out beforehand.

Caroline may not have Hortense’s grace and beauty but she makes up for it in courage. How can she be so brave? Now that I am here I am full of misgivings, and my hands are trembling. I cannot imagine that we will actually be able to pass as soldiers. I find myself suddenly grateful that Valmont has come, too. He is a little taller than we are and has the shape of a man. Perhaps we do not look so conspicuous with him among us.

Still, my heart is pounding. What seemed like an adventure yesterday seems more like folly today. I do my best to keep up with Hortense and Caroline, who march forward as if they belong there. Valmont stays at my side, although I flash him a haughty look. I imagine he wants to keep us all in his sights, that we may not evade him. I can’t help but wonder how we must look to anyone who glances in our direction, our hair tucked securely under our tricorns, our breasts bound flat with linen wraps.

Soon we are among the other soldiers and I see that what looked like a uniform body of men is really a haphazard collection of young boys, older men, and even a few women who wear a variation of the uniform the rest of us are wearing, with a knee-length skirt and breeches beneath. They go from soldier to soldier with jugs of wine and water.

“Who are those women?” I ask Hortense.

“They are the
vivandières
. They keep the troops supplied with food and drink. They’re part of the army.”

“Do they go into battle, too?”

“No,” Caroline says, “which is why we could not simply pretend to be of their number. They will remain outside the château.”

To my shock, Valmont gestures to one of them, who comes over quite willingly. She pours a cup of wine out for him. He downs it in a single gulp and returns the cup to her. I catch the woman’s saucy wink at him just before she turns away. He smiles at her retreating form, watching her hips sway invitingly as she goes to the next soldier who calls her over.

Before I can say anything to him, a murmur goes out among the soldiers, who until now have been standing about, not doing much of anything but talking quietly. Gradually all noise and movement cease.

From the distance I hear horses approaching and coach wheels squeaking. As they get closer, I can tell there are many of both. We are at the back of the château and cannot see what is happening at the front, where all these coaches are arriving.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Caroline sidling away.
She means to leave us!
I think, my heart racing. How will we get back without her? And yet, I cannot leave Hortense, who is standing by me, her hands gripped together.

Before I can think further, Hortense turns to me, grasping
my upper arms and staring into my eyes so that I cannot look away.

“What is it?” I ask.

“You must tell me honestly. Swear that you will!”

“I swear it,” I say, not able to imagine what it is that she needs to know from me.

“Last night, when you and Caroline came to my room, did you notice a piece of paper anywhere about? On the floor perhaps?”

A piece of paper? “What kind of paper?”

“A paper with writing. A note. Addressed to me.”

At least I can answer her honestly, although I doubt my answer will soothe her. “No, I saw no such thing.”

She takes her hands from my shoulders and casts her eyes to the ground. I see the sparkle of tears in her lashes. “Then there may be no hope. I am lost.”

I am about to ask her what she could mean when a wave of something goes through the assembled soldiers, making them snap to attention with their muskets resting upright on their shoulders.

Their muskets.
Of course!
I knew there was something that made me uneasy about our plan, something that would not let us blend into the crowd despite our uniforms and our careful preparation. We have no weapons! What kind of soldier walks into battle without even a dagger?

“Venez!”
one of the soldiers nearby calls to us. “Get
your weapons and fall in before the sergeant gives you a whipping!”

I glance around frantically to see if there is somewhere we can go to arm ourselves. But I am too late. I look up to see a sergeant steaming over to where Hortense and I stand. But where is Caroline?

She’s gone. And so is Valmont.

29
Madeleine

Today is the day that Eugène said he would come for me. He promised it would be early, before my mother is up and ordering me around.

“Marianne!” I call, running through the warren of corridors behind the theater, looking for my only friend.

“I am here,” she says, tired as always. It seems not to matter when I go to sleep or when I get up; Marianne is always awake. She must surely sleep, but it’s impossible to discover when.

“Help me find a dress that isn’t too horrible to wear,” I say, dragging her with me to the room where the costumes are kept. “Something for a peasant, say, a country girl, but not a beggar.”

Marianne brightens up at the prospect. It’s one of the things we enjoy doing together: sorting through the costumes
on the pretext of mending them, but trying them on and acting out scenes of the lives we’ve always wanted but would probably never be able to live.

Today I begin a future. A
real
future. I shall live in a house, have children, go to parties.

“Have you figured out what you will say to your
maman
when you leave?” Marianne asks, pulling three or four dresses out of a heap in a large trunk.

“This one’s not bad,” I say. It’s pale yellow with white trim. Not lace, but the cut is modern enough. “We can add a sash.”

Marianne stops and looks at me. I don’t want to answer her question. I don’t want to tell Maman anything.

“You know she will do whatever is in her power to stop you,” she says.

I pretend to be rifling through a basket of ribbons and laces, but really I’m pondering her words. “I must protect myself,” I say. I knew it all along, that I would have to have some kind of weapon with me in case my mother sent someone after me, but a part of me wanted to pretend that I would just be able to leave, act as though my mother didn’t exist.

“I’ll make you a sheath for a dagger. You can wear it on your leg.”

Marianne knows how to do things that make me shudder to imagine where she learned them. All I know is that she prefers this horrible place to wherever she came from, which is saying quite a bit.

We work fast—we have to. I am putting the final touches on my dress just as I hear the actors start yelling for Marianne to bring them coffee, to find their costumes, to hold the basin while they puke up the bad oysters they ate the night before.

I must go to Mother and pretend that this is the start of just another day.

My mother’s room is a mess. I can see that someone was here, a man who must have left not long ago. “Ah, my precious,” she says to me in a voice that contradicts her words. “I need you to fetch me something, from that gentleman in the Marais who always takes care of me.”

She unlocks a cabinet where she stores everything she has of value: a few gold chains and the money she’s extorted from her lovers, mostly. She holds out three gold
écus
to me. I stare at her hand.

“Don’t just stand there! Be off with you! And get back quick or I might be tempted to thrash you.”

I know she’s serious, but all I can think is
What if he comes and I’m not here?
I can’t send Marianne. She’d get a thrashing from ten people instead of just one.

My hand shakes a little as I take the money from her. I know the way to the opium seller well. I have had to go there myself ever since he was barred from entering the theater, when half the cast was too drugged to perform one evening.

Marianne waits for me outside my mother’s door. “You must make him wait!” I whisper to her, clutching her arm.

She nods. “Don’t worry. If he comes, he will stay.”

I grab my shawl and run out the door before really hearing what Marianne said.
If he comes
... He
will
come! He promised. Only as I dash through the backstreets I begin to worry. He said he would be early. Yet I hear the bells from Notre-Dame. It is already ten. Perhaps that is early to a dandy, but not to an army officer, an aide-de-camp to Bonaparte.