There’s nothing to let out, is the problem. I feel nothing.
Unable to stand the upper floors any longer, I left to wander the château, passing through the hallways like a ghost.
“Élise . . .” Arno lurked at one end of a hallway with his hat held in his hand and his cheeks red as though having just been running. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother, Élise.”
“Thank you, Arno,” I said. The corridor seemed too long between us. He was hopping from one foot to another. “It was expected, not at all a shock, and though of course I’m grieving, I’m grateful I was able to be with her until the end.”
He nodded sympathetically, not really understanding, and I could see why because everything in his world remained unchanged. To him a lady he barely knew, who had lived in a part of the house he wasn’t allowed to visit, had died, and that made people that he cared for sad. But that was it.
“Perhaps we could play later,” I said, “after our lessons,” and he brightened.
He was probably missing Father, I reasoned, watching him go.
ii
I spent the morning with the governor and met Arno again at the door as he entered to begin his own lessons. Out timetables were ordered so that Arno should be with the governor while I trained with Mr. Weatherall, so that he would never see me sword fighting. (Perhaps in his own journal one day he will talk of signposts toward that moment when the penny dropped. “It never occurred to me to question why she was so adept at sword fighting . . .”) I left by a rear door and walked along the line of the topiary until I came to the woodland at the bottom and took the path to where Mr. Weatherall sat on a stump waiting for me. He had used to sit with his legs crossed and the tails of his jacket arranged over the stump, cutting quite a dash, and where before he had bounded from it to greet me, the light dancing in his eyes, a smile never far from his lips, now his head was bowed as though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Beside him on the seat was a box about a foot and a half long, a hand wide.
“You have been told,” I said.
His eyes were heavy. His bottom lip trembled a little and for a horrible moment I wondered what I would do if Mr. Weatherall were to cry.
“How are you taking it?”
“It was expected,” I said, “not at all a shock, and though of course I’m grieving, I’m grateful I was able to be with her until the end.”
He handed me the box. “It’s with a heavy heart I give you this, Élise.” His voice was gruff. “She hoped to give it to you herself.”
I took the box and weighed the dark wood in my hands, knowing already what was inside. Sure enough a short sword lay within. Its sheath was soft brown leather with white stitching along the sides, and the belt a leather strap designed for tying at the waist. The blade of the sword took the light; the steel was new, its handle bound tight with stained leather. There by the hilt was an inscription. “May the father of understanding be your guide. Love, Mother.”
“It was always to have been your going-away present, Élise,” he said flatly, glancing away into the woods and discreetly pushing the ball of his thumb into his eyes. “You’re to use it for practice.”
“Thank you,” I told him and he shrugged. I wished I could move forward to a time when the sword thrilled me. For now I felt nothing.
There was a long pause. There wasn’t going to be any training today, I realized. Neither of us had the heart for it.
After a while, he said, “Did she say anything of me? At the end, I mean.”
I only just managed to hide my startled look, seeing something in his eyes I recognized as a cross between desperation and hope. I’d known his feeling for her was strong, but until that moment I hadn’t realized quite how strong.
“She asked me to tell you that in her heart was love for you, and that she was eternally grateful for everything you had done for her.”
He nodded. “Thank you, Élise, that’s a great comfort,” he said, and turning, wiped tears from his eyes.
iii
Later, I was summoned to see Father and the two of us sat on a chaise longue in his darkened study, he with his arms around me, holding me tight. He had shaved, and outwardly was the same as he always was, but his words emerged slow and forced and brandy clouded his breath.
“I can tell you’re being strong, Élise,” he said, “stronger than I am.”
Inside us both was a hollow ache. I found myself almost envying his ability to touch the source of his pain.
“It was expected,” I said, but was unable to finish because my shoulders shook, and I gripped him with hands that trembled, allowing myself to be enveloped by him.
“Let it out, Élise,” he said, and began to stroke my hair.
And I did. I let it out. And at last I began to cry.
EXTRACT FROM THE JOURNAL OF ARNO DORIAN
12 SEPTEMBER 1794
Guilt-stricken, I laid down her journal, overwhelmed by the pain that poured off the page. Horribly aware of my own contribution to her misery.
Élise is right. The Madame’s death hardly even gave me pause for thought. To the selfish young boy I was, it was just something that prevented François and Élise from playing with me. An inconvenience that meant that until things returned to normal—and Élise was right, because of the house opting not to mourn, things did seem to get back to normal more quickly—I had to make my own entertainment.
That, to my shame, is all the Madame’s death meant to me.
But I was only a little boy, just ten.
Ah, but so was Élise, just ten. And yet so far ahead of me in intelligence. She writes of our time with the governor, but how he must have groaned when it was my turn to be taught. He must have packed away Élise’s textbooks and reached for my more elementary versions with a heavy heart.
And yet, in growing so quickly—and, as I now realize, in being “groomed” to grow so quickly—Élise was forced to live with a burden. Or so it seems to me reading these pages. The little girl I knew was just a little girl, full of fun and mischief and yes, like a sister, inventing all the best games, being handy with the excuses when we were caught out of bounds or stealing food from the kitchen or in doing whatever other japes she had planned for the day.
Little wonder, then, that when Élise was sent to the Maison Royale de Saint-Louis school at Saint-Cyr in order to complete her education she ran into trouble. Neither of those two opposing sides of her personality were suitable for school life, and predictably she hated the Maison Royale. Hated it. Though it was just under thirty kilometers away from Versailles, she might as well have been in a different country for all the distance she felt between her new life and her old. In her letters she referred to it as Le Palais de la Misère. Visits home were restricted to three weeks in the summer and a few days at Christmas, while the rest of her year was spent submitting to the regimes of the Maison Royale. Élise was not one for regimes. Not unless they suited her. The regime of learning sword with Mr. Weatherall was a very “Élise” kind of regime; the regime of school, on the other hand, was a very “not Élise” kind of regime. She hated the restrictions of school life. She hated having to learn “accomplishments” such as embroidery and music. So in her journal there is entry after entry of Élise in trouble at school. The entries themselves become repetitive. Years and years of unhappiness and frustration.
The way things worked at the school was that the girls were split into groups, each with a head pupil. Of course Élise had clashed with the head of her group, Valerie, and the two had fought. At times, I read with a hand to my mouth, not sure whether to laugh at Élise’s daring or be shocked by it, they literally fought.
Time and time again, Élise was brought before the hated headmistress, Madame Levene, asked to explain herself, then punished.
And time and time again she would respond with insolence and her insolence would make the situation worse and the severity of the punishments was increased. And the more the punishments were increased the more rebellious Éli
se became, and the more rebellious Élise became the more she was brought before the headmistress and the more insolent she was and the more the punishments were increased . . .
I’d known she was often in trouble, of course, because although we rarely saw each other during this period—snatched glimpses through the windows of the tutor’s window during her all-too-brief holidays, the odd regretful wave—we corresponded regularly. I, an orphan, had never been sent letters before, and the novelty of receiving them from Élise never faded. And of course she wrote of her hatred for school, but the correspondence lacked the detail of her journal, from which pulsed the scorn and contempt Élise felt for other pupils, for the teachers and for the hated headmistress, Madame Levene. Even a huge fireworks display to celebrate the school’s centenary in 1786 could do nothing to lift her spirits. The king had apparently stood on the terraces at Versailles to enjoy the huge display, but even so it was not enough to cheer Élise. Instead, her journal was filled with a sense of injustice and of Élise at odds with the world around her—page after page and year after year of my love failing to see the vicious circle into which she was locked. Page after page of her failing to realize that what she was doing wasn’t rebelling. It was mourning.
And reading on, I began to discover that there was something else she had withheld from me . . .
EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF ÉLISE DE LA SERRE
8 SEPTEMBER 1787
My father came to see me today. I was called to Madame Levene’s office for an audience with him and had been looking forward to seeing him, but of course the witchy old headmistress remained cackling in the room, such were the rules of Le Palais de la Misère, and so the visit was conducted as though for an audience. With the window behind her offering a sweeping view of the school grounds that even I had to admit was stunning, she sat with her hands clasped on the desk in front of her, watching with a thin smile as Father and I sat in chairs on the other side of the desk, the awkward Father and his rebellious daughter.
“I had rather hoped the path to complete your education would be a graceful canter rather than a limp, Élise,” he said with a sigh.
He looked old and tired and I could imagine the chattering Crows at his shoulder, constantly badgering him—do this, do that—while to add to his woe his errant daughter was the subject of irate letters home, Madame Levene detailing my shortcomings at great length.
“For France, life continues to be hard, Élise,” he explained. “Two years ago there was a drought and the worst harvest anyone can remember. The king authorized the building of a wall around Paris. He has tried to increase taxes but the parlement in Paris supported the nobles who defied him. Our stout and resolute king panicked, withdrew the taxes and there were demonstrations of celebration. Soldiers ordered to fire into the demonstrators refused to do so . . .”
“The nobles defied the king?” I said with a raised eyebrow.
He nodded. “Indeed. Who would’ve thought it? Perhaps they hope that the man on the street will be grateful, pass a vote of thanks and return home.”
“You don’t think so?”
“I fear not, Élise. I fear that once the workingman has the bit between his teeth, once he has a taste for the power—the potential power of the mob—then he will not be content merely with the withdrawal of some new tax laws. I think we may find a lifetime of frustration flooding out of these people, Élise. When they threw fireworks and stones at the Palais de Justice I don’t think they were supporting noblemen. And when they burned effigies of the Vicomte de Calonne I don’t think they were supporting noblemen then either.”
“They burned effigies? Of the controller-general of finances?”
Father nodded. “Indeed they did. He has been forced to leave the country. Other ministers have followed. There will be unrest, Élise, you mark my words.”
I said nothing.
“Which brings us to the matter of your behavior here at school,” he said. “You’re a senior now. A lady. And you should be behaving like one.”
I thought about that and how wearing the seniors’ uniform of the Maison Royale didn’t make me feel like a woman. All it did was make me feel like a pretend-lady. When I felt like a real woman was after school, when I discarded the hated bone-stiff dress, unpinned my hair and let it drop to where it met my newly acquired bosom. When I gazed into the looking glass and saw my mother staring back at me.
“You’re writing to Arno,” he said, as though wanting to try a different approach.
“You’re not reading my letters, are you?”
He rolled his eyes. “No, Élise, I am not reading your letters. For God’s sake, what do you think of me?”
My own eyes dropped. “I’m sorry, Father.”
“So busy rebelling against any available authority you’ve forgotten your true friends, is that it?”
At her desk Madame Levene was nodding sagely, feeling vindicated.
“I’m sorry, Father,” I repeated, ignoring her.
“The fact remains that you have been writing to Arno and—going purely on what he has told me—you have done nothing to fulfill the terms of our agreement.”
He cast a significant look toward the headmistress, eyebrows ever so slightly raised.
“What agreement would that be, Father?” I asked innocently, the devil in me.
With another brief nod in the direction of our audience, he added meaningfully, “The agreement we made before you left for Saint-Cyr, Élise, when you assured me you would be doing your utmost to convince Arno of his suitability for adoption into our family.”
“I’m sorry, Father, I’m still not quite sure what you mean.”
His brow darkened. Then with a deep breath he turned to the headmistress. “I wonder, Madame, if I might speak to my daughter alone.”
“I’m afraid that runs contrary to the policies of the academy, monsieur.” She smiled sweetly. “Parents or guardians needing to see pupils in private must provide a request in writing.”
“I know, but . . .”
“I’m sorry, monsieur,” she insisted.
He drummed his fingers on the leg of his breeches. “Élise, please don’t be difficult. You know exactly what I mean. Before you came away to school we agreed that the time was right to adopt Arno into our family.” He gave me a meaningful look.
“But he is a member of another family,” I said, as though butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth.
“Please do not play games with me, Élise.”
Madame Levene gave a harrumph. “We are well used to that at the Maison Royale, monsieur.”
“Thank you, Madame Levene,” said Father irritably. But when he returned his attention to me our eyes met, and some of the frostiness between us evaporated in the face of Madame Levene’s unwelcome presence, the corners of his mouth even twitching as he suppressed a smile. In response I gave him my most beatific, innocent look. His eyes grew affectionate as we shared the moment.
He was more measured when he spoke. “Élise, I’m quite certain that I don’t need to remind you of the terms of our agreement. Simply to say that if you continue to fail to abide by them, then I shall have to take matters into my own hands.”
We both stole a look at Madame Levene, who sat with her hands clasped on the desk in front of her, trying her level best not to look confused but failing miserably. It was the moment I came closest to simply bursting out laughing.
“You mean you will attempt to persuade him of his suitability, Father?”
He became serious, catching me in his gaze. “I will.”
“Even though by doing that, you would lose me Arno’s trust?”
“It’s a risk I would have to take, Élise,” replied Father. “Unless you do as you have agreed to do.”
And what I had agreed to do was indoctrinate Arno. Bring him into the fold. My heart grew heavy at the thought—the thought of somehow losing Arno. Yet it was do that or have Father do it himself. I imagined Arno, furious, confronting me at some unspecified point in the f
uture—“Why did you never tell me?”—and couldn’t bear the thought.
“I will do as we agreed, Father.”
“Thank you.”
We turned our attention to Madame Levene, who scowled at Father.
“And make sure your behavior improves,” he added quickly before slapping his hand to his thighs, which I knew from years of experience meant that our meeting was over.
The headmistress’s scowl deepened as instead of admonishing me further, Father stood and gathered me in his arms, almost surprising me with the force of his emotion.
There and then I decided that, for him, I would improve. I would do right by him. Be the daughter he deserved.
8 JANUARY 1788
When I look back to the diary entry of 8 September 1787, it’s to wince with shame at having written, “I would do right by him. Be the daughter he deserved,” only to do . . .
. . . absolutely nothing of the sort.
Not only had I neglected to persuade Arno of the joys of converting to the Templar cause (a situation at least partly informed by me disloyally wondering if in fact there were any joys in converting to the Templar cause), my behavior at the Maison Royale had failed to improve.
It had really failed to improve.
It had got a lot worse.
Why, only yesterday Madame Levene called me into her office, the third time in as many weeks. How many times had I made the trip across the years? Hundreds? For insolence, fighting, sneaking out at night (oh, how I loved to sneak out at night, just me and the dew), for drinking, for being disruptive, for scruffiness or for my particular favorite, “persistent bad behavior.”
There was nobody who knew the route to Madame Levene’s office as well as I did. There can’t have been a beggar alive who had held out their palm more than I had. And I had learned to anticipate the swish of the cane. Even welcome it. Not to blink when the cane left its brand upon my skin.
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