A REQUEST
A maid in the cloak chamber gestured to the alcove, where I found Maîtresse stretched out on the chaise longue.
“I don’t need that,” she told an attendant, pushing away a tin—the tin of salts, I realized.
“Maîtresse?” I was alarmed to see her disordered, the layered skirts of her beggar costume knotted up.
“Angel! I saw her! I saw my beloved Queen. It was wonderful! Do you have the antidote with you?”
Oh no. The antidote Caroline had used, thinking it was scent. “You’ve been poisoned?” I asked, alarmed.
“No, not me,” she said, sitting up, “but the Queen might need it. I’m to have it with me always, just in case.”
I sat down beside her, perplexed. Maîtresse wasn’t making sense, and she always made sense. She more than anyone. I repressed an urge to feel her forehead, to see if she was feverish.
“My beloved Queen!” She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hands.
I’d never seen Maîtresse weep. I put one arm around her shoulders, comforting her in the way she had so often comforted me. “Breathe,” I reminded her, looking about for a handkerchief. The maid stepped forward with several, folded and pressed.
Maîtresse took a moment selecting an embroidered one, then patted her cheeks dry. She took three deep breaths. “Ah, that’s better!”
“I’m sorry, Maîtresse Campan, but no—I don’t have it with me.”
“Have what?”
“The antidote.”
“Antidote?”
“The one you—” I realized she didn’t remember asking for it.
“Angel, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said with a forgiving smile, straightening the ragged layers of her beggar-woman costume. “About this problem with the Marquis de Rudé—”
Aïe.
“He’s so very generous. When I consider all the things he’s donated to the Institute.” She pressed her hands against her chest. “It’s not easy, you know, keeping a school running.”
“I can imagine.” I thought of all the times Maman had been late paying tuition.
“I know he’s close to forty—”
I was shocked. Rudé struck me as much, much older.
“—but do you think he might be a match for my niece?”
Mouse! I was speechless.
“She wears spectacles, but he might consider. She has a good dowry, after all.”
“Maîtresse Campan, there is something I think you should know,” I said, grasping her hand. It was not a good time, but there might never be another, and I dared not put it off. “I’m afraid—” I swallowed. What if she didn’t believe me? “Citoyen Rudé is not . . . He’s not a good man. He . . . likes little girls.” The maid was hovering. “He likes them too much,” I said, lowering my voice. “And in the wrong way. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Maîtresse paused for a long moment before saying, “This is true, angel?”
I nodded, relieved that I did not need to spell it out.
“And you’re sure?” She looked deflated.
“I’m not,” I admitted, “but you taught us to trust our instincts. And Mouse thinks so too.”
Maîtresse’s nostrils flared. “He hasn’t . . . you know . . . done anything? Has he?”
“No,” I assured her. “Not that I’m aware of.” I heard the clatter of china and cutlery. Soon it would be time for the refreshment break. I thought of Hyacinthe, the music he was to have played. How was it possible that he no longer existed?
“Grâce à Dieu.” Maîtresse struggled to her feet.
“Maîtresse Campan, shouldn’t you . . . ?”
But she was already at the mirror, tucking her hair back under her peasant bonnet.
“Citoyenne Beauharnais?” An attendant gestured to me from the door. “There is a gentleman who wishes to speak to you. Colonel Duroc.”
“Go, angel,” Maîtresse said. “Don’t worry about me. I’m tough.”
A tough old bird, the General liked to say—and she had to be, I knew, to accomplish all she’d done, inspiring us with her intelligence and ambition.
“I never doubted that for a minute,” I said, tearing up, kissing her powdered cheeks.
* * *
—
Christophe was waiting for me in the long gallery. “Is she . . . ?”
“She’s had a shock is all,” I said. Well, two.
“And you? How are you?”
“Better, thank you.” I still felt a little light-headed, in truth.
“I hate to ask you this again,” Christophe said, “but I need to let the General know. Do you think you could do it? Play the piano during the refreshment break?”
Play for this crowd? “I’m sorry, but I . . . I couldn’t.” The thought made me tremble.
“There’s something I haven’t told you,” he said. “We were told that Citoyen Jadin requested that you play a particular piece. It doesn’t have a name, but it’s one you composed?”
I stared down at the floor. I knew which composition he meant.
“Is it true that you composed a piece?” Christophe asked.
I nodded. Few people knew.
“That’s amazing,” he said.
“Did Hyacinthe Jadin request this?” I asked. Creativity is by its nature generous, he had once told me.
“That’s what his brother said. Just before he . . .”
Aïe. “Before he died,” I said quietly, and Christophe nodded.
My heart was pounding. I was going to have to do it, I realized. “Very well,” I said quietly, looking up at Christophe. His eyes gave me strength. Safe now. “I’ll do it . . . for him,” I said, my voice quavering. For Hyacinthe.
And for you, I thought, giving Christophe my hand.
* * *
—
I stepped onto the platform at the side of the stage, a little unstable. I positioned myself on the piano stool and looked out over the ballroom. A number of people were still on the dance floor, standing and watching. Those in the tiered boxes were talking amongst themselves. Maman and the General appeared to be laughing at something Eugène was telling them.
At the back, people were streaming into the dining hall for refreshments. I caught a glimpse of Mouse and Ém following Maîtresse, who was leaning on Caroline’s arm. Mouse saw me and pointed me out to the others. They stopped, smiling with amazement. Mouse wiggled her fingers at her forehead. My Fearsome!
I saw Christophe appear behind Maman, Eugène and the General in their box. He bent down to say something to the General, who glanced my way. He nodded his approval and I gave him a tight, nervous smile. He touched Maman’s arm. Watch. Watch your daughter. Maman, in turn, nudged Eugène, who glanced over with a look of surprise. “Chouchoute!” I heard him say.
Christophe stood behind them, regarding me proudly, his arms across his chest.
It was time.
I squared up the scores propped on the stand in front of me, but the sheets shook in my hands. They’d been intended for Hyacinthe. My eyes began to sting. I took a shuddering breath, lightly running my fingers over the smooth ivory of the piano keys. Could I do it? I closed my eyes for a moment, imagining Hyacinthe sitting on a wooden chair beside me, imagining his pale, all-seeing eyes.
Play as if your very life depended on it.
Play from your heart.
My heart ached, so full of love, so full of sadness.
We don’t have much time.
Oh, Hyacinthe.
I began.
AFTERWORD
I wish I could say that Hortense and Christophe lived happily ever after. Such was not to be. Hortense’s mother and Maîtresse Campan pressed her to marry Napoleon’s brother Louis. Their reasons were complex. Considered to be an artistic and sensitive soul, Louis seemed
to them to be a good match for creative Hortense. But Josephine had a strategic reason for urging this union. A child born as a result of the marriage would unite the Beauharnais and Bonaparte families and provide Napoleon with an adoptable, legitimate heir—a child Josephine was unable to give him. This issue of an heir became politically critical, and Josephine needed to ensure that Napoleon would not abandon her. Everything depended on Hortense marrying Louis—everything but Hortense’s happiness.
And Christophe’s, as it turned out. Hortense appealed to her stepfather, Napoleon, to allow her to marry the man she loved. Napoleon agreed, but stipulated that once she and Christophe were married they live far, far from Paris. Christophe balked at the offer. He was devoted to Napoleon, and accepting this “offer” would have meant the end of his career as one of Napoleon’s most trusted aides.
Heartbroken over Christophe’s refusal and pressured on all sides, Hortense relented and agreed to marry Louis. Their marriage was bitterly unhappy. Ironically, not long after the wedding, Hortense and her mother arranged for Christophe to marry an extremely wealthy, attractive but unpleasant young woman who succeeded in making Christophe’s personal life miserable.
Sadly, Hortense’s marriage to Louis ultimately did nothing to ensure either Napoleon’s political stability or her mother’s happiness. Unable to give Napoleon a child, Josephine was divorced by him after fourteen years of marriage. She died a little over four years later at the age of fifty—of heartbreak, her doctor said.
Concerns about safety once Napoleon took power were justified. Several assassination attempts were made on his life, including a plot to poison him. The most dramatic attempt was the explosion of a wine cask filled with gun powder and bits of iron—“The Infernal Machine,” it was called—on Christmas Eve, 1800. Napoleon, and those with him (including Christophe) were unharmed, but the blast killed or injured over fifty bystanders and came very close to killing Hortense, Caroline and Josephine.
Hortense had three sons. The sudden death of her eldest at four years of age caused her to have a complete collapse. She stopped speaking, and it wasn’t until she heard music being played that she “woke” from her emotional coma.
Her second child by Louis, Charles-Louis Napoleon Bonaparte, became Napoleon III, and ruled France from 1848 to 1870. Helping him was Charles de Morny, his unacknowledged younger half-brother. Charles was Hortense’s third child, the result of a secret love affair she had while estranged from Louis, a child she gave up at birth.
One of the most tragic events of Hortense’s unhappy adult life was the early death of her best friend Adèle (“Mouse”) at the age of twenty-five. The two young women were visiting, exploring a neighboring property—with the thought of living side-by-side—when a plank walkway over a ravine gave way and Mouse fell to her death.
Ém’s life, too, ended tragically. After Napoleon was defeated, her husband Antoine was imprisoned. Heroically, Ém enabled him to escape execution by disguising herself as a man and taking his place in prison. In jail for two months, she had a mental breakdown and never fully recovered.
Caroline and Joachim Murat became Queen and King of Naples in 1808, courtesy of Napoleon’s generosity. Predictably, Caroline thrived in her new position as Queen, but both she and her husband later betrayed Napoleon for the sake of their little kingdom.
Hortense’s easygoing brother Eugène consented to an arranged marriage with Princess Augusta Amalia Ludovika Georgia of Bavaria, with whom he fell in love. Theirs was a happy and fruitful union: of their seven children, six married into European and Brazilian royal families.
Eliza Monroe’s father, James Monroe, became the fifth President of the United States, and Eliza often performed the duties of First Lady as well as acting as a spokesperson for the President. She and Hortense maintained their friendship through a long correspondence.
The one consistently fulfilling aspect of Hortense’s life was her art: her music and painting. She published beautiful books of her musical compositions. The piece she composed in this story—“Partant pour la Syria”—is played today as one of France’s national anthems. There are many recordings of it on YouTube.
* * *
—
Readers often want to know, “What is fact and what is fiction?” And my answer always is: it’s hard to say. I try to keep to the historical record, but there are times when doing so interferes with the story. In writing historical fiction, it is often necessary to prune the family trees. Families were bigger in the past, and instead of refrigerators and stoves, they had servants, many servants, and all these servants had families as well. To include everyone would be overwhelming.
For example, Mouse had two older sisters, one of whom was at school with her. However, because Mouse was Hortense’s closest friend, and because so much of this story focuses on their relationship, I decided not to include the two sisters. For the same reason, I’ve not included Maîtresse Campan’s son Antoine-Henri-Louis, who was enrolled in Collège Irlandais, the school for boys next to the Institute. Simplifying a story often makes it stronger.
In addition to pruning and simplifying, I have sometimes created events where little is known. Concerning Citoyen Rudé’s proposal, for example, all we know from a letter Maîtresse Campan wrote is that someone proposed to Hortense and that her negative response created a scandal. Thus, Citoyen Rudé is my fictional creation.
Hyacinthe Jadin was, indeed, Hortense’s teacher. I’ve shifted the actual date of his death by a few months, but he was a remarkable composer who died tragically young of tuberculosis (or “consumption,” as it was called then). I highly recommend searching YouTube for recordings of his enchanting compositions.
Most of the letters from Maîtresse Campan in this novel are authentic. (You can find the French originals online at bit.ly/MmeCampan.) I have both translated and edited them, and taken creative liberties in some instances. The “Meeting of the Vows” did happen, although we do not know what occurred.
Maîtresse Campan was, in truth, adored by the girls in her school. In public, she defended her intensively creative and intellectual curriculum as one that trained girls to become good wives and mothers. Privately, however, she aspired to raise girls who were capable of independence.
Most of the details about the Institute—a wonderful school by all accounts—are historically accurate, insofar as can be known. One deviation from fact has to do with the Rose of Virtue, which could not be awarded to those over fourteen years of age. I decided to extend that age range for dramatic purposes. Also, although there was a “Repentance Table” at the Institute, it was simply referred to as the “Wood Table” because it wasn’t dignified with a tablecloth.
At school, Hortense shared a room with Ém and Mouse, but the room was also shared with Mouse’s older sister and the daughter of one of Madame Campan’s sisters. I chose not to include either in order to simplify the story. Did Caroline join the girls in that room at some point? We simply do not know, but I like to think so.
I have slightly changed the timing of Caroline’s confession to Hortense regarding why she told Napoleon that Hortense tormented her at school, but the discussion between the two girls did take place, and, according to Hortense’s memoirs, they became good friends after.
There are differing accounts as to how Caroline and Joachim came to be engaged. What we do know is that they were very much in love, that Josephine was instrumental in gaining Napoleon’s consent, and that they married almost immediately after the engagement.
Ém did get the pox in the summer of 1799—that’s fact—but Nelly and her death from that disease is fiction. Ém’s unhappy arranged marriage to Antoine Lavalette is fact, as well, as is her infatuation with Napoleon’s younger brother Louis. Although Antoine’s role in bringing Ém’s father back to France is fiction, it is true that Ém did come, in time, to be devoted to her husband.
Marie Anne Lenormand was, indeed, a famous fortu
ne-teller during the Napoleonic era. She knew Hortense’s mother Josephine well—well enough, even, to write and publish a fake “autobiography” of Josephine’s life.
Most of the details about Josephine, Napoleon and his troublesome family are based on fact, including the “failed” dinner party Josephine gave in her mother-in-law’s honor—the dinner the Bonapartes refused to attend. A few more people, in fact, attended, but it’s unlikely that Jadin or Lenormand were of their number. On Napoleon’s return to Paris, he did move Josephine’s belongings out of La Chantereine and lock himself into his room. It was Eugène and Hortense who succeeded in bringing about a reconciliation. Was Josephine faithless with Citoyen Charles? Not in my opinion, but historians do generally differ.
And last, a word about the ghost of Queen Marie Antoinette: Hortense’s mother, Josephine, was convinced that the Queen haunted the Tuileries. I’ve also had it on good authority that Josephine haunts Malmaison. Not that ghosts exist, of course! ;-)
THE REVOLUTIONARY CALENDAR
In an effort to break with the past, most everything was changed during the French Revolution: the names of cities, the measures, forms of address, holidays and even the calendar. For example:
—The New Year was celebrated in the fall, in late September.
—There were five “free” days leading up to their New Year: jour de la vertu (day of virtue), jour du génie (day of genius), jour du travail (day of work), jour de l’opinion (day of opinion) and jour des recompenses (day of rewards). Every Leap Year, a sixth day was added: jour de la Revolution (day of the Revolution).
—The names of the months were based on nature. For example, Frimaire, which started in late November, was from the French word frimas, meaning frost, which one would expect to see in November. Floréal, which started in late April, was from the French word fleur, meaning flower, because one would see flowers in France at that time.
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