The Game of Hope

by Sandra Gulland

  She stood and turned the portrait of the Queen to the wall. On the backside was a copy of the Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen. I smiled at her clever ruse. “What about—?” I pointed to the books on religion.

  “And there’s a new student, Maîtresse Campan,” Hawk went on, throwing up her hands. “I’ve put her in the accounts office. Her name is Eliza Monroe.”

  “Ah, the daughter of the American ambassador,” Maîtresse said, scooping up the religious texts. “I was expecting her and her mother this afternoon.” She slid back a wall panel to reveal a hidden compartment.

  “The mother sent her regrets.”

  Maîtresse slid the panel closed. One would never have guessed that it wasn’t part of the wall. “Hortense, angel? Would you mind showing the new girl around while I see to the inspectors?”

  I curtsied and took my leave, remembering not to bound down the stairs two at a time. I would be sixteen in the spring: I needed to learn to act like a lady.

  HENRY AND ELIZA

  The accounts office was a musty closet on the ground floor, crammed with papers and ledgers. The door had to be forcefully opened, its rusty hinges creaking.

  “I am Mademoiselle Eliza Monroe,” the new girl said in stilted French, closing a ledger and jumping up to make a perfunctory curtsy. Her hair was russet and her pinched face was covered with freckles. She had a missing front tooth. “And this is Henry,” she said, clutching a ratty stuffed animal.

  Henry looked like a cat. Maybe.

  I glanced back toward the foyer. No sign of the inspectors. “Welcome to the Institute. I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “I am the equivalent.” Eliza frowned. “Enraptured? Beguiled?”

  Her French vocabulary was somewhat archaic.

  “I am Citoyenne Hortense Beauharnais,” I said. “I’m to show you around and explain the rules.”

  “I am seven and three-quarters and two days of age,” Eliza prattled on, sucking the tip of one of her long braids. “I am from America. The New World.”

  “You should know that we don’t say mademoiselle here anymore,” I said, refraining from taking the braid out of her mouth. Her hair would have to be cut short. We weren’t allowed to grow our hair long until we were twelve years of age. That way the roots remained strong and our hair wouldn’t fall out with an attack of fever. “We say citoyenne.” As a Multi, my role was to instruct younger ones on proper etiquette.

  “What if I declare in an erroneous manner?”

  “We chop off your head.” And then I felt simply terrible. She was a child, after all. What had come over me? “I’m sorry! That was a jest.” Although it wasn’t funny, not funny at all.

  We began with the privies (of which Eliza expressed an urgent need, due to the rather long carriage ride out from Paris), followed by the eleven classrooms. They were all in use, so we didn’t go in.

  “This edifice is analogous to a citadel,” Eliza said with a shiver. The stone halls were cold, in summer.

  “It’s a château that used to be owned by a wealthy family.” I wondered where Maîtresse and the inspectors were. “We even have a ballroom and a theater.” And a chapel, disguised as a storeroom. I hoped the inspectors wouldn’t discover it. They could shut down a school for the slightest of reasons. “It’s hundreds of years old.” And in a state of disrepair, like everything.

  “In America, all is new,” Eliza said, noting a shattered window that had been boarded over.

  The door to the Blue class swung open and students filed out, chattering but orderly, walking two by two.

  “Hortense,” several girls called out.

  “Is it true you saw the ghost?” one asked.

  Eliza clutched her stuffed cat. “In America, we do not have ghosts. We have witches.”

  “It wasn’t a ghost,” I assured her. “And we don’t have ghosts or witches here. Everyone, this is Citoyenne Eliza Monroe. She’s from America.”

  “Ooooh, America.”

  “I am pleased to meet you, Miss Eliza,” a girl said slowly, in English.

  “Salutations,” Eliza responded. “But I am Citoyenne.”

  “Eliza’s French is quite good,” I said. Sort of. In an odd way.

  “Hortense!”

  Mouse and Ém were coming down the hall. I introduced them both to Eliza, explaining who she was.

  “And this is Henry,” Eliza said.

  “To meet you pleased,” Ém said in rather poor English.

  “You will love it here,” Mouse said, pushing up her glasses, which tended to slip down to the tip of her nose.

  “Indubitably,” Eliza said, swinging Henry by his tail.

  “Everyone does,” Ém assured her. (Everyone except Caroline, I thought with chagrin.) “Hortense, there’s a letter from Maîtresse to the Multis on the notice board.”

  “We have to decide on a virtue,” Mouse said.

  “And a fault,” Ém said, rolling her big eyes.

  “Multis?” Eliza rolled her eyes up, as if searching her brain.

  “We’re Multis,” I explained. “See how our sashes are multicolored?”

  A triangle sounded. “Speaking of virtues, we must not be late for Latin,” Mouse said, and she and Ém rushed off.

  “Rodent is a singular name,” Eliza observed in the silence that followed.

  “Her real name is Adèle Auguié,” I said, heading toward the north wing. “She’s Maîtresse Campan’s niece.” And my dearest friend.

  “You mean Mrs. Campan, the boss of this school?” Eliza asked in English.

  It took me a moment to recall that the English word “boss” likely meant “master.” “Maîtresse Campan,” I corrected her, “and yes, this is her school.” Maîtresse was much more than a “boss,” as I understood the word to mean. The Institute was entirely her creation. “And Mouse is her niece. The other girl, Émilie—”

  “The beauteous one?”

  “She’s my cousin.” Ém had always been known as “the beautiful one,” especially when compared to me. “She’s seventeen, and married—”

  Eliza screwed up her nose in such horror I had to laugh.

  “Her husband is with the army in Egypt,” I explained. “She lives at school because she doesn’t have a family.”

  “No family?”

  “Well—no mother and father, to live with, anyway.” It was hard to explain. “Her father fled France during the Revolution.” Fled for his life. Poor Ém didn’t know if he was alive. “And her mother is . . . away.” That was a tactful way of saying that Ém’s mother had lost her wits in prison, and that she and her new husband (her former prison guard) wanted little to do with her.

  “We correspondingly had a revolution in America,” Eliza said, taking care not to step on the lines between the floor tiles.

  “Yes, but ours turned violent during a phase called the Terror, and a lot of people were executed.” I heard children singing.

  “Is that a joke also?”

  “It’s not,” I said, my throat tight. It sounded like the Red class. “So, consequently, girls who don’t have a family live at the Institute all year, even during the holidays.”

  The Chosen we called them. Ém was part-Chosen because she sometimes stayed with Maman and me, and sometimes with our grandparents here in Montagne-du-Bon-Air. I was sort of part-Chosen too, because my father was dead and Maman was usually somewhere far away with the General. In two and a half years, she’d only been back home for four months, which was why the Institute was really my home (and why Maîtresse was kind of a mother to me).

  The Reds began to sing “La Marseillaise,” the patriotic Revolutionary song. Ah—to impress the inspectors, no doubt.

  “This is the dining hall,” I said, crossing to the doors that led to the cellars. “And this is the way down to the kitchens.” Government officials made me
uneasy. I couldn’t help but remember the night they had taken Maman to jail.

  “Kitchens?”

  “You need to see them because we’re taught how to cook.”

  Eliza stopped on the landing, holding Henry by the neck (strangling him). “Slaves do not perform that function?”

  “We have a cook, but Maîtresse Campan believes it’s important that we learn to look after ourselves. We make our own beds and tidy our rooms, sew our own smocks and sashes, cook—”

  “In America, slaves perform all that,” Eliza informed me with a somewhat snobbish tone. As if we in France weren’t as advanced.

  “Slavery is against the law here,” I said.

  Her eyes went wide. “No slaves?”

  “Not since the Revolution. We believe in equality.”

  “In America, likewise!”

  “Equality for all,” I said, swinging open the heavy door.

  “Well, look who’s here,” Berthe, the head cook, called out, turning from the cooking range set into the massive fireplace. Mounds of dough had been set to rise on a table beside her, ready for baking once the big ovens were stoked. The scent of roast chicken made me hungry again, in spite of the five chocolate madeleines I’d just eaten.

  “Citoyenne Hortense?” The scullery girl was holding a heavy enameled kettle in one hand and a laden baking tray in the other. “We heard you were back.”

  A lanky boy looked up from scrubbing down roasting pans, his hands black. He turned from his task to grin.

  “We were talking about you yesterday,” the scullery girl said.

  “We’ve decided we’re going to vote for you to get the next Rose of Virtue,” Berthe said.

  “Again,” said the scullery maid, grinning gap-toothed.

  “You’re all too kind.” Although of course I was delighted. “But the vote won’t be for three months. That gives me plenty of time to disappoint you,” I said, and they laughed.

  Eliza was standing beside me, staring.

  “I’d like to introduce you all to the newest addition to the Institute. This is Citoyenne Eliza Monroe.” I leaned down to whisper in Eliza’s ear, “Curtsy.”

  “But she is a Negro,” she said, indicating Berthe.

  “Do as I say!” I murmured, one hand forcefully on her thin shoulder.

  She made a little dip. The kitchen staff returned the courtesy with welcoming smiles, unaware of our exchange.

  “We must be moving on,” I said, mortified. I gathered that in America civilities weren’t granted to someone like Berthe.

  “What is the Flower of Righteousness?” Eliza demanded, stomping up the stairs.

  “The Rose of Virtue?” I paused before explaining, listening. All was quiet. “It’s a silk rose, a prize for—well, for just being a worthy person. It’s awarded every three months to a student in each level. Everyone votes—all the students, the teachers, and the staff.” There was no sign of the inspectors, grâce à Dieu.

  “Have you acquired it yet? This flower?”

  “Twice.” If I won the prize again, I would get a beautiful porcelain vase embossed with my name and the date.

  “I aspire to attain it,” Eliza declared, pressing Henry to her heart.

  “That’s good, Eliza.” I spotted Maîtresse’s letter to the Multis in the upper right corner of the notice board. “But you will have to be respectful to everyone—even the servants,” I said, taking her hand and setting off. Maîtresse’s letter was long. I would come back later.

  “The cook?”

  “Especially the cook,” I said, then stopped so abruptly that Eliza bumped into me.

  Aïe. Standing by the fountain in the foyer were Maîtresse and the three inspectors.

  “Ah, Hortense,” Maîtresse called out before I could turn around. She looked charming in her garden smock and work boots. “Citoyens,” she said, addressing the men, “I’d like you to meet one of my best students, General Bonaparte’s stepdaughter, Citoyenne Hortense Beauharnais.”

  “The illustrious General Bonaparte!” the portly one of the three exclaimed.

  “And this is Miss Eliza Monroe, daughter of the American ambassador James Monroe,” Maîtresse said.

  “Ah,” the men said, in unison, for America, the land of revolutionary freedom and equality, was much admired.

  “My father is going to be President of the United States,” Eliza boasted. (An absurd declaration!) “And I am Citoyenne, not Miss,” she added. “If you say Miss they will chop off your head.”

  “A jest, Citoyens!” I said, tugging on Eliza’s hand. “We must be going. I hope you continue to enjoy your visit.”

  “Your father is the boundless general?” Eliza demanded as I dragged her away.

  “Stepfather,” I said, opening the door to Hawk’s office, and closing it behind us.

  Safe now.

  MEETING OF THE VOWS

  28 Fructidor, An 6

  The Institute

  Dear Multis,

  Please do me the honor of joining me for breakfast tomorrow. I think coffee with cream and pastries is what generally pleases you most.

  Many of you are coming to the end of your studies, and this last year of work, accompanied by useful reflections, will be more fruitful than five years of childhood, those years when one studies by force, reprimands and threats.

  I therefore invite you to let me know your thoughts regarding the useful employment you will make of this time ahead. Tell me sincerely what fault you would like to correct, and what talent you wish to acquire to a higher degree.

  I predict—without possessing the art of soothsayers, without reading in the firmament or musing foolishly over an old deck of cards on a table—that you will have complete success if you pay close attention to what you wish to accomplish. You are at that happy age when everything is possible.

  Maîtresse Campan

  * * *

  —

  Caroline appeared beside me, squinting to make out Maîtresse’s letter. “What’s this about?”

  I regarded her with astonishment. She’d publicly embarrassed me at breakfast, stuck out her naked backside at us, and now I was supposed to help her? “It’s a letter to us Multis,” I said. Coldly.

  She grunted. “And what does it say? The writing is too small for me to read.”

  The truth was that she couldn’t read, at least not French. She’d had no schooling until coming to the Institute only eight months before. She was barely at a Blue level, if that. Maîtresse allowed her to wear a multicolored sash because she was sixteen, but she wasn’t in classes with the rest of us, at least not for the academic subjects. For those, she had to be privately tutored.

  Recalling Maîtresse’s expectation that I be helpful, I explained, “The Multis are invited to Maîtresse’s apartment for breakfast tomorrow morning.”

  “Breakfast with the Hook? I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Annunziata!” She disrespectfully called Maîtresse “the Hook” because of her nose. “Caroline, I mean. It’s because it’s our last year at school.”

  “Lodate il Signore,” she said with a smirk.

  “Lodate il Signore” was Italian for “Praise the Lord,” I knew, but when Caroline said it, it didn’t sound all that holy.

  “We’re each to declare two things,” I said, “a talent we wish to improve in the coming year and a fault we wish to remedy.”

  “I’m to come up with a fault?” She looked amused. “The Hook can’t be serious.”

  * * *

  —

  28 Fructidor, An 6

  The Institute, free time

  Dear Eugène,

  I know this letter isn’t likely to reach you for a long time, but even so, I felt that I had to write to wish you belated birthday greetings. I can’t believe that you are seventeen now, so grown. What with
caring for Maman and the journey back to school, I was unable to write sooner.

  When I left the mountain spa, Maman was better and walking a bit. She remains determined to sail to join you and the General in Egypt—a thought that unsettles me, I confess. It’s bad enough that you are there, so terribly far away.

  Ém and Mouse send their love. All Multis have been invited to have breakfast with Maîtresse tomorrow to declare our goals for this coming year. It should be interesting!

  Please write. Be sure to send me news of the other aides as well, but especially Major Christophe Duroc, because he’s the one who works with you most often—am I right?

  Whatever you do, be safe.

  Your Chouchoute, who loves you very much, but will nevertheless kill you if you don’t write.

  Note—Annunziata has changed her name to Caroline. She had to eat at the Repentance Table and was extremely rude.

  And another—some of the younger girls are convinced that there is a ghost here at the Institute, but it turned out to be me. Well, not me, but me who supposedly saw this ghost.

  And yet another (the last, I promise!)—at the spa Maman was always on about finding me a husband. Could you please write to her and tell her that I am too young to marry?

  * * *

  —

  It was crowded in Maîtresse’s drawing room the next morning—there were almost twenty of us squished into chairs and settees, or sitting on cushions on the floor. Some had never seen Maîtresse’s private rooms before and were bug-eyed, staring at everything. The air was strong with the sickening smell of nervous anticipation.

  Maîtresse’s maid Claire summoned us into an adjoining hall. It must have been a guard room in former times, to judge by the fireplaces at each end. The fall weather had turned more temperate, but even so, logs were blazing. Plank tables had been set up and were nicely covered with lengths of multicolored cloth to match our sashes. Clusters of wildflowers graced the center of each table.