“Yes. Speaking of which,” Citoyen Charles said, glancing at Maman, his dark eyebrows raised, “I should have a word with the Minister of the Navy.”
“Give Citoyen Bruix my regards,” Maman said.
“Bon-A-Part-Té,” Grandpapa muttered, shaking himself awake. “Rose!” he exclaimed, addressing Maman by the name we were used to.
“I’m afraid I must be going, my dear,” Maman said, kissing his cheek. “Hortense and I should greet the Bonapartes before the speeches begin.”
* * *
—
“You look beautiful,” Maman said to Caroline. “How is school?”
“Beastly. I hope to be expelled,” she said, fingering an emerald necklace the General had given her. (I wasn’t jealous, not one bit.)
“It’s useful to have goals,” Maman said with sly humor. “Joseph, how are you?” she said, turning to address the eldest of the Bonaparte siblings. “I don’t believe you’ve met my daughter, Citoyenne Hortense Beauharnais.”
The General’s brother Joseph bowed and smiled (although it looked more like a grimace). I had expected the man Maman sometimes mockingly referred to as “King” Joseph to be formidable. Instead he proved to be a chinless man with a mild manner.
“You remember Julie?” he asked, introducing us to his plump wife.
“Of course I do,” Maman said. “How have you been?”
“Busy! We’re buying a house in town over on Rue des Errancis,” Julie chirped. “They want 75,000 francs for it, but we hope to get it for 68,000 because we’re going to have to spend at least half that much on repairs. Plus we’re negotiating for a country property.”
“Mortefontaine,” Joseph said.
I had heard of the Château de Mortefontaine. It was reputed to be one of the largest properties in France.
“Is it not owned by Citoyen Durey, the banker?” Maman asked.
“He was executed,” Joseph said, making a lazy slicing motion across his neck. (How could he!)
“So we should be able to get it for an excellent price,” Julie said.
“Of course,” Maman said, moving on to greet two of the General’s sisters: Elisa (severe, but comically hiccupping) and Pauline (the alluring one everyone whispered about, and I could see why). There was also another brother, Lucien, who looked about twenty. He was skinny, with a weirdly small head and half-shut eyes.
I greeted all of them in turn, but they ignored me.
“Are they always so rude?” I asked Maman as we returned to our seats.
She squeezed my arm. I looked up to see Director Barras approaching.
“Well! If it isn’t our ever-lovely Rose and her charming daughter.”
I curtsied to the Director, who was, as always, gay and charming and complaining of his joints. He bent over my mother’s hand and asked in a low voice, “How are you managing?”
It was the type of voice you used when you shared a secret.
“Fine,” was Maman’s response, but there were tears in her eyes again. “You’ll keep me informed?” she asked as he returned to the podium, but he didn’t hear her.
Informed about what? I wondered.
—
When the speeches were finally over, I helped Maman to her carriage, and, once home, up the steps to her house.
“I will see her to bed,” I whispered to Mimi. I wanted time with my mother alone. Why had she responded with such sadness to my portrait of Eugène? Was there a secret between her and Director Barras?
“Maman,” I said, sitting down close beside her on her bed. “It’s unlike you to be sad.”
“I’m not sad,” she protested.
“Yet you keep crying.” I was worried that something terrible had happened in Egypt, and that it had to do with my brother.
She stroked my hand. “I’m sorry, dear heart, but I can’t say.”
Ah—so there was something.
She wiped her cheeks. “Forgive me. I’m so emotional of late. My doctor at the spa told me I may no longer be a menstruant . . . because I don’t get my monthlies anymore.”
“The flowers, you mean?”
She smiled at my use of the childish expression.
“But Maman, you’re—” I stopped myself in time. She didn’t like to be reminded of her age. She was six years older than the General, who was not yet thirty. “Aren’t you too young for that?” I associated the condition she was describing with toothless old women, crones with hunched backs and whiskers.
“It’s apparently not unusual for women who were imprisoned during the Terror.” She managed a sad smile. “My doctor said it’s likely why I haven’t been able to give Bonaparte a child. Yet,” she added, with determination in her voice.
I didn’t like to think of that possibility.
“Please don’t mention this to anyone,” she said.
“You know I wouldn’t.” She knew she could trust me—so why wasn’t she telling me what was wrong?
* * *
—
Instead of heading up to my bed under the eaves, I paused in the sitting room outside Maman’s bedchamber. I had schoolwork to attend to—an essay on patriotism—but my thoughts were in confusion. I lit a candle from the embers in the fireplace and sat on the chaise longue, pulling Maman’s fox-fur wrap around my shoulders against the night chill. Something had happened, something terrible, I feared. Something that had to do with my brother.
I decided to do something drastic. In the corner of the room was Maman’s writing desk. Hoping to find a clue, I tugged on the desk top, but it was locked. My heart beating, I found the key. Maman thought it well hidden under a corner of the rug, but I was more clever than that. I unlocked the desk and quickly went through her papers. Under some correspondence regarding money owed, I saw a book.
The School of Venus.
A book about a school? I opened it, only to discover that it was about . . . it. Even illustrating different positions! I shut the covers, my cheeks burning.
I put the book back as I had found it, slipped the key back under the carpet and hastened up to my room. The images I saw in that book filled me with disgust. Why would my mother have such a thing?
II
LIFE FORCE
1 Vendémiaire – 1 Pluviôse, An 7
(22 September, 1798 – 20 January, 1799)
THE TREE CARD: LIFE FORCE
CALAMITY
On my first day back at the Institute, Caroline caused another ruckus, this time in study hall. We were supposed to be quiet, but as soon as the monitor stepped out she jumped up and crooned, “My brother is the savior of France!” She was flaunting yet another of her jeweled necklaces, puffed up from the celebration in her brother’s honor.
Little Eliza turned from where she was sitting at a table with three other Blues. “Erroneous,” she said. Her hair, cut short now, flew out in wisps. “Your brother submerged the French fleet.”
“That’s a lie!” Caroline glared, slumping back into her chair.
“Eliza, what did you say?” I asked quietly, watchful for the monitor’s return. Eliza’s father was the American ambassador. She might have learned something at home.
“All the French boats”—she did a thumbs-down—“descended.”
I glanced at Ém and Mouse, confused.
“Terminated by the British.” This last she conveyed in English with an exaggerated British accent.
“Something about our fleet?” Mouse suggested.
“Something about it sinking?” Ém guessed.
I turned back to Eliza. “Are you saying that our fleet of boats in Egypt sank?” I asked in a low voice.
“All of it,” she said.
All? Thirteen ships of war, including the Orient, the grandest warship of all time? Over fifty feet wide, it had a printing press on board as well as an extensive
library. “That’s not possible.” Eliza was a child, after all. She must have misunderstood.
“A ca-la-mi-ty,” Eliza said, slowly sounding out the word. “And all the blunder of the General from Corsica—her brother,” she added, pointing at Caroline.
Caroline shot up, ink pots, quills, sand and notebooks crashing to the floor. “Una maledizione su di voi!”
I glanced at Ém, who was in my class in Italian. A curse on you? Had Caroline actually said that?
Maîtresse and the monitor rushed into the room. “Big and Little Geniuses,” Maîtresse said, quietly threatening, “this room is for study. Have you forgotten the rules? Caroline, dear girl: come with me.”
Caroline hurled herself out, her face red as a hot poker.
* * *
—
I was in history class when Maîtresse’s maid, Claire, came with a message. “Maîtresse Campan wishes to see you,” the instructor informed me.
Puzzled, I scooped up my schoolbag. It was unlike Maîtresse to pull a student out of a lesson.
I was surprised—and not at all pleased—to discover that Caroline was in Maîtresse’s study as well.
“Girls, I’ve had news,” Maîtresse began, stroking the feather of a quill. “There has been a reversal, I’m afraid. I thought you two should be the first to know. The British have destroyed our warships in Egypt.”
What Eliza had said was true! Was this the secret my mother wouldn’t reveal?
“Eugène was unharmed, and Caroline, your brothers—the General and Louis—they are safe as well.”
“But they have no boats?” I felt faint.
Maîtresse threw up her hands. “Apparently.”
“How can they come home?” Were they stranded now, no better off than if they were on the moon? And what about all their provisions and supplies, which were on those ships?
“It will be difficult, angel,” Maîtresse said, rubbing the back of her neck.
“Angel,” Caroline said in a mocking tone as we left, accidentally-on-purpose bumping me into a wall.
* * *
—
2 Vendémiaire, An 7
The Institute
Dear Eugène,
I began feeling a bit ill this morning, so I’m staying in my room. I’ve decided to write a letter to you in spite of the fact that I will not be able to send it. The British now control the Mediterranean Sea and could capture our mail, so getting news will be difficult too. I’ve been having bad dreams, and Maîtresse suggests that writing to you will make you seem closer.
If this were a real letter, one I could actually send, I would tell you how Mouse, Ém and I volunteered to decorate the ballroom for the décadi “ball” the day before yesterday. You no doubt remember those occasions when the boys from the school next door come to the Institute to dance. It’s worse now because all the older boys are in Egypt. The oldest boy is not yet thirteen and he is shorter than Mouse. Who, pray, are we to dance with?
Speaking of dance, do you remember Father teaching us the minuet? Maîtresse told me he was the best dancer in Paris and that he danced with the Queen. I love that.
All anyone talks of anymore is Egypt, Egypt, Egypt. In geography we make maps of Egypt, in history we study Egypt, and in art class we draw—guess? Egypt. Yesterday I made a drawing of you in front of a pyramid, sitting on a camel. What a strange animal!
There is a new music teacher at our school, a composer of beautiful pieces. Maîtresse is going to introduce me to him soon. She warned me that he’s particular about who he teaches, so I’m a little nervous.
The younger students and some girls in the middle levels continue to be convinced that there’s a ghost haunting the Institute. Such silly matters seem especially petty in light of what you and the aides must be going through.
I think of you often, and pray for you morning and night, the more so now—you and all the aides, of course.
I’m going to put this letter away in the secret drawer in my trunk and give it to you when you return—which will be soon, I pray.
Your little sister Chouchoute, who loves you very, very much
* * *
—
The next day I was put in the infirmary, sick with a high fever. My bowels were purged—disgusting—but fortunately I was not bled. Citoyenne Buchon (“Nurse Witch” to us Fearsomes) reminded me that my body would not heal unless “all poisons are expelled from the body!” This with an operatic flourish of her hand. “The humors must be in balance,” she proclaimed. She had terrible breath and I feared I would upheave every time she bent over to check me.
Days passed in a blur. I did nothing but sleep and moan, moan and sleep. One late afternoon the jangle of a ring of keys woke me. I opened my eyes to see Maîtresse standing above me, regarding me with what we Fearsomes called her “Examination Look.”
She laid her gloved hand on my shoulder. “How are you doing, angel?” The sun through the window lit up the smile lines around her eyes.
“Better.” Better enough to feel bored.
“Wonderful,” she said with a smile. “You had me worried—your mother too.”
“Maman?”
“You don’t remember her visit?”
“A bit,” I said, but it was vague, like a dream.
“Nelly got sick as well and we had to send her home.”
Nelly had a home? “Isn’t she one of the Chosen?”
“A cousin in the south took her in.” Maîtresse was silent for a long, long moment. “It turns out she has the pox.”
I felt heaviness in my chest. People died of the pox, and if they lived, they were often horribly, frightfully, dreadfully scarred. I thought of Nelly’s pretty plump cheeks. “Is she going to be all right?” Maman got the pox as a girl, but escaped with only a tiny scar by her left ear, so maybe—
“We don’t really know yet.”
“But how did she get it?” The pox was contagious. People who got it had to go into isolation, like with the Black Plague. (Which was another thing I fretted about, for it was said that there was plague in Egypt.)
“It’s a puzzle.” Maîtresse sounded uncharacteristically uncertain. “She never left the school grounds.”
I understood Maîtresse’s concern. “Were you worried about me because you thought maybe I had it too?”
She nodded. “I’m relieved you’re better, angel.”
“But I’ve been”—I rolled up my sleeve to show her a tiny scar—“I think it’s called being inoculated.” It was something Father had insisted on when I was only three years old, to keep me from getting the pox. “I was one of the first.” It had terrified Maman, of course. She had no faith in science.
“I know, and that’s an advantage, but it’s not a guarantee. We have to be very careful.”
AFTERLIFE
Once I was out of the infirmary, I was assigned to look after bossy Fru-fru. “Caroline hasn’t been setting a proper example,” Citoyenne Hawk informed me, her words muffled because of her ill-fitting teeth.
“But what about Nelly? She’ll be coming back, won’t she?”
“Don’t worry,” Hawk said, seeing my look of concern. “Nelly is fine, but she’s going to be staying with her cousin.”
I was relieved she had recovered, but I would miss her.
* * *
—
I was stunned speechless the next day when I found out that Hawk had lied to me. My sweet Nelly wasn’t fine, not fine at all! The truth was that little Nelly had died of the pox.
It was Maîtresse who told me the truth. “Keep this to yourself, angel,” she said, handing me a handkerchief to dry my tears.
“Can’t I tell Ém or Mouse?” My voice was shaky. My Nelly!
“Yes, of course you can tell them, but make sure it goes no further. People are worried enough about pox as it is.”
I left burdened by the secret knowledge of Nelly’s death—and angry, too. It was bad enough that she had died, but for nobody to know? Somehow, that made it worse.
I thought of Nelly’s clothing label: NC 276. And now she didn’t exist? How was that possible?
—
Mouse and I were supposed to have our shift in the kitchen that afternoon. We’d planned to cook a pot of chicken soup and deliver it to an impoverished family in need, but excursions were canceled for fear of contagion.
It was a balmy fall day, so Mouse and I went up to our favorite place on the roof to sketch during free time, in the warm spot between the two chimneys. High up, it afforded a view of the town. From there we could see the big church, the old castle and the river winding through the fields. On some days we could see Paris, but on this afternoon it was overcast.
“My mother died of a fever after going to the aid of a sick family,” Mouse said, her voice betraying a hint of a squeak. She got fretful when talking of her mother, who had died only a few days after my father had been executed. It was one of the many bonds we shared. “Now I can’t help but wonder if it might have been . . .”
Pox? “I think Maîtresse would have told you if that were the case.”
“She doesn’t like to tell me anything that might disturb me. She’s afraid I’ll have one of my faints.”
“That’s understandable.” Sometimes Mouse would drop to the floor. I had seen her do it only twice, but each time it had scared me half to death. She would recover after a bit, and other than bruises she seemed to be all right. It wasn’t the falling disease, Maîtresse had assured us, because she didn’t shake and she remembered everything—but still.
“Sometimes I get the feeling there is this big secret about my mother’s death,” she said, “and that nobody will tell me what it is.”
“If it were something bad, would you really want to know?” I thought of my father, the horrifying way he had died.
The Game of Hope Page 5