The Academie

by Dunlap, Susanne

  I cannot help feeling a trifle shocked. She continues. “But that is not the worst of it. Joséphine became so accustomed to admiration that she had many lovers, and has continued this habit even while married to my brother.”

  “How can that be? When Hortense is so—”

  “So virtuous? I wouldn’t assume her appearance and her character to be one and the same.”

  This is as close to a direct insult to Hortense as Caroline has come with me.

  It seems impossible that it was only a week ago that my mother and I made the trip from Paris to Saint-Germain. My life has changed so dramatically since then. I’m not certain that what I have learned is everything my mama hoped I would learn, but the lives the young women lead in France are certainly much more interesting than in Virginia.

  Caroline is quiet on our way, and so I have a little time to reflect. I asked Hortense last night about the Marquis de Valmont, thinking she might confide in me that—although he is younger than she is by a year—she is in love with him. But instead, she thought I was the one who is fascinated with Valmont. “Oh, no!” I protested. “I just saw you speaking with him, and he appears so sad in a way.”

  Hortense sighed. “He has reason for sadness. He has a great talent that his family will not permit him to exercise, and so he must do it in secret, during stolen hours of the night, with only a few candles to illuminate his work.”

  She told me that he is an artist. I immediately thought of the empty space on the wall of the school’s drawing room. “Perhaps we can persuade Madame Campan to commission a painting,” I suggested.

  Hortense’s laugh surprised me. “Even if he does not go into the army, Madame Campan would hardly encourage him to take up a trade.”

  “So how is he to support himself then?” I asked. In Virginia, young men become apprentices, or study the law or doctoring. Everyone has to earn a living, even if they come from a wealthy family.

  “Perhaps you can save him,” Hortense said, a strange look in her eye.

  I smiled and our conversation ended, but I have been intrigued since then to discover what she means by me saving someone like the Marquis de Valmont.

  After an hour or so we pull up at a fine house in the Rue du Rocher, a short way down from the church of the same name. There are three carriages outside, none bearing crests but all looking as though they are preparing to depart. We enter only to be stopped at the door.

  A plump older woman dressed in black scurries up to Caroline and greets her with a kiss. Caroline turns to me and says, “I’d like to introduce my American friend, Mademoiselle Eliza Monroe. Eliza, this is my mother, Madame Bonaparte.”

  I curtsy, but Caroline’s mother hardly pauses to glance in my direction. Instead, she takes hold of Caroline’s shoulders, pulling her down to her level and talking directly into her face.

  “We must go to Malmaison at once. At once!”

  Caroline stands upright and shakes her shoulders, as if shooing away a bothersome fly. “Why?” she asks, not making any effort at politeness or affection.

  “Because your brother is there, and so are... others.”

  “Which others?”

  “Barras. Captain Charles... the rest.” Madame Bonaparte makes a face as though she has tasted something sour. The names mean nothing to me, but judging from Caroline’s expression, they are not popular with her family.

  “I see. Then we must go at once.” Caroline turns to me. “Eliza, the servants will take care of your bag. Don’t remove your cloak. We depart immediately.”

  Instead of climbing back into the fiacre, we make the two-hour trip out to Malmaison in a much more comfortable private carriage. Caroline and I sit next to each other, with her mother across from us. Caroline’s brother Joseph and another young man climbed into one of the other carriages and left before we were quite ready to go.

  Almost as soon as the motion of the vehicle is steady, Madame Bonaparte closes her eyes and leans into the corner of her seat. Within minutes, she is snoring softly.

  “I detest Malmaison,” Caroline says. “It’s in a terrible state of repair. Or it was. The workmen were still there the last time I was forced to visit, in the summer, just after my brothers returned from Egypt. Napoléon was furious.”

  Caroline looks out the window with a cold smile upon her face. “Joséphine had spent an enormous sum on the place and at the time was planning to spend even more to make it truly habitable. And the gardens! They’re like a forest run wild. You’ll soon see for yourself.”

  I want to ask her more. Who are the people her mother referred to? By the time we have traveled the twelve kilometers to Joséphine’s country retreat in virtual silence, the questions have only multiplied in my mind.

  As we pass through the ornate gates, I gaze out the window of the carriage. “How lovely!”

  This is not the chaotic wilderness Caroline described. It is as beautiful a park as any I have seen. Caroline sits forward on her seat and stares out the other side. She slides the window down with a bang that makes her mother start but does not wake her, and leans her head out as if she cannot believe what she sees.

  On my side, I drink in the serene sight of manicured gardens and trees that have been trimmed, statuary, and peacocks strolling the grounds.

  “She must have spent a great deal more of my brother’s fortune,” Caroline murmurs.

  Soon we draw up to the main door of the château, whose proportions I note are very pleasing. Two footmen trot out in perfect unison and open the doors of the carriage. Caroline’s mother awakens and takes the hand of one, who helps her descend.

  “It’s magical!” I whisper. I feel as if I have been transported to a fairy-tale castle, where everything is goodness and light.

  Caroline says nothing, nor does her mother. We walk up to the double doors, which open as soon as we reach them.

  A maid appears to take our cloaks. We hear men’s voices coming from behind the closed doors that lead off the vestibule to the right, opposite another pair on the other side. In front of us is a curved marble staircase, and everything gleams with fresh paint.

  “You are the only one who can do it! You are the hero of the hour!”

  “You do me too much honor,” comes a response, in a clipped, accented voice.

  “It is my brother!” Caroline whispers. Her face glows with genuine delight. All signs of petulance are gone.

  “The question is how to manage it,” the first voice says. “You need stalwarts by your side, because there may be trouble.”

  “You know I can be counted upon. I have shown myself willing to die for you,” says a third voice. And I recognize it. It is the young man I overheard at the ball, and whose picture sits in a frame upon Hortense’s desk. It is Eugène de Beauharnais, Hortense’s brother.

  I look at Caroline, who, with her mother, has drifted closer to the door. I think they would press their ears against it if they could, but my presence must inhibit them a little.

  “I know the men are behind you.” At the sound of a fourth voice, Caroline gasps.

  “What is it?” I whisper, going to join her by the door.

  “It’s Murat. He is here.”

  Before we can listen to anything more, a footman appears from behind the stairs, strides over to the doors, and knocks. All conversation within stops. He enters, closing the doors behind him.

  In a moment they fly open again, and this time a short man strides through, his jacket unbuttoned, a huge smile lighting up his face.

  “Maman! Caroline! What brings you here? I thought you were in school having your rough edges knocked off.” He chucks Caroline under the chin before throwing his arms around Madame Bonaparte. Caroline is still smiling, but she rubs her chin. I see that his gesture has annoyed her.

  Caroline turns her attention through the open door to the others in the room. All three of the men in military garb make deep, graceful bows in our direction, and we curtsy in return. I cannot help staring at Eugène, wondering if he recognizes
me from the ball. He is not looking in my direction, though, but at Bonaparte.

  “But, Caroline,” Bonaparte says, “where is Hortense?” He glances at me, obviously disappointed.

  “She had to remain at school to help Madame Campan,” Caroline says, a note of vexation in her voice. She recovers quickly, though, and introduces me. I curtsy to him, awed at being introduced to the most famous man in Europe. For someone with such a gigantic reputation he is very short.

  “Monroe? Monroe?” he repeats, leaning toward me and examining me with his intense, dark eyes. “Enchanté, mademoiselle. I believe your father has been to Paris.”

  My cheeks flame red at the honor of knowing the great Bonaparte is aware of my father. I wish I could think of something to say, but words simply will not come.

  Bonaparte turns away abruptly and addresses his mother. “We are nearly finished here. If you would wait in the music room?” He steers her in the direction of the doors on the other side of the opulent vestibule.

  The footman opens the doors and we step through.

  “Caroline! Madame!”

  Seated at a harp as though she were posing for a picture is a beautiful woman I immediately recognize as Joséphine. Close by her side, perched on a footstool, sits a gentleman, also in uniform. He picks up some sheet music that has fallen to the floor.

  “Ah,” says Madame Bonaparte. “I see we’re interrupting you.”

  “Not in the least,” Joséphine replies, smiling graciously. “Captain Charles was about to join the others.”

  He looks up at us. Caroline turns her face away as if the sight of him repulses her.

  I am intrigued, enchanted, charmed, and curious. I only wish Hortense were here to talk to later, to explain everything to me. Somehow I think Caroline sees the situation very differently, and may be less than fair to Joséphine. I want to like this beautiful lady despite the gossip that swirls around her like tendrils of mist.

  I see them even now, reflected in Caroline’s eyes.

  12

  Madeleine

  Maman is to go out again this evening. I am so very relieved! The performance went well. She had to appear for ten bows; the audience was ecstatic. When she is happy and feels adored, I am able to relax a little.

  “So, you did not steal my scenes from me this evening,” she says, even as I take the brush from her maid and force it through her coarse, curling hair. I am the only one who can style it when she goes out in society. The French maids don’t know how to manage it, trying to force it into the smooth, Grecian coiffures that Joséphine has made famous and that most ladies now wear. I let my fingers make the tight, skull-clinging braids that achieve the same effect but keep her hair from springing wildly from its ribbons.

  “No, Maman,” I say. “I couldn’t possibly do that. You are the greatest actress who ever lived.”

  The line has lost its meaning for me, I have uttered it so often. It is a game we play, now that I am a woman. It started the time the theater director noticed this and decided to give me a more prominent role onstage.

  “I shall wear my emeralds tonight,” Maman says. That is another fiction we maintain. Her “emeralds” are ropes of green glass beads, artfully cut to catch the light. “The Duc d’Alger will soon be here. We attend un bal masqué this evening.”

  It always seems to be a masked ball with her. I suspect her gentlemen do not feel quite comfortable taking her to places where she would be recognized for who she is and yet not be somehow part of a display, an atmosphere of carnival. I fetch her mask with its exotic feathers and see that she is well wrapped up in her furs. The cough she developed when we first came from the islands has never left her, although she pretends she is only clearing her throat. One of her lovers was a doctor and brought her opium for it. She continues to take the opium, but her cough does not abate.

  “The duke has arrived,” the maid says as soon as my mother is ready. That is my signal to disappear. I do not mind that my mother does not wish her admirers to catch a glimpse of me because they might desire me. Nor do I mind that she does not want them to realize she is old enough to have a daughter who is sixteen, and a woman. I have no wish to please her elderly paramours, with their scented handkerchiefs and gifts of gold jewelry. My beloved is worth fifty of them. And I have been successful—at least in these last few days—in thwarting her attempts to lure him. He sent me back a brief note when he received mine, saying that the next time he came to the theater he would ask for me, and me alone.

  As I tidy away the pots of makeup and wipe the spills from the dressing table—a task that should fall to the maid, but Maman has always made me do it—I remember the day I met him. It was after my first real performance, in which the director had cast me not as an urchin on the street or a child in the background, but as the daughter of a nobleman. My mother had protested, but he managed to smooth her ruffled feathers by making her a handsome present of a painted fan.

  I had few lines to say, but one of my scenes required me to sing a simple song in the drawing room, an interlude between the dramatic romance of which my mother was the heroine.

  When my song was over, the audience erupted in rapturous applause. I looked toward the wings, where the theater director stood. He motioned me to stand and bow, so I did.

  That night I received the worst beating of my life. Maman’s blows cracked two of my ribs, and my face swelled so that my eyes were mere slits.

  She told the director that I had caught a bad cold because the costume I wore did not cover me enough, and that she had her own island medicine to tend to me. I remember hearing her tell him, through the door behind which I lay on the floor without even a blanket to cover me, “She is all I have. Please do not expose her to such danger again. If she is to go upon the stage, she must be wrapped in shawls. And singing—it is out of the question.”

  But she was too late. He—my love—had seen me, had heard me, by chance on that night. It was Marianne who came that evening to tell me that a young man had asked for me. My mother made her send him away, but kept the flowers he brought. White roses.

  The young man returned, night after night, asking why I no longer appeared onstage. Marianne greeted him, managing to keep him away from my mother after that, realizing that it would be better for me if she did. I so wanted to go and talk to him, and would have managed it with Marianne’s help. But my bruises prevented me. I did not want him to see me in such a state.

  Finally, three weeks later, I again had a role to play upon the stage. But my mother had her way, and I was the poor foundling once more. The audience hardly noticed me. I was just as glad. I had no wish to suffer a beating again.

  “Mam’selle Madeleine. Psst!” Marianne whispered to me as I made my way up to the dressing rooms to shed my costume and do my chores.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “He’s here!”

  She didn’t have to say his name. I knew who it was. Quickly, I let my ragged shawls drop to the floor. Marianne scooped them up and pointed down the stairs. “I told him to wait there.”

  I blew her a kiss as I went to him.

  At first we stood in awkward silence. I could not stop staring at his face. He was so handsome! And such kindness in his eyes.

  “Would you... permit me...” He could hardly stammer out the words.

  I stepped forward and placed my fingers upon his lips. They were soft and delicate. He kissed my fingertips so lightly I hardly felt it. Then he took my hands in his, and we simply gazed into each other’s eyes for what seemed a long time. I saw sadness in his, and longing. I don’t know what he saw in mine, but he drew closer to me, and I knew he wanted to kiss me.

  I looked away and took a step backward. Oh, how I wanted to kiss him! But I did not want to be like my mother. When I looked back up at him, he appeared so disappointed that I nearly lost my resolve. But I smiled at him and said, “You are most welcome to return, kind sir, although I am watched constantly.”

  It wasn’t much, but it was
enough to make him understand. He took my hand and bowed over it formally.

  Since then, there have been many kisses, each one sweeter than the last. I have fallen so deeply in love with him that I am no longer myself, but part of this wondrous creature who saw me when I should have been invisible.

  “I shall take you from here, as soon as I am of age,” he said. It was a promise. It is a promise.

  But he has been of age some months. He was in Egypt, fighting, like all the officers in France. Still, he has not come for me. I keep a small package of possessions ready for when he arrives to fulfill his promise. A handkerchief. A scarf my maman no longer wears. A Bible and a book of poetry. Warm stockings. A comb. The necklace my grandmother gave me in Martinique. It’s all I have.

  He will take care of me. I know it.

  13

  Hortense

  I feel that I can breathe more easily when Caroline is not at school, as if no one is judging me. Out in the playing field, I run about like the young ones, feeling like a child again. It is good for me. I had so few opportunities to participate in childish games when I was younger, always having to stay with my mother and soothe her troubled spirit.

  I think of Maman now, happy, I hope. Bonaparte is good for her, if she can be satisfied by one man only. The prospect of her happiness makes whatever I must endure from Caroline worth tolerating, and makes my own sadness seem less important. And I don’t believe Caroline is evil. She has simply not been brought up to care, neglected as the youngest in a family where her mother thought little of the education of her daughters.

  “Come, Hortense! Chase us! You’re the fox!”

  The young ones’ voices recall me from my daydreams, and I run, chasing but trying not to catch them, just to have them run around, laughing and screeching with delight, their cheeks glowing pink from the wind and the exercise.