The Academie

by Dunlap, Susanne

  “As ladies, you can exert much more influence than you might imagine. I believe, for example, that your mother, Mademoiselle Eliza, was able to visit Madame de Lafayette and work alongside her to secure her husband’s release from prison.”

  I glance at Eliza, who has positioned herself on a low stool at Caroline’s side, a book that she pretends to read open in her hands. She is clearly pleased by the reference to her family.

  “But in order to work on behalf of one’s husband, a lady must maintain the utmost discretion and never call censure upon herself, or give others cause to doubt her sincerity or cast a shadow upon her character.”

  I feel Madame looking in my direction and lift my eyes from the needlework on its frame in front of me. Her face is all questions, but only I can see it. Madame Campan possesses a rare skill of being able to convey without words exactly what she means, all the while keeping her thoughts hidden from anyone else in the room. I see now that she has heard the rumor that I left the school last night. No doubt my fatigue from a disturbed night’s sleep shows, and her concerns are reinforced.

  How shall I contradict such a rumor without implicating anyone else? I dearly wish to know how it was discovered that someone had departed after the school gates were closed—and who discovered it. I know well enough who has started the rumor that I was the miscreant. I decide that the only reasonable course is to talk to Madame Campan as soon as I possibly can.

  The mantel clock’s delicate chime strikes eleven. The youngest ones have already gone to the dormitory, leaving only Caroline, Eliza, Catherine, and me. Caroline stands and reaches her hand out for Eliza. I expect Eliza to take it, but before she can, Catherine, who is a year or two younger than Eliza, jumps up and takes Caroline’s hand.

  “Thank you, Caroline, for being so good as to see that Catherine goes to bed immediately. No reading by candlelight, mademoiselle,” Madame Campan says with an indulgent smile. Catherine is an intelligent girl, not as attractive as some of the others and tending to plumpness. She awakens my sympathy every time I see her round brown eyes looking up into Caroline’s face.

  I stand and start to walk toward Madame, but to my surprise Eliza appears before me, smiling, and threads her arm through mine. “I’ll walk with you, if I may,” she says.

  I cannot interpret the look Caroline gives her. I would expect it to be cross, but there is a kind of triumph in it.

  Eliza’s actions prevent me from my planned conference with Madame, unfortunately. But perhaps it will be good to have an opportunity to speak with this young American girl alone. As we walk up the stairs, I say, “Would you like to join me in my room for a cup of tea? Geneviève will bring it for us.”

  I know that Eliza has her own maid, a saucy creature named Ernestine. She spends her days hiding away in Eliza’s room, pretending to be caring for her gowns and jewels, staying aloof from the other servants. Even Caroline’s maid, Hélène, does not refuse to help the others during the busy hours.

  We enter my chamber, which is the smallest of the private rooms, but quite adequate for my needs.

  “How cozy,” Eliza says, looking around for a place to sit.

  There is only one chair, at my writing table, and I motion her to it. I sit on the deep window seat and ring for Geneviève. She comes with two cups of chamomile tea, having already anticipated the need. “Good night, Geneviève. The cups can remain here until morning,” I say. Eliza opens her eyes a little wider as if I have just committed some terrible faux pas, but wisely says nothing. Perhaps she is learning a few important lessons from Caroline after all.

  “So, Eliza, how are you enjoying your first days at our wonderful school?”

  She sips her tea before answering. I think she is perhaps trying to put off saying something to me, but I simply wait in silence.

  Before she has a chance to answer, she notices the miniature of my brother, Eugène, which I keep on my dressing table. She seems startled by it. “Who is that?” she asks, her voice carrying a hint of surprise.

  “That is Eugène. My brother.”

  She walks over and picks it up, holding it near the lamp. “He’s very handsome, isn’t he? What uniform is he wearing?”

  I don’t really want to talk about Eugène right now. I am still bitter and disappointed after thinking he had surprised me last night and then discovering it was a trick. “I’m told he’s very popular with the ladies who follow General Bonaparte’s troops.”

  “Then he is back in Paris?”

  “Yes. But I haven’t yet seen him.” Eliza knows something, or has heard something, I realize, for she is too young to be entirely successful at hiding her emotions. By the look on her face I see that she has let something slip.

  “I... I have just heard... the generals have returned.”

  “They have been here a month already. But I still have not had the good fortune to spend time with Eugène,” I say, letting my breath out in an involuntary sigh. “He was injured badly. It was his head and we don’t know for certain that he is entirely cured.”

  After gazing at it for a moment or two longer, Eliza puts the miniature back and comes to me. She kneels down and takes my hand, laying her cheek against it. Her warmth and sincerity surprise me. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I wish ...”

  She stops. She wants to say something to me. “What is it? You must trust me. I do not play the games that others around me play.”

  “It’s Caroline,” Eliza says, standing and returning to her chair, as if the name alone is enough to distance her from me.

  “Ah, Caroline,” I repeat.

  “We did—that is, she made me—but not really...”

  Poor Eliza. She is no match for Caroline’s scheming. “What has happened?” I press gently.

  “We went out. It was us, last night. Now she has a secret that could get me sent back to Virginia.”

  “But you, too, have a secret.” I point this out, knowing that no doubt Caroline has managed things so that she is in control. “Why did you go out? Where did you go?” Was it just to torment me? I want to ask. But I don’t.

  “There is someone Caroline is in love with, whom she means to marry,” Eliza says.

  “Ah. So she is still in love with Murat.”

  “You know? I thought it was a secret!”

  I could laugh at the look of shock on Eliza’s face, but I’m not inclined to be so cruel.

  “It is no secret that Caroline loves him. Only whether he returns her affections. Murat is a man of the world. And my stepfather does not encourage Caroline in her infatuation.”

  “But he is a great general!” Eliza insists. “Second in command to Bonaparte himself, so Caroline says.”

  “Caroline is young, and Napoléon is rising to ever greater prominence. I believe her brother wants her to marry better in the end.” As I picture Napoléon, I have to suppress a sigh. I know how ambitious he is. When he wants something, he gets it. That thought frightens me, especially for my mother. And a little for myself. Maman is not ambitious for power, only for love. How I wish she had fallen in love with someone less important! Someone with less strength, fewer charms, and someone much less complicated.

  “I see,” Eliza says, her brow furrowed as if she doesn’t really. “Caroline wants me to take messages for her. Or, at least, to help her find ways to convey them. I am afraid I will be found out, but I don’t know how to deny her.” Eliza stares into her teacup as if the answers she seeks might be hidden there.

  “Why are you telling me this, Eliza?” I ask.

  “Because I think you should know something else...”

  What can she tell me that I don’t already know? Caroline and her mother and brothers and sister hate me and my mother and will do anything to destroy us.

  “You should know, Hortense, that Caroline will stop at nothing to separate your mother from her brother. And I truly mean nothing.” She puts her teacup down on the desk. “I’ve stayed too long already.”

  Eliza stands and curtsies to me, f
ormal once again. I have discovered nothing I did not already know, including the extent to which Caroline has the young American in thrall.

  But there is something about Eliza’s visit that unsettles me and causes me to dream of terrible things.

  8

  Madeleine

  Maman woke me when she returned from the ball that night.

  “I need your help while I undress. I sent Marianne to bed. She has a cold.”

  This was a lie; I knew it. Maman has no patience for the illnesses or indispositions of those who serve her. I imagine it is because she was born a slave herself, and fears somehow losing her position. But she is royalty in the theater. She need not worry.

  I got out of bed as she commanded me and went with her to her room. Before I could even unfasten her necklace, she ripped the silver gown off her shoulders and let it slither to the floor. She stood before me in all her naked beauty.

  “What are you staring at?” she asked, a hard smile on her face. “Do you see what it is that drives men wild with desire? Even your father—your oh-so-virtuous father—could not take this from me, and nor will you.”

  I said nothing, having learned that to respond was to risk a thrashing. I reached down to the floor to pick up the gown I would have to mend in the morning.

  I heard my mother step to the screen that hid her untidy pile of clothes, and by the time I looked up again she had donned a silk dressing gown. “I met a very interesting young man this evening,” she said, taking her seat at the dressing table and gesturing to me to remove her necklace and earrings.

  Again, I said nothing.

  “He was a handsome young soldier. I have seen him here, in the theater. I thought he looked too young and insignificant to bother with, but he was among the generals this evening. He is aide-de-camp to Napoléon himself, apparently.”

  I could not prevent my sharp intake of breath. I prayed Maman did not notice it. But when I looked up, our eyes met in her mirror.

  “I thought I would invite him to supper the next time he comes to see a performance. Would you write a note for me, that I might have it ready?”

  I’ve become accustomed to writing and reading all Maman’s love letters, all the lewd declarations from both merchants and aristocrats. She can neither read nor write. But this time... I knew who she was talking about. I would be inviting my true love to an assignation with my mother. The thought brought bile into my throat.

  Maman yawned and then climbed into bed, blowing out the candle that had illuminated the room, leaving me standing in the dark.

  I knew the way through her chaotic mess of upholstered stools, discarded shoes, and upended empty wine bottles, and so I crept from her room noiselessly.

  Today, I sit with the quill in my hand, holding it above a blank sheet of paper. I wait so long that the ink dries upon the quill, and I must clean and trim it and dip again. I could write anything I want to: Maman would not be able to decipher the letters, having disdained the exercise when Papa tried to teach her before we left Martinique.

  But he who will receive it—will his response not betray my own treachery? And what if Maman shows the letter to someone else? I have no doubt that she knows exactly what she is doing. She has seen me with him. She can tell that I am in love. She knows that in forcing me to do this for her, she is breaking my heart.

  I wonder if every woman behaves this way. When only her beauty can give her the means to live, is it not understandable that she would do everything in her power to ensure her survival—even if it means destroying her own children?

  Yet it seems wrong. There is Marianne—my one friend—to prove it. She cares for me as I imagine a sister would, even though she is poor and lowly, with no prospect of rising above her position as a dresser in the theater. Only Marianne dares insert herself between me and my mother at times, and yet she manages to retain the trust of my mother.

  If Marianne reads the letter, she will lie for me. I know it.

  And so at last I start to write. I tell him all, including that he must pretend to make an assignation with my mother. I explain it by saying that she is concerned for my well-being and does not want me to enter into an alliance where I will be cast off because I am unworthy.

  Once the letter is written, I scatter sand across it, then lift the edges and make a funnel to return the sand to the little jar. I fold it carefully, then drip the wax that will seal it so that it falls exactly across the paper’s edge. I take up the seal with my mother’s initial, but I pause before pressing it into the still-liquid red wax, the color of blood. I blow on it softly, then press my lips against the wax, feeling the heat.

  I follow this with the seal. Maman would notice if it was missing. But I know my kiss was there first.

  9

  Eliza

  Time has simply flown here at Madame Campan’s school. I didn’t expect it to be so wonderful, I confess. Our lessons are far more interesting than school in Virginia, and I have learned a great deal about society and how to comport myself in company.

  Today is the day of the cotillion. It is a tea dance, and we are to assemble in the parlor, where the furniture has been rearranged so that a few couples can dance at a time. There is really only room for one square, but it will be enough to teach the younger ones, I suppose.

  “There isn’t much space,” I whisper to Caroline, who looks bored already.

  “The point isn’t to dance, but to converse. You wait and see.”

  None of the visitors has arrived yet, but the servants have brought in the spinet from the music room and set it up in the corner.

  “Hortense has taken a great deal of trouble over her appearance,” Caroline says, nudging me in the ribs.

  Hortense stands over to the side, surrounded by some of the Blues, who are wearing their best gowns. She looks much as she always does, except that she has a string of small pearls around her neck and a little lace tucked into her bodice. It occurs to me that Caroline is being facetious. Yet unlike Caroline, Hortense’s expression isn’t bored. I think she’s looking forward to the day.

  “Does Hortense have a friend at the Collège Irlandais?” I ask.

  Caroline laughs. “I’m afraid there are few young men there! Once they’re over fourteen, they either join the army or go into their fathers’ businesses.”

  Now I understand why Caroline is so cross about the cotillion. There will be no one here for her, or even Hortense. As for me...

  My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the bell tinkling. By the way the young students are acting, it’s clear the boys have arrived. Although I’m interested, I decide I ought to pretend not to care, since that is what Hortense and Caroline must surely do.

  The younger classes all turn at once to watch the entry of the guests. I admit, they are mostly a pathetic lot! The majority of them are shorter than I am. Perhaps only three or four are my age or a little older, and one of those has a face so cratered with blemishes that I feel sorry for him. I confess I am disappointed. I had imagined the boys in Paris would be handsomer than those in Virginia.

  They march in and spread out among us, each going up to a different girl and bowing. It’s quite comical. It seems they have been given some very specific directions about what to say and do, so that it appears that each one is acting out the same little play. There are fewer of them than there are of us, so I am mercifully spared this ritual.

  I turn back to say something to Caroline, but she has wandered off. I decide to go to the tea table. There are some very pretty pastries arranged on trays, and I find I am thirsty.

  As I reach for the cup a maid has poured for me, I hear someone close behind me clear his throat. I brace myself for disappointment as I turn around.

  “I beg your pardon, but would you do me the honor of allowing me to make your acquaintance?”

  To my complete surprise, standing before me is a young man. Not a little boy. I didn’t notice him among those who entered at first. He is an inch or two taller than I am, and he has h
air of a nondescript sandy color and blue eyes. Although I prefer the looks of men who are darker, he is not unpleasant, and certainly better than I might have hoped for. I curtsy.

  “Armand de Valmont, at your service,” he says, making a pretty bow that would not have been out of place in the court of Versailles. Only then do I realize that he’s speaking to me in English. For a moment, I am nonplussed. I have said nothing yet, so how does he know I am not French?

  I put my teacup down on the table and hold out my hand to him, rapidly trying to think of what to say. “Eliza Monroe” is all that comes out of my mouth. Questions at this early stage of our acquaintance would be impolite.

  “Messieurs, dames!” It is Madame Campan. She walks among us, pulling couples out of the assembled group and drawing them toward the small dance floor. Armand and I are among them. I look around, trying to see where Caroline and Hortense have gotten to.

  Caroline is pretending to help the youngest ones with their ribbons. She is hiding, I see, from the boys. Hortense, on the other hand, stands like a statue near the spinet, where a young man sits, awaiting the command to play whatever is requested of him. She does not look at him, but I can feel her attention focused on him rather than on the rest of the company, and it makes me curious.

  But I have no time to puzzle it out. Madame places four couples facing each other on the small dance floor.

  “You have all been taught the steps of the quadrille.” She holds up a well-thumbed little book, a manual of dance, which I have never seen before. Fortunately, I know how to perform the steps. “Your mother tells me you are an accomplished dancer, Mademoiselle Monroe, and so you and the Vicomte de Valmont shall lead the dance.”

  Although I am pleased by the notice, I blush. The spinet strikes up a lively introduction, but I have hardly heard it, a little shocked to discover that my unassuming partner, who I was quite prepared to walk away from as soon as it could be deemed polite, is a marquis! He clears his throat, and I begin to dance just in time to avoid looking like a simpleton in front of the entire school and our guests.