The Academie (24 page)

She is out of breath and must stop before speaking to us. While she composes herself, she opens the
Gazette
and waves it in our faces.

“Bonaparte,” she finally gasps out. “Bonaparte has been made first consul of France. It is only a step, but an important one.”

“A step?” Hortense says.

“Toward a monarchy! And toward a France as glorious as she has ever been.”

Her eyes are shining. At first I am confused. Then I recall that she was mistress of the bedchamber to Marie Antoinette, and that apparently she had a great fondness for the queen. Of course she would welcome a return to something closer to a system that was so kind to her.

And then I think of Armand. This was what he wanted. He, like Madame Campan, is eager to see things go back to the way they once were.

Madame Campan takes Hortense’s hand and then Caroline’s. I stand a little aside. She seems to have forgotten me. Her eyes are moist with tears. I have never seen her display so much emotion.

“I beg you finish dressing and come down to breakfast. We have a great deal of work to do.”

“Work?” Caroline says.

“These events call for a celebration. With both of you here at my school, we must show our loyal support for Bonaparte and the consulate.”

“So Bonaparte is not injured?” I ask, then immediately regret it when Caroline glares at me.

“Injured? Why would he be injured?” Madame Campan looks back and forth from me to Caroline.

“It is only that so dramatic a change—can it have occurred without bloodshed?” Hortense says.

I relax when I see that this explains my comment to Madame’s satisfaction. “I see. Of course. But it was all quite peaceful, apparently, although the army was ready in the event of trouble.” She turns her attention away from me and focuses once more on Caroline and Hortense. “We must plan a celebration. We shall have music and dancing. Do you think, Hortense, your mother would grace us with her presence? And of course we must have the students from the Collège here too.”

Hortense blushes and casts a quick glance at Caroline, who has pressed her lips together. I don’t really blame her. Napoléon is her brother, after all, and she should have a bigger role to play in any celebrations that have to do with his new role in the government.

Hortense is quick to soothe her. “I’m certain that a celebration at the school will bring all our relatives, if they are not otherwise occupied with important matters of state,” she says.

Madame continues as though she hasn’t heard her, though, her mind racing ahead to the next matter. “I have sent word to Monsieur Perroquet to attend us this morning. We will have just enough time to rehearse some patriotic songs. I do hope there are some boys who can sing.”

She rushes away as quickly as she arrived, leaving the three of us staring after her.

“What next?” I ask.

Before either of them can answer me, Madeleine appears. I permitted her to sleep in a truckle bed in my chamber. Hortense’s room is too small, and Caroline, still angry that she was here at all, did not offer to accommodate her. Madeleine slept restlessly, tossing and turning and occasionally calling out in her sleep. At last she lay still, so I did not wake her early. She was still asleep when I came out. Now I see she has dressed herself and her eyes are bright and wide, so that she looks as though she has been awake for hours.

“What next?” she echoes.

“How much did you hear?” Caroline asks.

“Enough to know that there is to be a celebration, and that guests will come.” She smiles and takes hold of Hortense’s hand. “Do you think Eugène will be among them?”

Hortense looks puzzled, and I realize her mind has been far away.

“If Napoléon attends, Eugène is sure to follow,” Caroline says, not entirely kindly. But her comment appears not to have any effect upon Madeleine.

“Excuse me,” Hortense says, then turns away from us without a further word and goes back into her chamber.

I cannot imagine what upsets her so. Perhaps she is truly distressed about her brother’s love for Madeleine after all. Or perhaps she is worried about Napoléon, and not
because he suffered a wound at the hand of one of the council members. I shiver.

“I must make some preparations and write to my mother,” Caroline says. She, too, is preoccupied. I thought I was in their confidence, but suddenly, this morning, I am no longer certain.

Madeleine and I continue downstairs for breakfast. Neither Hortense nor Caroline appears, but they both arrive as the entire school gathers in the ballroom.

“Caroline, you must take charge of the costumes. Everyone should wear white, which we will decorate with red and blue.” Madame is already lining us up by size, deciding how we will stand in the old ballroom to perform our tribute to Bonaparte, the new first consul.

“Eliza, I shall need your assistance planning the menu for the reception afterward. Kindly go to the kitchens and see what we have, and what we must send for.”

The kitchens! For a moment I am so taken aback that I find myself fixed to my spot. Just as I recover from the blow of being assigned to the lowest of the tasks for the celebration, Madeleine stops me with her hand.

“Please, let me go,” she says, casting a quick glance at Hortense before turning her eyes to Madame.

“Very well,” Madame Campan says. “What is important is that it is done, whoever does it. I must meet with the headmaster of the Collège, who will be here any moment.”

I think we are all ready to go and scurry about, preparing for the event, when Hortense steps forward. “If I may, madame,” she says, hesitating.

Madame Campan looks up from the red and blue ribbons she is showing the younger ones how to fashion into rosettes. Her face softens. “Yes, dear Hortense?”

“I have composed an anthem, to honor Bonaparte and his victories. Might we not perform it today?”

How wonderful! Hortense composes music? Every time I see her, I learn something new about her talents. I cannot help admiring her above Caroline, who seems only able to scheme and deceive—and dress beautifully, of course.

But Madame hesitates. Something passes between her eyes and Hortense’s, and Hortense looks down first. She is feeling guilty about something.

Suddenly I realize that Hortense never said where she went while Caroline, Valmont, and I were still in Saint-Cloud. And I have not had a moment to question her or Caroline about when they arrived back at the school, before Madeleine and I appeared. What secret can she have?

“When Monsieur Perroquet arrives, I shall show him your composition and let him decide.” Madame turns away and Hortense nods in acceptance.

Does it have something to do with the music master? The music master! He is such a dandy, and so old. I must ask her about it later, and take my place next to her, joining
the group that is already busy turning snaking lengths of silk into stiff, ceremonial flowers to wear in our hair and on our dresses.

Everyone chatters excitedly about the news. But Madame Campan doesn’t complain once about the noise. And no one complains about the work, either. Even the ladies’ maids happily join in, fetching scissors that drop to the floor, threading needles for the younger ones....

Before long all the younger boys from across the street arrive, scrubbed and dressed in their best. Valmont is not among them. Was he discovered? Is he in confinement? Being punished?

The master from the Collège takes his charges into the ballroom, where they rehearse a recitation. I hear their high voices, one at a time, reading the words of a long poem by Racine, originally intended to glorify King Louis XIV. I think perhaps it is a little hasty. Napoléon isn’t a king, after all.

After half an hour of this activity, Madame claps her hands. “Come with me, Hélène, Ernestine. Let us confer about the dresses.”

I would far rather have to do with the costumes than the decorations. I clear my throat. “I beg your pardon, madame, but might I also assist with the costumes? I may have some ornaments that you will like to use.”

I can see that she doesn’t much care, but she is in too jubilant a mood to disappoint anyone, I think, and she lets me follow along.

We go up to the top floor near the dormitory, where a room has been set aside for all the gowns. A smell of singed fabric and starch greets us. This is where the maids iron and mend the clothing. There are long racks lined with dresses in different shades of white. Who would think such a bland color could vary so widely? Madame sets me to pulling out the whitest of them.

Caroline is already here, with one dress spread out on a table. She takes a few ribbons, places them against it, then discards them. I keep one eye upon her as I quickly accomplish the task Madame requested of me, and see her expression gradually change from vexation to triumph.

“Ernestine!” Caroline says. I am surprised she calls my maid, but then Ernestine knows a great deal about fashion.

“Yes, Mademoiselle Bonaparte,” she says with a curtsy.

“Do you think we can transform this gown into a Grecian style, like the ones on the statues in the hall? And these others, too?” Caroline gestures toward the ones I have just finished pulling from the rack.

Ernestine expertly fingers the different weights of fabric. The silk, the cambric, the voile. She purses her lips and closes her eyes, then says, “Yes. I think it can be done.”

“Excellent!” Caroline says. She turns to me and Hélène, who looks undeniably put out that Caroline has asked my maid and not her own to help her. “We shall present a
tableau vivant
. A little dramatic scene. Let those who wish sing
some insipid ditty. The rest of us shall be the Sabine women, an allegory for the strength of France.”

Wonderful!
Although I want to sing Hortense’s anthem, the idea of a tableau is much more exciting.

Ernestine claps her hands with delight. “Let us begin immediately!”

42
Madeleine

Yesterday, when I waited for Eugène and he didn’t come, the last thing on earth I expected would be to find myself here, today, with another opportunity ahead of me. Another opportunity to be with him, for him to take me away and make me his.

I feel a little guilty for playing on the sensitivities of Madame Campan and the others, but I do not have the luxury of time and resources on my side. They can spare a few tears for me, just as the audiences at the Comédie Française do. And here—my performance is free.

I think Caroline is aware of what I am doing, but perhaps that does not matter. We are alike. We are ambitious. Perhaps...

I must first ensure that I distinguish myself in the performance later. Eugène has heard me sing, but his mother,
the formidable Joséphine, has not. Although she regularly attends the theater, I have not been permitted to raise my voice on a stage where I might outshine my mother, the great Gloriande de Pourtant.

“Monsieur Perroquet has arrived!”

Hortense is breathless when she bursts into the room where I have been pretending to sew sequins on white ribbons, having already instructed the kitchens and discovered that there will be ample delicious food. I have spent so much of my life hungry that I find it difficult not to steal buns from the kitchen, just so I have them to eat later. But I do not want to arouse Madame Campan’s suspicion. So far she seems quite happy to accept Hortense’s story about me.

Hortense comes to me, making an effort, I notice with gratitude, to be kind and accepting. “We must leave what we are doing and go to the music room to rehearse.”

Her eyes shine. Hortense was evasive yesterday when the others asked what she had done. She said only that she left them to try to be certain of something, and that now she was. I see by her expression that the arrival of the music master carries some import for her. Could she be in love with him? It is dangerous for one who will occupy such an exalted social station to be so obvious, so easy to read. I smile, let her take my arm, and together we go back to the ballroom.

The boys—all young—have been cleared out, leaving only a faint smell of sweat and shoe polish, to go back and have
some dinner at their school. I discovered from listening to the prattle of the girls that it is directly across the street. I take my place among the forty or so girl students. How strange it is! I have never been among so many my own age. And yet I feel so much older than they all appear to be.

“Monsieur Perroquet is a very able musician,” Hortense whispers. Her voice is calm. I would almost say she sounds disappointed. Perhaps it is not this music master who interests her so deeply. Indeed, I would be surprised if it was. Monsieur Perroquet is a dandy if ever there was one, with his powdered wig and patches, all vestiges of an earlier time. I cast my eye around the room. It, too, is an echo of times past.

The music master wanders among us, moving us about, arranging us by height. This places me in the front, since I am small for my age, suiting my purpose quite well.

“Let us warm up our voices first,” he says.

Until now, the seat at the pianoforte has been vacant. Then a young man enters, head bowed, trying hard not to look at anyone. I steal a glance at Hortense. Her cheeks are bright pink and she clutches her hands together to keep them from trembling.

So that is the way of things! Not the music master, but his assistant. I take a closer look.

He is not bad looking, but in an effete sort of way. His hair is reddish, and his eyes clear gray. I prefer someone with more defined looks, like Eugène. But the young fellow’s hands are very fine. Similar, in fact, to those Monsieur Perroquet is
waving in front of us, pointing and rearranging us in our rows.

The young man plays the chords that set us off on our
vocalises. He must be the son
, I think, and then it takes very little imagination to see how unsuitable Hortense’s attachment to him is.

Madame Bonaparte faces the possibility, I realize, of having her daughter elope with a poor musician, and her son with me, a starving actress. It would be enough to horrify any mother. But I shall do my best to change her mind.