“Who else is here?” I shouldn’t interrupt, but I must know.
“Murat, Sieyès, Captain Charles, Joseph Bonaparte, and your brother.”
I notice that Eliza casts her eyes down when she mentions Eugène. Has something happened? “Is my brother well? Tell me, please!”
“Oh! Yes, exceedingly, I believe.”
Now she is blushing. Ah, I see it. Poor Eliza! She is smitten with him. Who wouldn’t be? I think Eugène the handsomest young man in France. But Eliza is very young, and I believe he is in love with someone else. His last letter—before he was injured—hinted as much. Should I tell her? Perhaps not, since she has not yet confided in me. “What were the gentlemen saying?”
“That the Directoire is ineffective and has nearly bankrupted the country.”
“That is hardly news. But the Directoire is our foundation, our government that is not a monarchy and that so many were sacrificed for.” Including my own father, and many of our friends.
“I don’t know, but I had the feeling that Sieyès wanted your stepfather to do something.”
“He didn’t say anything more?” I wonder if Eliza is canny enough to hide such knowledge, if she happened to over-hear something she shouldn’t.
“No, nothing. But...”
“But what?”
We are interrupted by a soft knock on the door. It is Marie, answering Eliza’s call.
“Bring us tea,” Eliza says. She’s not very kind to servants, I’ve noticed.
Once Marie has gone, I say, “You implied that there was something more.”
“Only what I saw...,” Eliza begins.
My God! She did see it? “Don’t speak of it. It’s not necessary.”
Eliza cocks her head to the side. “But I thought such things were commonplace in Paris, among the privileged.”
How can such a thing be commonplace? My heart starts to beat faster and I feel the color drain from my face. “I assure you they are not. I’m afraid my journey has tired me. I must be ready to see my mother first thing in the morning. I’m sorry to have put Marie to unnecessary trouble.”
“I did not mean to...” Eliza’s voice trails off.
“Please don’t worry. I’m just tired,” I say, turning and putting my hand on the doorknob.
“Good night, Eliza.”
She curtsies to me, her face a picture of bewildered sadness. I let go of the doorknob, take her by the shoulders, and kiss each of her cheeks. “Take care that you do not spoil your American innocence here, my dear Eliza. You have much yet to learn.”
A soft knock announces Marie’s return with the tea tray.
“We don’t want it now,” Eliza says, and waves her away. I slip a coin into Marie’s pocket for her trouble. She smiles as Eliza closes her door.
Sleep claims me almost as soon as I lay my head on my pillow but not for very long. I awaken at the first gray light of dawn.
I dress quickly and pull on my warmest shawl. The sun is trying to dispel the mist, but at this time of year—appropriately named Brumaire, or “season of mist,” by the Directoire—its attempts are feeble at best.
I pass Marie, whose night must have been as short as mine, carrying wood into the salon so that the fire is blazing when the others rise. She curtsies to me, but I see by her look that she is annoyed, despite the little gift I gave her last night. I shall have to make her another present.
I run out of the front door into the wooded part of the garden, wanting to get as far away from the house as possible so that I can think.
It is not five minutes before I see the figure of a man ahead of me and start to alter my course. But then he turns around and looks straight at me, and instead of walking away I run toward him, faster and faster, until I can throw my arms around his familiar neck.
“Eugène!” I cover his face with kisses. “I am so happy to see you well.”
He picks me up off my feet and twirls me around. “I am delighted—and surprised—to see you, my dear sister! I thought you were still at school.”
“I was, but Maman sent for me. I arrived late last night.”
He holds me away from him and looks me up and down. “You’re very thin, and you have shadows under your eyes.”
I pretend to pout. “Is that anything to say to a lady?”
“You don’t need me to tell you how beautiful you are! But I do worry. Has something happened?”
“No, nothing at all is wrong, except the usual trivial matters.”
“The Bonaparte clan is still tormenting Maman, I see. Caroline hardly said a word to me yesterday,” Eugène says.
We begin to stroll along, arm in arm. I am so happy to be with Eugène that I almost forget to notice how beautiful the grounds are, and how Maman has done so much to improve them in so short a time.
“Caroline and I have a new source of competition. You met her yesterday.”
Eugène looks puzzled. Then he remembers. “You mean the little American girl?”
“Yes. Her papa is quite important, so Maman says. He got the Marquis de Lafayette released from prison during the Terreur.”
“And I hear that he is likely to be voted into the American government soon. There is talk of the Senate, or a governorship.”
Eugène’s knowledge surprises me. “I have not heard so much, and she is with me every day!”
“Perhaps she doesn’t yet know. Bonaparte has a way of keeping very well informed. I swear the man never sleeps.”
I can’t help shivering, wondering how much Eliza guessed at last night.
“It is chilly,” Eugène says, looking up at the sky, which has not fulfilled its promise of sun. “Let’s go have breakfast.”
We turn and walk back to the house.
“There is something I particularly wanted to talk to you about.” Eugène squeezes my arm in his elbow. “I didn’t know I’d have an opportunity so soon.”
I have a suspicion about what, but I’ll let him think he surprises me. “Have you at last been promoted because of your stellar service to our stepfather as aide-de-camp?”
“No, alas. Sometimes I wonder if he even notices I’m at his side.... It’s more personal than that.” He stops and faces me. “I am in love.”
I can’t help feeling a little jealous. “Is she a beautiful heiress? A princess? A general’s daughter?” I ask, teasing him as is my right.
“No.” He smiles. “That is just the problem. I need you to help me.”
“How can I help? You know Maman would do anything for you. She will be delighted.”
“Perhaps not about this. Madeleine and I are so in love, but I fear...”
Madeleine? It is quite a common, unpretentious name. I am a little afraid of knowing more. “Why would Maman not help you if you are truly in love?”
“She is having difficulties of her own right now, and will hardly welcome the fact that her son wants to marry an actress in the Comédie Française.”
16
Eliza
Although I am tired from all the excitement of yesterday, I cannot help rising early. To be a guest in Joséphine’s house—it is simply too extraordinary an occurrence to waste by sleeping.
I summon the maid to help me dress, but no one else seems to be awake yet. I decide that I may as well take a turn in the garden, and give myself some time to absorb my surroundings at the heart of everything that is happening in France. My papa described it to me as a very volatile time, and I’m beginning to understand what he meant.
At first I think only about Joséphine. How gracious, how graceful she is! Last night at supper she had a way of making everyone at her table feel as if the entire meal, the entire evening revolved around them. Except for me, of course. Although she did make an effort to draw me into the conversation, asking questions about Virginia as though she was really interested.
But much more fascinating conversations claimed her attention, and I do not hold it against her that she paid me so little attention. No wonder Captain Charles is in love wi
th her.
I could not help noticing the way Bonaparte, if the conversation drifted at all from matters that concerned him, gazed at Captain Charles, and then at Joséphine. He did not look happy. In those moments I also saw Caroline glance over, her attention for just a moment drawn away from Murat. Could it be that there is some strife between Napoléon and Joséphine?
I am so wrapped up in my thoughts about last evening that I almost forget to notice the garden, beautiful even at this barren time of year. And I almost fail to notice altogether that I am not alone. Ahead of me on the path is Caroline. I am about to call out to her when I see her back away as if she is trying to remain hidden. What has she seen?
I stay where I am for a moment, then see another path that leads away from the main avenue but closer to where Caroline stands. I follow it. Before long, I am aware of what has stopped her. Hortense and Eugène are also in the garden, and she is listening to their conversation.
“Oh, Eugène! You know Maman will be heartbroken.”
“We’re speaking of my heart here, not hers. And I shall no doubt rise far in our stepfather’s retinue nonetheless. She need not use me as a pawn, to dispose of in marriage as she pleases. I can thrive without that. Perhaps Bonaparte will give me charge of a battalion soon. Surely she can have no greater hopes than that!”
Eugène! He is in love with someone, someone he thinks his mother will not approve of. My heart beats a little faster. Surely not ... But what if it is I? What if—like me—he was instantly smitten upon seeing me? I have heard that it can happen this way, love. Yet we have hardly exchanged glances, let alone any words of consequence.
And Caroline is smiling. Why would Eugène’s romances please her?
“Will you help me tell her?” Eugène pleads with Hortense. Her eyes are cast down. She doesn’t look pleased. Perhaps I am mistaken....
“I will try. But you know I cannot guarantee that Maman will accept a common actress for a daughter-in-law!”
A common actress? Of course he does not speak of me. How could he? But there is some comfort for me in the fact that Joséphine cannot be happy about his choice, if he has indeed truly chosen. And perhaps he will need comforting, a shoulder to weep upon, when his hopes for romance are dashed.
I am so absorbed in my own thoughts that I don’t notice that Caroline is now striding toward me. I have to decide quickly what to do. I choose to act naive, pretend I am just returning from a stroll and wish to walk with her back to the house.
“Caroline!” I call out.
She rushes forward, her finger at her lips. “Hush!” she says, grasping my arm and hurrying both of us back to the house.
“What is it?” I ask, knowing full well that she does not want to reveal her presence to Hortense and Eugène.
“Oh! Only that everyone is still sleeping, and we must not disturb their rest at this time.” She is whispering. “Joséphine does not stir until the afternoon on most days, and becomes very cross if anyone wakes her before then.”
I doubt that Caroline actually knows this to be the case, but decide to let it drop.
By now we have entered the vestibule, and a maid appears from nowhere to take our wraps. We wander into a salon, a small one, very elegantly furnished and welcoming. The pianoforte and music stand suggest this is the music room. “It’s so beautiful here I never want to leave,” I say, brushing my hand lightly over the long silk drapes at the windows. “What color is this? Does it even have a name?”
“It looks the color of a rainy day to me,” Caroline says. Indeed, I have to admit that the mist outside the window matches the fabric inside, as if there are no boundaries between one place and the other.
“Do you know that the entire army could have been supplied with new boots for the cost of decorating this room alone?” Caroline’s voice is knife-edged with bitterness.
“But Madame Bonaparte surely used her own money for this,” I say.
“Certainly not! She has none of her own. Her children—were it not for the generosity of my brother—would be penniless.” I cannot help feeling shocked, not so much by the fact that Hortense’s family is not wealthy, but by the fact that Caroline would say such things to me.
I don’t quite know how to respond, and am relieved to hear Hortense and Eugène entering the house just then.
“There is Hortense!” I cry and run to the music room door.
“Eliza! Good morning. You’re up early as well, I see.” Hortense enters, followed by Eugène. Her hair is disheveled, the bow tied around her midriff is coming loose, and there are streaks of wet on her dress. “It started to rain, so we ran all the way from the folly by the lake.” She is breathing fast and her cheeks are pink. Eugène’s too. His boots are muddy and he has left a trail of dirt on the pale carpet.
“Hortense, ring for the maid to come and clean the dirt before it damages my brother’s carpets,” Caroline says.
I exchange a look with Hortense. If I were in her place, I would say something to Caroline, who really has gone beyond rude. Whatever Caroline thinks of Joséphine, Hortense should not be treated so badly.
“There is no need. I’ll go down myself and apologize,” Eugène says, more to his sister than to Caroline.
“Oh, no!” I say, seeing a chance to do something kind for Eugène. “Please, let me.” I run to the door, but somehow trip and, to my horror, I nearly bump straight into Eugène. He must think me such a fool! Now everyone will know what I feel, that I cannot be easy in Eugène’s presence.
Before I can make my apologetic way out the door, Joséphine’s maid enters and curtsies.
“Mademoiselle, monsieur, your mother wishes to see you immediately!”
Eugène and Hortense exchange glances before rushing away to attend the summons.
I am about to say something to Caroline, but before I can open my mouth, Madame Bonaparte enters. She looks pleased as a fat cat.
“My dear,” she says to Caroline, “have you breakfasted? Do join me. I have some interesting news.”
Caroline’s mother has a strange accent, which I can only imagine is Corsican. Madame Bonaparte looks at me as if to say, Can she be trusted? I cast a quizzical glance at Caroline.
“Come, Eliza,” she says after a brief pause. “Best friends have no secrets from one another.” She takes my arm and together we cross the vestibule and enter the breakfast room.
17
Eliza
As we enter the room that has been equipped for breakfast, with dishes full of eggs and cold meats laid out on a sideboard, I am not thinking of Caroline and her mother, but of Hortense and Eugène. Why did Joséphine summon them?
My stomach gives a fierce growl. The smell of food has awakened it. I start to help myself immediately, but I stop when I see that neither Caroline nor her mother is eating anything. They take their seats and sit in silence for a moment. I bring my half-full plate to the table, wondering if it’s all right if I take some nourishment.
“You know that your brother has finally seen that the whore has been unfaithful to him.” Madame Bonaparte glows with pride. I am shocked. Joséphine? Unfaithful? Surely the admiration of Captain Charles is simply that. And yet, I remember the way Bonaparte looked at her last night.
“And how exactly did this come about?” Caroline asks, also restraining her glee, I see.
“It seems some billets doux were discovered by one of Napoléon’s servants, just last night. He felt he must give them to his master, of course.”
The two of them laugh like schoolgirls, although Madame Bonaparte is older than my own mother. I wonder if the letters are real, and if so, what they could say. Although behavior like Joséphine’s would be cause for gossip in Virginia, I have always thought such things were quite accepted here. At least, that is what Mama has told me.
Even if she does flirt with Captain Charles, Joséphine is noble, charming, and beautiful, and both of her children have kindness and spirit. What could Caroline and her mother find to object to in that? Of course
, they must be envious. Caroline is beautiful, too, but her mother, Madame Bonaparte, has a sharp edge to her. It’s in the way she speaks and moves. She seems more Spanish than French in her looks, and her French is not very good. I think mine is better.
A terrible commotion coming from upstairs interrupts Caroline and Madame Bonaparte’s conversation.
“Bonaparte! Bonaparte!”
I hear the screams of a woman. It does not sound like Joséphine, but I cannot imagine who else it might be. The three of us sitting at the table look at each other and we all jump up at once. I cast one longing glance at my plate of breakfast, but it’s not enough to keep me there when clearly something important is happening up above us.
Madame Bonaparte goes first, followed by Caroline. I keep a slight distance behind them.
We sweep up the curved staircase and follow the corridor to its end, where Napoléon has his suite of rooms, just opposite my guest chamber. I can’t believe what I see before me. Joséphine is on her knees, a handkerchief clutched in one fist and a crumpled letter in the other. On either side of her stand Hortense and Eugène, looking down at their mother, who is now rocking on her heels like a lunatic.
“Mother, please come away!” Hortense speaks soothingly to her. So far they haven’t looked up at us. How embarrassing it must be! I could never imagine my mother displaying such volatile emotions.
“Bonaparte! There is only you! Chéri! Think of my children,” Joséphine continues, heedless of anyone around her.
Eugène sees us first and his face hardens. I shrink back. I don’t want him to think I’m enjoying this spectacle.
“This is a family matter,” he says to Madame Bonaparte.
“Yes, I believe it is,” she replies, standing her ground.
“Maman, come with me.” Hortense is trying to pull her mother to her feet, but Joséphine will not rise.
“You speak to him, Hortense, ma petite! He will listen to you. He loves you like his own daughter.”
The Academie Page 8