The Academie (25 page)
Authors: Susanne Dunlap
At first, I keep my voice small. I don’t want to call attention to myself until the right moment. Just blend into the inferior voices around me—that’s all that is required right now.
After a while, Monsieur Perroquet lets his arms drop to his sides in frustration. “Come,
mesdemoiselles
! I have heard you sing much better than this. I am given to understand that we will have some very important guests for the performance.”
“Monsieur Perroquet?”
The voice I recognize as Caroline’s comes from the last row, since she is one of the oldest and tallest girls. I did not realize she was there. She must have come from elsewhere, as indeed Eliza did, who stands two rows behind me. The music master bows his head slightly, giving her permission to proceed.
“A number of us will not be able to sing in your chorus, for we are to form part of a tableau instead.”
A murmur of delight and excitement ripples through the schoolgirls. I see that there is little enthusiasm for a musical ensemble compared to the opportunity to be seen in costume in a tableau.
Monsieur Perroquet tries not to look cross. “Very well, Mademoiselle Bonaparte. Will those who will be in the tableau please make yourselves known to me?”
All the girls in the white ribbons raise their hands, except for Hortense. All the Blues raise their hands as well. I imagine these are the poor Perroquet’s strongest singers. All the better for me, but I must not appear too delighted.
“Might we be dismissed to attend our own rehearsal?” Caroline asks, no doubt already assuming consent.
Monsieur Perroquet gestures grandly in the direction of the door, setting off a chorus of giggles.
Once they are gone, we are a very pathetic group, I see. Hortense is much taller than the others. I wonder how Monsieur Perroquet will handle this disruption of his plans for a uniform chorus of girls’ voices.
“Perhaps, Mademoiselle Hortense, we can have you sing a solo? Is there a solo passage in your anthem?”
Hortense brings the music forward. “I regret not, monsieur,” she says, handing him the score. I see the slightest flick of her eyes toward the young accompanist, but he stares steadfastly at the empty desk of the pianoforte.
“I have taken the liberty of copying out the parts,”
Hortense says. She must have done this days ago, I think, as I watch her distribute a few sheets of music to us.
I accept mine from her hand graciously and cast my eye over it.
It is surprisingly good. I can hear the melody in my mind—and words that embody the ideals of the new France. So Hortense has more talent than one might think for a girl brought up with few meaningful skills. I will be sorry to take her brother away from her, but so it must be.
“How many of you can read this music?” Monsieur Perroquet asks.
I wait to see which of the others indicate that they can do so. Only two. I raise my hand to make it three.
“Please take those who cannot read the score to another room and teach them their parts, Mademoiselle Hortense,” he says.
The young ones follow her like lambs. Clearly she is a favorite with them.
“So, we are left with you three. I know you, Mademoiselle Sylvie, and you, Mademoiselle Jeannette. But I do not believe we are acquainted, Mademoiselle...”
He approaches me. I curtsy, making my speaking voice small and timid, like the orphans I so often play onstage. “I am Madeleine Mornay, cousin to Mademoiselle Hortense. I am visiting from Martinique.”
“
Eh bien
,” he says, obviously not expecting much. “Michel, the introduction, please.”
The young man at the piano begins to play. I let my throat relax and imagine the first note I must sing, so that when it emerges I have hit it exactly. And then I allow my voice to unfold in all its strength. It feels good to do it, as if I have kept a little songbird in a cage and finally open the door so it can fly free.
I hardly notice when the other two stop singing and there is only me. I pour my feelings into those patriotic words, imagining the love for my country is really my love for Eugène.
I hold the final note, gradually letting it die away to a whisper.
Monsieur Perroquet’s eyes glitter with tears. I have had the effect I desired.
Yet I feel another pair of eyes upon me. I shift my gaze a little, just enough to see Michel, the music master’s son, piercing me with his gaze.
Someone has opened the door and now I feel the weight of many watching me. I turn. It is Hortense, and behind her are the rest of the students.
She looks at Michel and then at me. I want to make her understand that I have no designs on the accompianist. But there won’t be time. The drama must be played to its conclusion.
Who is this creature my brother has fallen in love with?
Her voice—it is beyond beautiful. It is unearthly. I should be thrilled that my humble composition will receive such a magnificent performance, but something holds me back.
“Hortense! I need the young ones as well for the tableau.”
Caroline interrupts my thoughts. She has been sly, but what else would I expect? This tableau—she invented it on the spot so that she would not have to be part of a chorus. She hates to blend in, and doesn’t do it well. “But what about the chorus?”
“Monsieur Perroquet has decided that Madeleine will sing alone, so the rest of us can concentrate on my project.”
I knew somehow this would be the result as soon as I heard Madeleine sing one note. “If I am to help with the
costumes and the movements, I must know the theme,” I say. I wonder if she actually has one.
“The theme is the intervention of the Sabine women. You know the painting, by David?”
Her words shock me. I know the painting, and I know Jacques-Louis David. He came to Malmaison while I was there this past summer to apologize to my mother. It was he who signed my father’s death warrant during the
Terreur
. Surely Caroline cannot be ignorant of that fact.
I must keep my opinions to myself, though. Madame Campan has entered the salon.
“Ah! A tableau! Wonderful idea, Caroline. And Monsieur Perroquet tells me that our chorus has become a solo. I must admit I am relieved. The fewer who are required to learn words and melodies the better.” She touches my cheek affectionately as she passes. “I shall send Geneviève to Malmaison with the invitation to your mother. Have you any word to add?”
In the flurry of preparations I had not considered the coming scene very carefully. My mother will be here—she would not refuse an invitation from Madame Campan, to whom she owes so much—and she will doubtless be enchanted by Madeleine. Will she recognize her from the stage? It is risky for Madeleine to take such a chance. Risky for my brother to allow it. But of course, he does not yet know Madeleine is here.
The girl my brother loves is either very certain of herself, or very desperate.
I dare not think about my own situation. “No, I have no word for my mother. I parted from her just three days ago.” Best simply to concentrate on the task at hand. Perhaps all will go smoothly, and no one will be upset.
“Hortense! My bow has come undone!”
“I can’t hold my arm like this for hours. It hurts!”
“Ouch! Christine keeps stepping on my toe. You have to move her.”
I cannot believe how difficult it is to get forty girls to strike three different poses at the same time and remain motionless long enough for someone to understand what their frozen actions are intended to convey.
And what a message—Caroline has chosen with care. It is the moment when the Sabine women come to the defense of the men, saving them from bloodshed and destruction. Although I harbor deep hatred for the artist whose painting our scene is modeled after, I approve of the point, and so I do as I am instructed to try to bring this feat of concentration to pass.
Caroline keeps me so busy helping her manage the restless younger ones and arrange the decorations for the tableau that I do not realize until nearly teatime that I have been left without any role to play in the actual celebration. Even Eliza has been given a prime spot in the tableau, on one
knee next to Caroline herself, who is of course the centerpiece.
And the whole time, from the music room I hear the words and tune I poured my heart into issuing from the throat of the undernourished actress who wants to marry my brother.
Worse, I saw how Michel looked at her.
I am suddenly seized with an idea. If Louise Perroquet considers
me
unsuitable, she would be devastated at the idea of Madeleine as a match for her brother. I know Madeleine is in love with Eugène, but what if he rejects her after all, and she turns to Michel for comfort? I am jealous, I admit, but I cannot help myself. Even if Michel and I can never be together, I do not want to hand him to this strange creature. I quickly scribble a note and ask a servant to take it to Michel’s house. And then I write another, to Armand de Valmont. He must have some sympathy for my predicament. And he knows so much already.
Of course, I cannot help thinking of my brother. When he told me of his passion a few days ago in the garden at Malmaison, I never thought I would actually meet Madeleine. I simply assumed his infatuation would spend itself in a few flowers and assignations, and he would end up marrying the woman my mother chose for him. Such is the way with many young men.
I was prepared to sympathize with him, to let him cry on my shoulder, but not to help him.
Now she is here, and I, in pursuing my own desires, made their meeting—and possibly their marriage—possible.
As recently as this morning I still held myself apart from the reality of everything. I thought only of my composition, and the idea that Michel would understand the message buried in the words, knowing how much of it was meant for him. It speaks of love for my country, of loyalty and sacrifice. But the words can easily be construed to mean love of a different sort, loyalty to a beloved individual, and sacrifice of safety and comfort for that person. I cannot help sighing. I imagined an altogether different outcome. I pictured myself singing among the pure, sweet voices of the still artless students at the school, with Michel accompanying us. Imagined him hearing only me, the chords anchoring me and supporting my song.
But Madeleine has succeeded in taking the song over completely, and with it—I fear—Michel. I hear him at the keyboard, altering the simple underpinnings I created, adding a counterpoint now and again to make the most of Madeleine’s supple voice, or supplying the melody while she soars into flourishes that wind around it.
The anthem—and its message—is no longer mine.
After two hours of effort, at last the tableau is achieved. Caroline has created three different poses, progressing and building in complexity to the ultimate one that places
Caroline at the center. I have to admit, it could be quite affecting. She has a natural dramatic flair.
Now all attention is on the costumes. I am relieved to sit. My body is still sore and tired from yesterday’s exertions. But I cannot rest for long.
“My mother has sent word that my brothers and all the generals will attend the performance,” Caroline whispers.
“What!” I exclaim. This is not welcome news. “Are they not still at Saint-Cloud?”
“I have asked Madame Campan to change the hour of the entertainment to eight o’clock this evening so that they may all come from their different locations.”
I wonder how Caroline managed it. I know my mother would not have insisted that men with more important things on their minds come and see a gaggle of schoolgirls bestow naive admiration upon them. Her presence would have been more than enough.
That means not only Bonaparte and Murat, but Eugène, Lucien, and Louis will be here. Madeleine will have quite an audience.
And I ...Perhaps that is how Caroline persuaded my mother to exert pressure on Bonaparte to make the trip to Saint-Germain. Maman sees another opportunity to throw me together with the dull-witted Louis. Now all at once I am relieved that I shall not be paraded before them,
displayed like a prize hen. I can stay safely in the background, observing everyone else.
Yet I know I must do more. I cannot simply let matters take their course, but must act to bring about the best outcome. What is the best outcome? I am faced with a dilemma. If I help Madeleine flee with Eugène, there will be no danger to Michel. But then Maman will be furious, and I will have no hope of avoiding Louis’s suit.
If I prevent Eugène from taking Madeleine away, I fear she will persuade Michel to step into the breach. And so I will still be left with no other option than Louis Bonaparte.
Neither of these scenarios can occur. Madeleine must leave, and she must do so alone. There is no other way. As soon as her song is finished, she must reveal who she is and return to the Comédie Française. That is where Valmont can help, if he is willing.
Valmont, and Louise Perroquet. She will assist me, but she will exact a condition.
Another deep sigh escapes me.
“Is something wrong, Hortense?” It is Eliza.
“No,” I say. “I’m just a little weary.”
How can I explain to her what she has done? She did not know of my love for Michel. And she will never know that her actions have taken all my hope away. Because I realize that I must relinquish him in order to save Eugène.
Hortense looks so sad. If she were someone else, I might think she was sorry about not being in the tableau. But I can’t imagine she’s very concerned about being excluded from Caroline’s presentation.
But she’s also no longer singing the anthem she composed. More likely that is it. She has a beautiful voice, too. Not as rich and strong as Madeleine’s, but still lovely. Perhaps there is a way for me to do something for Hortense. If I talk to Madeleine, she might consent to have Hortense sing with her in a duet instead. She owes me that, at least. I went to a great deal of trouble to take her away from the theater—even if it was because of Eugène.