The Academie

by Dunlap, Susanne

  I stop to catch my breath and cast my eyes around the fenced-in lawn. On the far edge I see a young man on a horse looking over the fence at us. I don’t know why this stranger makes me feel self-conscious, but I smooth my hair back into place and call out to the girls, “Let us play a quieter game.” They cluster around me, and before I make them sit in a circle I glance back at the horseman.

  Then I realize that he is no stranger. It is Michel, the person who has been occupying my dreams from the moment I first saw him. He stares at me. I can feel the imprint of his gaze as if he had his finger on my cheek. Just before I look away, he puts his hand to the brim of his hat and makes a slight bow. I am thankful that he is too far off to see the blush that suffuses my neck and face, and that running in the fresh air is enough of an excuse if any of the young girls notice. We sit to play our clapping game, and when next I raise my eyes to the fence, he is gone.

  Supper is quiet. The exercise has made some of the youngest ones so tired I can see their eyes drooping at the table. Madame signals to the matron of the Pinks and the Greens to take them up to bed.

  I spend as little time as I can sewing and listening to Catherine read from a book of memoirs before retiring to my room. My candle lights the way up the broad staircase, since the sconces have been doused earlier.

  At the top I spy the shadow of a person by my door. For an instant, my heart races with fear.

  “Mademoiselle Hortense!”

  It is Geneviève. I breathe again, although my hand trembles. I don’t understand why she is whispering. “Yes?”

  “This is for you.” She looks up and down the corridor to ensure that no one is watching her and gives me a small, folded paper.

  I take it from her. “What is it?”

  “He asked me to deliver it personally.” She does not answer, but scampers past me to the door that leads to the servants’ stairs at the other end of the hallway. I enter my room, glad to close the door on another day and be alone with my turbulent thoughts.

  I sit at my desk and open the paper, which is not sealed. I wonder, briefly, if Geneviève has read it.

  Dear Mademoiselle Hortense,

  Forgive the presumption of writing to you, only I do not know when we will next have an opportunity to speak. My father has assigned me some of his pupils to teach, and you are not among them. I fear his reasons are only too wise, since I have been able to think of nothing but you since we met.

  I am only a humble music teacher, and if you say the word I will never address you again. But I cannot help feeling that your heart reached out to mine in those brief times we have been in each other’s company.

  If I can hope at all, please come to the gates after eleven this evening, so that I may assure you of my eternal regard.

  Yours with respect and admiration,

  Michel Perroquet

  Although I am alone, I blush, but not with shame. I have been hoping for this! Some acknowledgment that he feels as I do, that there is a possibility of something fine and noble between us. I thought perhaps he simply chanced to be in the vicinity earlier, when I saw him beyond the fence. But he must have come to deliver the letter.

  His words are passionate. But is he sincere? Does he assume that I have had lovers already, and therefore dares to make my acquaintance in such a bold manner? For it is bold indeed. He must know that he could compromise me by sending a letter, that the very fact I have read it puts me in a difficult position. Surely he would not take such a step if he were not truly in love with me.

  I hear the clock in the vestibule chiming eleven. I reread the last portion of his letter. Should I meet him? That is even more dangerous a request. Apart from any damage to my prospects, his father could be dismissed—losing a valuable source of support—if Madame ever found out.

  Then something else occurs to me. I try to beat back the little demon of suspicion that nips at my imagination. What if this is an elaborate trick planned by Caroline to further blacken me in Madame Campan’s eyes? To make me leave the school in the dead of night for what I think is an assignation, and then have me apprehended. She has done many things as bad, if not worse, and I am afraid that I must face the possibility.

  Yet I know facts about Caroline that could similarly ruin her. I could, for instance, tell Madame Campan that she and Eliza stole out the other night, and that she sends letters regularly to General Murat—despite her brother’s prohibition.

  No. Caroline has too much to lose. And the handwriting is not hers. Besides, when I read the lines again, I see such sincerity in the words, as if the writer could not bear to wait any longer to profess his love.

  I fetch my cloak from the wardrobe and, quiet as can be, I tiptoe down the stairs and out through the front door.

  As I approach the gate, locked at this hour, of course, I see no one standing there. I slow as I reach it, counting myself foolish for being duped. I should have trusted my instincts, the ones that told me he could not love me after so short an acquaintance. Someone, somewhere, is laughing at my expense, even if it is only the spirits of spurned lovers.

  With a deep sigh, I take hold of the iron bars and rest my head against them. Their coldness soothes my hot brow.

  “Hortense?”

  It is a man’s whisper. I gasp. A figure emerges from the shadows and walks toward me. Michel! Soon he steps into a pool of moonlight, and I see his eyes shining.

  “It is you! I didn’t dare hope.” His voice, though quiet, trembles with emotion.

  “Shhh!” I say. “I cannot stay long.”

  He moves very close, so close that I can feel the warmth of his body, catch the impulse of his breath on my cheek. “A moment is enough. Ah, Hortense!” He takes my hand and pulls it through the bars of the gate, planting the most delicate of kisses on my fingers. I draw my hand back. “Your hand is so cold!” he says. “You came without your gloves.”

  I realize at once the implication of what he says. I am not acquainted with the ploys of love. My mother, I realize, would have burned the letter and ignored him until at least two more made their way into her hands. “I only received your note a few moments ago, and didn’t want to miss you.”

  “The sound of your voice has been in my ear ever since I heard you sing. I thought I would perish having to be so near to you the other day without being able even to speak to you. I can no longer hear any other voices, including those of the young pupils I teach, and have made a terrible job of it lately.”

  I don’t know whether to believe him, but cannot take my eyes off his full lips, his deep eyes. “We should not meet like this. We are permitted to receive guests at tea on Sunday. Perhaps you would honor me...”

  “I would lie here and let horses trample me if it meant I could see you again!” he says, too loudly.

  “Hush!” I put my finger to his lips. He closes his eyes and kisses my hand again. The blood races to my face and weakens my knees.

  I am about to tell him that I must go when I hear something. Horses’ hooves, and the squeaking of carriage springs. Most unusual on this quiet road at this hour. “Go—now!” I say, turning and running back into the school. I look over my shoulder once. He is still there. I will him to disappear into the darkness as I enter the vestibule and run silently up the stairs.

  I reach my room, panting with exertion and excitement. I dip my fingers in the basin of cool water on the stand and splash it against my face, dousing the fire in my cheeks.

  The carriage I heard does not pass by, but draws up at the school gates. I hear the coachman calling out to be admitted. Who could it be at this hour?

  The footman makes his way slowly to the gates. I look out my window, watching as he carries a lantern across the courtyard, his ring of heavy keys dangling from his hand.

  The carriage pulls in and I recognize the crest. It is Bonaparte’s. Could Caroline have returned so soon?

  But no one descends. The coachman speaks to the footman, who returns inside. I hear some commotion. Madame Campan is awakened.r />
  “Who dares disturb us at this hour, after all the pupils are abed?” she says in her crispest, most authoritative voice.

  “Madame Bonaparte sends her carriage for her daughter, Hortense, who is required to attend her on most urgent business,” the footman replies.

  I sit at my desk, pretending to be writing a letter when Madame Campan’s soft knock follows. “Come!” I say.

  “Ah, you have not yet readied yourself for bed, I see. Just as well. Get your things. Your mother needs you,” she says with a smile that is not unkind, although I know she is vexed to have been disturbed.

  What could have happened? I wonder. Maman has never before sent for me so urgently. Perhaps she is ill. Or something has happened to Eugène.

  It is no use fretting. I will find out soon enough. I close my eyes and lean my head against the side of the carriage, distracted by the memory of Michel’s gentle kiss on my fingertips.

  14

  Eliza

  Chère Maman,

  You will be amazed—and pleased, I think—to hear that I am staying at Malmaison for three days. Caroline Bonaparte invited me. Hortense is not here, but I have met General Bonaparte, the Vicomte de Barras, Joséphine Bonaparte, and Madame Bonaparte, Caroline’s mother.

  Also staying here are General Murat, Captain Charles (the less said about him the better...), Joseph Bonaparte, and Eugène de Beauharnais.

  Eugène! I could not believe it when I saw the miniature on Hortense’s table, but it was indeed he whose unfortunate scene I witnessed at the ball. But here, even after we were properly introduced, he did not seem to recognize me, so he must not have noticed me at the ball. I am relieved. I would not want him to think I knew something shameful about him. He is much too noble to carry shame.

  Eugène is older than Hortense, but only by a little. The difference in our ages is not very great, not if there is love.

  What am I saying? He barely looked at me today. We sat opposite each other at the dinner table, but he spoke only to General Murat, who was on his right. Poor Caroline—her brother Napoléon made her sit as far away as possible from Murat. She was next to old Barras, who leaned into her and stared down the front of her dress the entire evening. I suppose he was handsome when he was younger, but I don’t like that thick-lipped French look. And he took the measure of every woman in the room except me—but then, I suppose in his eyes I am not yet a woman.

  And I also suppose I should be grateful that I am not the center of attention here. It gives me the opportunity to observe closely without the others taking much notice. Since I took little part in the conversation at the dinner table, I could listen and try to remember all that was said.

  There was a great deal of talk about the Directoire. No one seems to think the directors are doing their jobs. Even Barras, who is chief among them, believes there should be change.

  “But we cannot return to the old system! Monarchy would set us back a hundred years,” said Murat.

  I looked at Caroline to see her reaction. Barras was doing his best to block her view, but I could see she was torn between trying to guess what her brother thought and watching Murat. He is indeed handsome, I must admit—especially compared to the Bonaparte brothers and Barras. But I still prefer the looks of Eugène.

  Mama, Eugène is magnifique! How can I begin to describe him? His brows are delicately arched over eyes that are both dark and clear at the same time. He has a noble nose with flared nostrils, and lips that are fine and beg to be kissed....

  I suppose I had better not write that to my mother. I have plenty of paper, so I crumple up the second street and start anew. She will be more interested in the conversation, which touched on matters that will affect all of France and perhaps the world.

  Oh! I almost forgot to tell you. There was another man present. He was very quiet, but when he spoke, everyone paid attention to him. His name is Sieyès. He was the one who first started the talk about the failures of the Directoire.

  “They have bankrupted the country through their bad management,” said Sieyès.

  Murat spoke up next. “They have not eliminated the monarchy, but have become a pentarchy! Five people with only one head among them!”

  This made everyone laugh, except Barras, who is the leader of the Directoire right now. After that, he had to speak.

  “I know the weaknesses of our present system. The needs of the country have outgrown it. We need a stronger central government, one that can manage the workings of our new nation in all its complexity.”

  His comment reminded me of the many similar conversations I have heard at our own dinner table in Virginia.

  Everyone agreed with that, and then Joséphine stood, so we ladies had to leave the men to talk. I wish I could have stayed behind.

  But I did see something interesting afterward, when the men all entered the grand salon. Joséphine had been playing her harp and singing to us. She has a lovely voice, and I just couldn’t help looking at her the whole time. It’s not that she’s extremely graceful or even as beautiful as Hortense, but there is something in her expression I find completely irresistible. I did think it rather unkind of Caroline to whisper throughout her performance.

  The men greeted Joséphine first. I watched them, trying to guess which of them might be in love with her. Barras, for all his ogling, didn’t seem to be. Napoléon’s face lit up with pride when he saw her. Captain Charles is smitten, obviously so, if for no other reason than that he tried very hard to act uninterested.

  It was the quiet Sieyès who surprised me, though. He held her hand a little longer than the others did, and I saw that she put a small note into his palm.

  I wonder if Caroline noticed it? She doesn’t like Joséphine at all and makes no pretense about it.

  My hand aches from writing so much. I hope my mother appreciates the way I keep her informed of everything. I shall have to finish my letter tomorrow, though—

  Heavens! What’s that? A carriage has just come into the courtyard. It is well past midnight and everyone has gone to bed. Who would arrive at this hour?

  A glance out the window reveals only a cloaked figure stepping down from a carriage. I glimpse a lady’s dainty shoe, and the door below opens right away.

  There is little noise in the house. Whoever just arrived does not want to disturb anyone, so cannot be carrying vital news. I slip my arms into my dressing gown and crack open the door to my bedroom, listening for some telltale sound.

  I see a flickering glow advancing up the stairs. I retreat a little, leaving my door open just enough so that I can see but not be seen, and I wait.

  A lady’s gloved hand, then her entire figure still enveloped in a traveling cloak rounds the corner from the stairwell. A moment later the candle illuminates her face.

  It is Hortense! I don’t want to startle her, so I wait a little longer, hoping she will pass my door and I can whisper to her and draw her in. I cannot imagine what has made her arrive so mysteriously in the middle of the night.

  I watch her approach, preparing to beckon her when she is near enough. But she pauses at a door on the other side of the corridor. I see her lift her hand to knock, then lower it, as if she cannot decide what to do. She takes a step to continue, then turns abruptly back and knocks softly.

  A moment later, the door opens, and Bonaparte himself steps out, wearing a black brocade dressing gown. “Hortense!” he whispers.

  “Maman sent for me,” she says, and looks down at her feet.

  “And you came to me first?” he asks.

  In the dim light, it is hard to see, but I detect a faint blush in her cheeks. “I trust you to tell me what is happening, whether there is some real emergency or something Maman has imagined.”

  He shakes his head. “It is unfair of her to involve you. These are matters between us, alone. I advise you to go to bed and think no more of it.”

  “Think no more!” Her voice rises, and Napoléon touches his finger to her lips. It seems as though she leans into that t
ouch, very slightly.

  What is happening? Can Hortense have feelings for her stepfather? Or is it the other way around? My heart pounds with confusion and shock. I must do something to prevent an indiscretion.

  I open my door wide, yawning as if I have just heard something that awakened me, hoping Hortense does not realize I have seen her. “Ah! It is you, Hortense! I heard something and thought I would see.”

  “We will speak in the morning,” Napoléon says, with a slight inclination of his head. Before I can greet him he has vanished behind the closed door of his bedchamber again.

  “It’s been a lovely day, Hortense. Come and sit with me a while and I’ll tell you about it. Perhaps someone will bring us tea or warm milk.”

  I can see Hortense is embarrassed. I reach my hand out to her. She takes it without a backward glance and steps with me into my room.

  15

  Hortense

  How much did Eliza see? I am so ashamed. No one knows that this is the reason I have chosen to spend so much of my time at school, when I really don’t need to continue my lessons.

  “Sit a moment,” Eliza says. I see the questions in her eyes, and a little shock. Who would not be shocked? Although Bonaparte is only my stepfather, I should not be so drawn to him.

  “Thank you,” I say. “But don’t let me keep you from your bed. You have had a tiring day, too.” Best to pretend nothing happened.

  She smiles and goes to the bellpull by the fireplace. I hear the tinkling far away in the kitchen. No doubt someone will come soon. I’ve already awoken them with my arrival.

  “I was up, writing to my mother,” Eliza says. “Why have you come in the middle of the night?”

  Well might she ask. “My mother sent word asking me to hasten here immediately.” Her note had implied that something important was going to happen, and that she wanted me by her during that time.

  “I think you are right,” Eliza says, slowly pacing around her room and rubbing her hands together against the cold. “I’m not certain, but there was talk at dinner among the gentlemen—”