I begin with confidence, knowing that first we must cross over and change partners, then return—the chaine anglaise. After that, we execute a few balancés, before beginning the chaine des dames. Madame Campan is nearby to nudge the younger girls when it is their turn. “Ladies, it is up to you to introduce a topic of conversation during the dance,” Madame says, as she taps the youngest couple to start their figure in imitation of the one my partner and I and the opposite partners have just completed.
“Where did you learn English?” I ask the marquis, in French.
“We are taught it at school,” he answers, in English. “Which is where I assume you learned to speak French?”
I can’t help feeling a bit foolish about my question. “But you speak it so well,” I say, hoping that flattery will save the day.
He nods and smiles. “We French have learned a great deal from you Americans. Including how to rise up against a monarchy.”
The figure we are dancing makes me turn away, so I can’t see whether his expression conveys sincerity or not.
“Ah,” I say, once we are facing each other again. “But the guillotine was a purely French invention.”
I hear a sharp intake of breath and catch the eye of Hortense, who has moved away from her position near the spinet and is close enough to overhear me. I feel ashamed that I could make such a comment in her hearing, remembering that her own father was a victim. And my partner is a marquis. Perhaps he lost members of his family in the Terreur. But that wasn’t my fault!
Madame claps, ending the dance in what would normally be the middle of the patterns. She motions us all to leave the floor so that others might have a turn.
“I didn’t mean...,” I say to my partner as he bows to me politely.
“The pleasure is all mine,” he says, ignoring my confusion and reciting the formula they have all been taught. He walks away and approaches Hortense, who appears to be acquainted with him. I watch their easy conversation from across the room, and my stomach sinks. What a miserable failure I have made of my first cotillion, even though it was only an artificial one. I don’t care about him anyway, I think, consoling myself with the fact that I don’t really find him attractive, even if he is graceful and noble in appearance. What’s a marquis in this day and age? I see that the cuffs of his dress shirt are worn, and when he turns away, I spy a small patch near the hem of his coat.
The cotillion drags on for an hour before the visiting students assemble to return to their school across the street. We all line up by classes and curtsy to them. I try to avoid looking at the marquis, but I can’t help it. As he rises from his deep bow, I find he’s staring straight at me and not smiling.
After dinner, while we are in the parlor once again, now returned to its normal appearance, I seek out Hortense.
“You’re acquainted with Armand de Valmont?” I ask, handing her a small pair of scissors so she can snip her embroidery silk.
“We have known each other since we were children. He is a fine young man.”
“Why is he not in the army? Surely he is old enough?”
She lifts her eyes and peers at me. “You wish all young men to go away and fight, perhaps to be killed?”
I cannot help blushing. Why must I always be so stupid in conversation? It isn’t at all what I mean! “No, only Caroline implied—”
“It is true that many young men choose the army as the fastest way to achieve glory and wealth. But there are those who have different aspirations.” She focuses on the tiny stitches and I can’t see her expression. But I notice a delicate flush has spread up from her neck into her face. It cannot be the fire; we are turned away from it. Can she be in love with Armand de Valmont?
I do not know her well enough yet to pursue the question. But if she is—perhaps there is more to him than I thought.
I think about the day and its odd events, and despite my initial impression and unfavorable encounter with the Marquis de Valmont, I find myself wondering, as I drift off to sleep, whether he or Hortense’s brother, Eugène, is handsomer.
10
Hortense
The cotillion was nothing but torture for me. I found myself forced to pretend I did not notice Michel, that I was unaware that every note he played on the spinet held a message for me. He was very polite, and very correct, and hardly looked toward me most of the time. But whenever our eyes chanced to meet, I could tell that he was trying to say something to me alone. It was the continuation of the conversation we had begun in the music room the other day, when I first met him. Something about him touches my soul. It is a safe feeling, unlike that other, which frightens me so that I can hardly breathe sometimes.
His choice of music—it cannot have been pure chance that led him to the very melodies I most adore. Yet how could he have guessed? Surely he would not have known something I have never told anyone, choosing only from his own heart songs that speak of love and desire, that imply the meeting of minds and hearts.
But I am being foolish! How can someone I have so recently met know anything at all about my heart? How can I, having thought I would never be able to imagine love, be certain that I have at last found a worthy, attainable object of my affections?
The cotillion was mostly uneventful otherwise. The only other occurrence of note for me was my conversation with Valmont. I remember him from when we were young. Maman had taken my brother and me to his family’s elegant mansion to play. I found out only later that her motive was to borrow money from them, since my father’s family had all but disowned us.
Those times were difficult, but harder ones followed. Like so many others, Valmont lost both his parents—and all his family’s wealth—in the Terreur. The relatives who care for him now are distant, on his mother’s side. They were far enough away from the aristocracy to avoid danger during Robespierre’s reign. Their pity rescued him from complete want, but now he has become a burden. They object to supporting him at school, and are pressing him to accept a commission in the army. For most young men, that would be a perfectly satisfactory fate. How surprising that Eliza mentioned it! But Armand is an artist. To become a soldier is unthinkable to him. “I want to create, not to kill,” he said to me. How I sympathized with his torment! And indeed, he has talent. His paintings are exquisite. If they would but allow him to earn his living that way, I think he could make a good name for himself. There is wealth enough in the new France to pay for skillful portraits. He says he is nearly finished with the one I sat for over the summer, but he will not show it to me until it is perfect.
His only other choice, I fear, will be to make an advantageous alliance. Valmont is handsome enough, and as he grows into a man, he is becoming even more so. He and Eliza made a pretty picture together. If she were just a little older, perhaps a match with her would be the answer. Her family is wealthy, or they would not be able to send her to school here, and as she’s American, the question of her background hardly arises. Unfortunately he disdains the Americans, blaming them for igniting the revolution here by their example. I fear he was not very polite to Eliza.
The hour is late, yet my mind will not cease its ramblings. I take out a quire of paper and line it with the special implement my stepfather gave me for my birthday last April, after I had written a song for him when he returned from the campaign in Italy. Its five nibs allow me to quickly ink in perfectly spaced lines for the staves where I can place the notes that comprise my music—an operation that used to take a great deal more time. Soon I have lined half a dozen sheets.
I pause and hold this valuable instrument, examining it, turning it over in my hand. It was so like my stepfather to think of giving it to me. He appears to be focused on only one thing: glory for France. And yet, he has been a true father to me ever since he married Maman. That is what I, in turn, must focus on. Everything he does for me is as a father, who cares for me and Eugène as if we are truly his.
And yet, Napoléon is younger than Maman by six years. And she was just twenty when I was born. Onl
y fourteen years separate me from my stepfather. Many girls marry men who are much older than they. How can I blame myself for idolizing Napoléon, who rescued us from poverty and ignominy?
Now, I hope that thoughts of Michel will drive away the hopeless infatuation I have allowed myself to indulge in for a man who is doubly forbidden to me: as the preeminent general of France and as my mother’s husband. Now, I shall let the musical link between Michel and me have expression in a new composition.
I ink in the notes on the staff I have created, letting them flow out of me. As the notes form, so do words. I close my eyes and hear the tune. But no matter how hard I try, what finds its way onto the page is not a love song. It is a patriotic anthem. I force myself again and again to think of Michel and the sweet, thrilling feelings he inspires in me, yet my hand betrays me. Before long, I have fashioned a new, stirring piece, an anthem that lauds France’s new glory.
What is love? I love France. I love my Maman and my brother so fiercely that I would do almost anything to protect them. I love Napoléon because he has been so kind to us after the fearful days of the Terreur. I have witnessed my mother fall in love in a way I could never imagine for myself, where she will set her children aside in an instant for a man who promises her protection and who adores her.
My love for my family has left little room for any other feeling, except for one. It is that quiet, personal love I bear for music. It feeds me, takes me away from the agonies of the present, letting me wander off into other worlds where all is beautiful and kind and people aren’t cruel to one another—and they don’t die. Music is the only love I have that gives itself to me without expecting or needing anything in return.
And now, Michel. He is music. And yet, he is a man. That’s what I saw when our eyes met. The possibility, just the possibility, that my spiritual love could have a physical embodiment.
What am I to do? He is only the son of the music master. He could have a noble background—there is nothing to say he does not, except that I imagine if he did his father would claim it loudly to enhance his reputation among the bourgeois families whose daughters are his students.
How strange it is that only five years ago no one would admit to having noble blood, because it could lead to torture and death. Now, as the specter of those days begins to fade, the old lines are redrawn. Madame Campan treats her aristocratic pupils differently from the others. The nuance is subtle, but unmistakable. Those lines, I fear, will make it more and more impossible for someone like me—the daughter of a vicomte—to marry someone like Michel—the son of a music teacher.
Somehow, in this quiet hour before sleep, I have managed to complete my anthem. The melody is there, and the words, and I have noted the harmonies. It’s a sketch only, but anyone who knows how to read such things would see on these sheets the heart and soul that created something from the mere suggestion of an idea. I cannot say where the impulse comes from; I can but attest that it takes me over with a power few would understand.
It is for this reason that I have come to an important decision. I have decided that I shall open my heart to Michel—if he wishes to receive it. It may be a foolhardy thing to do, but the time has come, I feel, to seize my life. Until now, I have looked to Maman for guidance in everything, never giving her a moment’s resistance or questioning her at all when she has said, You shall go to school here; you shall wear these dresses; you shall befriend these young ladies; you shall make yourself look beautiful for this party.... Now I shall have my own reasons for what I do. I will not do as I have done in the past: willfully ignore the stirrings of my heart and discourage the person who is the cause of them. Instead I will embrace the troubled feelings I have, and press upon them, even loving the pain they cause if that is the result.
How else will I ever know if I can take the next step, from girlhood to womanhood?
11
Eliza
Today I have my first comportment lesson with Madame Campan.
“I advise you to study the movements and actions of Hortense, Eliza,” she says at the beginning, before we have started. Everyone is there except for Caroline, who is often late.
“Let us begin with the correct manner of greeting a bishop, or other high-ranking cleric,” Madame Campan says, drawing herself up as though she is preparing to enter the audience chamber of a queen. I cast my eye around the parlor, with its old-fashioned, slightly worn furnishings. The paneling on the walls is delicately carved, but the paint on it peels here and there. Three paintings—all portraits from before the revolution, with the ladies’ hair powdered and piled up high—gaze down upon us disapprovingly. I see the faintest outline on one wall of a space where another picture hung once. Perhaps it was sold in a time of need.
I listen to the young students saying, turn by turn, “I am honored, Your Grace” or “Charmed, Your Eminence,” and realize that in Virginia there is little need for such knowledge. People are either “mister” or “doctor” or “mistress” or “miss.”
“Mademoiselle Eliza, perhaps you could tell me how to greet one of the members of our own Directoire, our equivalent to your Congress. What would you say after being introduced?”
Before I can answer that I would say, “Good afternoon, Congressman” or “Enchanted to meet you, sir,” we are interrupted by Caroline, who sweeps in, a hat upon her head and gloves in her hand as though she is preparing to go outside.
“I beg your pardon, madame,” Caroline says with a pretty curtsy, making up a little for her rude interruption before, “but I have just received a message from my mother, who insists that I go to Paris to be with my family.”
“Oh?” Madame Campan says, clearly put out that the message went directly to Caroline instead of passing through the proper channels. “What can be so urgent that you must depart like this, in the middle of an important lesson?”
“She did not say, but I believe it may have something to do with the ball she is arranging in my honor.”
A ball? Caroline has said nothing of such a possibility, and I cannot imagine she would not be crowing about it if she could. I certainly would in her place. And of course, after our late-night excursion, I know how devious Caroline can be.
Madame Campan smiles, although I have observed that she is capable of adjusting her expression to suit the moment, without letting any hint of her real feelings seep through. “Of course, Caroline,” she says. “Your future will be decided soon and you will be making such arrangements yourself. When will you return?”
“I am afraid that is not certain as yet. I shall send word.”
I don’t know why, but the idea of Caroline leaving just now, just as I am beginning to understand how things work in this school, fills me with dismay. “Must you truly leave, Caroline?” I ask.
“Yes, but I shall return soon. I will write to you every day while I am gone. Do not be downhearted,” Caroline says.
I see that she has no feeling of obligation or friendship for me, and is just as quick to drop me as she took me up. I cannot help the sigh that escapes me, and I look toward Hortense. She gazes back at me with a sympathetic expression. Could she really be so good as to understand my fascination with Caroline, even though Caroline has been revealed to me as her enemy?
“I suppose you will attend parties while you’re there,” I say, looking back at Caroline with a slight smile. I remember what Hortense said. I have a secret to keep for her.
One of Caroline’s eyebrows twitches almost imperceptibly. I see her shoot a quick glance at Hortense, then approach me.
“If she does, I hope she will practice some of her skills of discretion and conversation,” Madame Campan says, reminding me that we are not alone, but are putting on some kind of delicate ballet of hints and suggestions for the benefit of the entire school.
“What shall I do, then?” I ask.
Caroline’s face brightens. “Would you like to visit my mother with me—with Madame’s permission, of course?”
“Oh! May I? Must I ask Ma
ma first?” I turn to Madame Campan, as though it is really her decision about whether or not I go with Caroline.
“Your maman gave me permission to allow you whatever diversions I thought would be advantageous to your education,” Madame says. I can hear the “but” in her voice, though. “Tout de même,” she says, “I hesitate to interrupt your studies, so recently begun.”
“I shall ensure that she keeps up with her lessons,” Caroline says.
“Please, madame?” I clasp my hands together like a child. Perhaps that is overplaying my game, but I can see from Madame Campan’s softening expression that it has worked.
“Eh bien. But you must return in three days, regardless of how long Caroline is to remain.” Three days! Much can happen in three days, I have already discovered. I smile.
“The drawing master will be here soon,” Madame says.
“I must prepare to leave,” Caroline says.
“So must I,” I echo. Besides, drawing is my least favorite lesson. I am hopeless at it, and only frustrate my teachers. And I have seen Hortense’s work. It is very skilled. I smile at Hortense, who has the good grace to smile back.
Within an hour we are settled in a fiacre with our valises tied to the back. “Will I meet Madame Bonaparte?” I ask Caroline.
“My mother? Of course,” she says.
I realize my mistake. I should hold my tongue, but I cannot help wanting to know. “I meant, actually...”
“You mean Joséphine. Hortense’s mother.” Caroline looks cross. “Very likely. But there are some things you ought to know about her first.”
“I know that she is a Creole, from the island of Martinique. My mother told me. And that her first husband was executed in the Terreur.”
Caroline takes hold of my arm and turns me toward her, almost angrily. “Joséphine’s first husband was estranged from her almost from the hour of their marriage,” she says. “Hortense never knew him. He abandoned the family before she was born.”
The Academie Page 5