The Game of Hope

by Sandra Gulland

  “You said he was brave,” I said.

  He nodded, blinking, not trusting himself to speak.

  “Thank you for bringing me here,” I said, taking his arm as we turned to head back. “I know it can’t have been easy.”

  “It’s important not to forget,” he said.

  “And to forgive,” I said.

  He squeezed my hand. Yes. “You know, Father used to brag about you.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “He was amazed by the way you could dance, for one thing. You could do intricate steps at a very young age. And he was charmed by your quickness, too. He thought you were exceptionally bright.”

  I stared up at the sky, the clear blue sky. “You’re not just saying that?” Skeptically.

  He scoffed. “Trustworthy, honest me?”

  I loved my big brother so much.

  VI

  CHANGE

  3 Brumaire – 20 Brumaire, An 8

  (25 October – 11 November, 1799)

  THE RIDER CARD: NEWS OF CHANGE

  REUNION

  “Your mother and brother wish to see you,” Mimi informed me the next day, breathless from climbing the stairs. “Your cousin’s husband is here, Captain Lavalette.”

  “Antoine Lavalette? He’s back in Paris?”

  I grabbed a shawl and rushed downstairs. Antoine was sitting with Maman and Eugène by the fire.

  “How good to see you, Captain Lavalette.” It was true, as Ém claimed, that he was a rather ugly little man, quite round.

  “I am anxious to have news of my wife,” he said, clutching his worn felt hat.

  Maman glanced over at Eugène, who had curiously decided that it was the perfect time to polish his riding boots. (And he never polishes his boots.) “Eugène, did you say anything to Captain Lavalette?” she asked.

  “About?”

  “About Ém.”

  Aïe. Ém’s husband hadn’t been told?

  “Is there a problem?” Antoine asked.

  Maman inclined her head in my direction.

  Why did I have to be the one?

  She gave me dagger-eyes.

  “Captain Lavalette,” I began, “last summer—” I swallowed. “This last summer, Émilie had the misfortune to come down with . . .” There was nothing to do but to say it. “The pox.”

  Antoine’s cheeks turned scarlet. Eugène reached over to give his friend a companionable pat on the shoulder.

  “Fortunately, she recovered fully,” Maman rushed to explain.

  “Grâce à Dieu,” Antoine exclaimed.

  “Although she does have some scarring,” Maman warned, touching a finger to each of her cheeks. “On her face.” She made a gentle, but regretful grimace. “Also, you should know that she has become . . .” Maman paused, biting her lip.

  I knew what she was trying to say. “Ém’s become melancholic,” I offered. That was a kind way of putting it.

  “It will be my goal in life to make her happy,” Antoine said, his eyes gleaming.

  “We are planning to go to our country place tomorrow,” Maman said, visibly touched, “but we could stop by the Institute. Perhaps you would like to come with us?”

  Antoine’s face flushed with gratitude.

  * * *

  —

  We set out early for Montagne-du-Bon-Air, the General, Antoine, Maman and I in the carriage, Eugène riding beside us on Pegasus. Antoine was wearing a jacket he’d borrowed from my brother, regrettably too big on him. He was clutching a parcel—a gift for Ém, I guessed.

  It had rained in the night and the roads were rutted, so it was noon by the time we arrived at the Institute, much jostled. Maîtresse met us in the foyer, wearing her black cape.

  “General Bonaparte!” She made a deep curtsy.

  Claire, hovering behind her with an empty basket, followed her example, looking terrified.

  “We weren’t expecting you,” Maîtresse said, giving Claire her cloak and whispering instructions. “Come in, come in!”

  “Forgive us for stopping by unexpectedly,” Maman said, “but we’re going to Malmaison”—she glanced at the General, who was examining the notices on the board—“and thought we’d stop by for a quick visit.”

  “Always a pleasure,” Maîtresse assured her.

  “Eugène is here too,” I said, warmly embracing Maîtresse. “He’s seeing to his horse.”

  I had been away from the Institute for seventeen days—seventeen and three-quarters—but it seemed like forever. In that time, Eugène and the General had returned from Egypt, Maman and I had raced south to try to meet them (and failed), the General had tried to throw Maman out of her house and then peace had been restored (if you could call living in a house with soldiers coming and going at all hours peaceful).

  “You remember Captain Lavalette?” Maman said, gesturing Antoine forward.

  “Of course,” Maîtresse said. “Émilie has been awaiting your return.” (This made me wince.) “Come, make yourselves comfortable in the reception room,” she said. “I’ll go fetch her.”

  “I’ll get her, Maîtresse Campan,” I quickly offered. Ém would need a warning.

  * * *

  —

  It felt strange going up the stairs to my room, greeting teachers and friends at every turn. On the landing, I nearly bumped into Citoyen Jadin, who was startled to see me.

  “You’re here,” he said, bundled in his gray, moth-eaten shawl.

  “Just briefly,” I said, taken aback. The pendulum clock struck the hour. Girls began streaming out of rooms, chattering two by two. “I never got a chance to thank you, Citoyen Jadin.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “My award?” Did he not remember? “For piano, at the annual Exercice.”

  “Oh.” He seemed distracted. “Yes.”

  “Citoyen Jadin?” someone called out from below—Nurse Witch, it sounded like. “I can see you now.”

  “Coming,” he answered with a cough.

  I watched as he left, a slight figure making his way down the spiral stairs, one hand on the railing.

  I turned and headed on up to the Fearsome room. Ém looked up from her desk. “Hortense!” She stood to embrace me. “Mouse just left for her drawing lesson. Are you staying?”

  I made a sad face. “We’re going to Malmaison. Maman, the General and—and Captain Lavalette.”

  Ém sat down on her narrow bed in the corner.

  “Ém, he loves you.”

  “He’s ugly,” she burst out, the scars on her face inflamed.

  “At least give him a chance.”

  “I will not see him.”

  I heard a light rap on the door. “Aren’t you and Émilie coming down?” Maman asked.

  “She refuses,” I said in a low voice.

  “She won’t come?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, standing aside.

  Maman sat down at the foot of Ém’s bed. “Are you afraid?” she asked softly.

  “No!”

  “What is it then?”

  “I don’t want to be married to him. I wish he were dead.”

  I glanced at Maman in chagrin.

  “Émilie Louise Beauharnais,” Maman said slowly, “you owe it to your husband to at least speak to him.”

  “Eugène is here too,” I said, to tempt her.

  * * *

  —

  Antoine was sitting by a window sipping coffee. A china plate of chocolate madeleines had been set out on the low table before him. My mouth watered seeing the delicious madeleines, and I looked away. I’d made a vow to forsake them forever if God spared Ém.

  Antoine glanced up at us hopefully, spots of cream on his mustache. His eyes filled to see his wife’s scarred face. She’d entered without letting down her veil, as if int
entionally to repulse.

  “So, it’s true, you’ve been poxed,” the General said.

  Ém stared at the toes of her boots. “Yes, General Bonaparte, sir.” She glanced over at Eugène. She hadn’t seen him since he’d left for Egypt, a year and a half before.

  My brother managed to hide his dismay. “Your husband saved my life,” he said, embracing her. “Several times.” (Which alarmed me anew. How many times had Eugène’s life been at risk?)

  “Saved his hide,” the General said, tapping his foot.

  “Captain Lavalette?” Maman glanced at the parcel he was clutching. “You have something for our niece?”

  “Oh. Yes!” Antoine pulled up the coat sleeves and approached Ém. I feared he was going to attempt to kiss her hand, but wisely he refrained. Shifting from foot to foot, he told her how grateful he was that her life had been spared.

  “Thank you,” she said, but not meeting his gaze.

  Awkwardly, he presented her with a gilt-edged book bound in leather—a novel, The Sorrows of Young Werther, by the German writer Goethe, translated into French.

  “A good pick,” the General said.

  “I told Antoine how much you love to read,” Eugène said.

  I squirmed, knowing that the novel was about a man who loved a woman who loved another man.

  A triangle sounded. “I must go,” Ém said, lowering her veil.

  * * *

  —

  “Sometimes it is best to give a bride time, Captain Lavalette,” Maîtresse said, breaking the awkward silence. “I know you have been married for well over a year—”

  “Soon it will be a year and a half,” Antoine said, his hand over his heart.

  Maîtresse bowed her head. “But you and Émilie have only known each other for a few days, in truth.”

  Maman sat forward. “And now, with the misfortune of her altered visage, she is rather overwhelmed.” She glanced at the General, who was pacing, anxious to go. She pulled on her gloves. “It is not uncommon in such cases, particularly for a girl.”

  “Time will, as it is said, heal,” Maîtresse said in an effort to be encouraging.

  I doubted that it would be so easily solved. In truth, I was angry at my cousin, her cold, cruel heart.

  “May I?” I asked Maîtresse, reaching for the plate of chocolate madeleines. I offered the plate to Eugène, and then took one for myself, breaking my vow.

  CHOICES

  “Would it be possible for Hortense to stay longer?” Maîtresse asked Maman as everyone prepared to depart.

  Yes! I had yet to even see Mouse.

  “My driver could deliver her to Malmaison before the evening meal,” Maîtresse suggested.

  “That would be lovely,” Maman said with a smile my way. “Hortense has been missing her friends.”

  As soon as everyone had left, Maîtresse invited me up to her study. “Just for a little chat,” she said.

  I welcomed the opportunity, in truth, for there was much on my mind.

  “I’m afraid time will not heal Ém,” I confided, once settled cozily on her divan. “She wants nothing to do with Captain Lavalette.”

  “Does she love another?” Maîtresse asked, pouring us both a coffee.

  I sat back, astonished by her blunt question.

  “Actually, angel, it’s not hard to guess that she harbors a passion for the General’s brother Louis.”

  I glanced away.

  “I see,” she said with a sly smile, noting my response. “Now I must ask you something delicate.” She stirred in several spoonfuls of sugar.

  I flushed, suspecting what that question was going to be—and I was right, for she asked, “Was Émilie’s marriage ever consummated?”

  I shook my head no, my cheeks burning. I was surprised Maîtresse didn’t know.

  “Ah—in that case, it’s possible she could get an annulment and remarry.”

  Marry Louis? Even if he wanted to marry Ém—which it was clear he did not—the Clan would never allow it. “I don’t think so, Maîtresse Campan. After she got the pox, Louis wouldn’t speak to her.”

  Maîtresse put a hand over her heart. “Oh, the poor girl.”

  “And who would marry her? Maman told me that the General offered her hand to a number of men, but they all refused because her father was an émigré.” And because Ém’s parents were divorced. And because she was penniless, without any dowry whatsoever.

  “I know. Your mother consulted with me at the time. We were both pleased with Captain Lavalette. Has Émilie discussed any of this with you?”

  “Not really.” Only her contempt for her husband.

  “Well, it’s time.” Maîtresse rang for her maid. “Summon Émilie Beauharnais,” she told Claire. “Angel, I’m going to have to speak bluntly,” she said softly, her hand touching mine. “We all love Émilie—she has rare and wonderful qualities—but she is not the sort of girl who could manage to live independently.”

  * * *

  —

  Ém appeared, looking lifeless. As angry as I was, my heart went out to her.

  Maîtresse gestured for her to sit on the wooden stool. “Émilie, you disappoint me,” she began. (I cringed.) “You have been cruel to a worthy man. Have I not taught you the importance of basic civilities?”

  Ém stared down at her clasped hands. “I cannot remain married to a man I do not love, Maîtresse Campan.”

  “That’s romantic nonsense. How do you intend to feed yourself? You can’t expect your aunt and the General—much less your grandparents—to provide for you forever. Without any means of support, what are your choices?”

  Ém remained silent, her head bent. It wasn’t that she didn’t know the answer. We all knew that a girl had two respectable choices in life: to become a wife or a governess. Before the Revolution, a girl might have chosen to become a nun, but the nunneries had all been closed down, so that was no longer a possibility. Most unmarried girls lived with their families forever, but Émilie did not have a family to go to. Her mother and stepfather wanted nothing to do with her, which was why my mother had had to provide for her.

  “Allow me to clarify,” Maîtresse said, offering Ém a cup of lukewarm coffee, which she sullenly declined. “If you aren’t married, your reasonable choice would be to become a governess. You would live in some isolated château, condemned to eat alone, for you’d be considered too lowly to join the family and too educated to join the kitchen staff. You would converse only with your charges, who would do everything to thwart you. Too, I would be remiss if I did not caution you that as a governess, you would likely be forced—quite literally, I’m afraid—to allow the intimate attentions of the various men of the household.”

  Ém looked up, shaken—as I was. Stories of girls being forced were whispered, but rarely openly acknowledged. I had assumed such accounts were fabrications.

  “There is, of course, one other vocation an unmarried woman may choose, but I don’t think I need to spell it out.”

  I grimaced. No—she did not.

  “I’ve made sure that all my girls are taught logic, and I’m sure you can deduce the conclusion. You are old enough now to use reason to consider what you will do: make amends with a husband who cares for you very much, become a governess—or a whore.”

  And with that, we were dismissed.

  * * *

  —

  Mouse jumped up from her desk as Ém and I came into our room. “Hortense! Are you coming back to school?”

  “I’m sorry, no,” I said, embracing her. “And I’m afraid I can’t stay long.”

  Ém pushed by me and threw herself down on her bed.

  Mouse looked at me. “What happened?”

  I closed the door and leaned against it. As stubborn and unreasonable as my cousin was being, she just wanted to be happy. Was that a crime?

&nbs
p; “Captain Lavalette was here, and—”

  “Your husband, Ém?” Mouse said.

  Ém buried her face in her pillow.

  “And she got a talk about her choices,” I told Mouse.

  “From my aunt?”

  I nodded. “A talk about no choices.”

  Mouse and I did our best to comfort Ém. I felt sad for her, but for Mouse and me, too, all girls. I felt such excitement about life sometimes, about all the things I wanted to do—be a composer, a painter, an actress! Maîtresse believed girls should get a good education, but what was the point, in truth? Did it really always come down to only two possibilities, to marry or be a governess, and nothing more? Some women tried to support themselves in other ways, true—by painting portraits, for example (as Citoyenne Godefroid, one of the instructors at the Institute, did)—but they were publicly ridiculed, considered an embarrassment to their families. Our true options seemed narrow indeed.

  At last, with our affection and jokes, Ém managed a smile. I was going to suggest the Game of Hope, but refrained. What if a dire prediction emerged—or a card suggested something about Louis? It was too risky.

  DECEIT

  The first day back in Paris, I was summoned into the General’s office. He shut the door behind him with a thwack. I felt as if I had been invited into a lion’s lair—a very messy lion’s lair, for there were maps, newspapers and journals everywhere, the waste bins overflowing. I hung back by the door.

  “Sit, Hortense, I’m not going to attack you,” the General said, as if he could read my thoughts. (Could he read thoughts? I wondered.) “However, I am far from pleased.” He scratched at a boil on his neck. “I saw Caroline at Joseph’s this morning. She doesn’t want to return to the Institute.” His nostrils flared. He looked like an angry bull. “Ever. And all because you are cruel to her. She says you make her life there a living Hell.”