The Academie

by Dunlap, Susanne

  My mind is so occupied I nearly miss the turn down the dark alley. The stink here is unbearable. Opium eaters too far gone to walk soil themselves in the gutter. I cover my nose and mouth with my shawl and knock the special signal on the small door. Three rapid taps, followed by two more widely spaced.

  The peephole opens.

  “It’s me, Madeleine. I have money, for the medicine my mother requires.”

  I’m sure they know that I know it is not medicine, but we keep up the pretense. The peephole closes, and a moment later the door opens a crack and a hand reaches out for the coins. “Not until I have what you promised,” I say. Once before, I gave the money and the door shut. No amount of knocking would open it. The beating I received when I returned remains a painful memory.

  We enact a careful dance with our hands. I snatch the parcel that holds the soft lump of opium just as I relinquish my three coins. The door snaps shut. I hurry away, jumping over a man who is so completely motionless I think he must be dead.

  My feet have wings as I run over the cobbles and rutted dirt of the Paris streets back to the Salle Richelieu. I don’t dare seek out Marianne, but go to my mother’s room straightaway. I find her pacing up and down, on the edge of that state of panic she was in when she threatened me before.

  “Why have you been so long! Give me the medicine.”

  I know I must stay out of her grasp, so I toss the package to her and run. Fortunately, she is so desperate for the relief the drug gives her that she does not follow me.

  Now to find Marianne.

  She is not in her usual places. I see evidence of the work she has done in the tidy dressing rooms and the corridors that have been swept clean. But I do not find her. I call out, “Marianne!”

  There is no answer. Then I hear the sound of a broom swishing across the floor. I rush around the corner toward the noise and see Marianne hard at work.

  “Where is he? Did he come?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

  “I... do not believe so.”

  I grab her shoulders. “He must be here! He said he would come!” I find myself shaking her, hard.

  She takes hold of me. “He has not come.... He may not come.”

  I release Marianne and back away. I know she is right.

  He is not coming, or he would be here by now. He promised, and he broke his promise. I must get away. I must go somewhere. I run to my attic room, the only place I feel at home.

  30

  Hortense

  Eliza and I don’t dare utter a word. Yet our silence only angers the sergeant more. He takes us into a nearby tent.

  “What do you have to say for yourselves, eh? You were instructed to be ready for action, and you don’t even have the basic equipment you’ve been given just an hour ago. What did you do with your muskets? Your daggers? Are you Jacobin sympathizers?” His voice rises with each question. I see Eliza’s lower lip start to pucker and fear she will cry. I would squeeze her hand but I don’t dare reach out.

  The sergeant paces back and forth in front of us, covering the space inside the tent in three long strides each way. “You should be whipped. But I see you’re young. Not even shaving yet! What do they mean, giving me mere boys to train? I suppose it’s all these damned foreign wars....”

  He stops talking directly to us, instead fuming about the army and Napoléon, wondering what the army is doing at a château that’s perfectly peaceful when they could be out drilling for the next war. We must find a way to get out of here, and quickly. It is only a matter of time before someone discovers we are not who we appear to be.

  Eliza jumps at the sound of a harsh command from right outside the tent. The sergeant stops his pacing and squares off to us. “I’ll deal with you when this is over—whatever it is.”

  He turns smartly and leaves us alone in the tent. Eliza immediately runs toward the exit.

  “No! We can’t just dash out,” I whisper to her, although my caution is unnecessary. There is such a noise of tromping boots on gravel that no one would hear us even if I shouted. The massed army is moving forward.

  Although I cannot imagine that Caroline ever thought such a predicament would arise, this only compounds her misdeeds in my eyes. She must have been the one to take the note from me. She must have seen it—and seized the opportunity to torment me by taking it. I expect her to hold it over my head soon. If only she would tell me what it said!

  And now she has left us alone in the midst of unfolding events that only she can understand, since she is the only one of us in a position to watch the proceedings.

  My thoughts return to Michel. I badly need to see that note, to determine if my own actions later today will have the results I desire, or if Michel’s intentions are not honorable.

  But I can’t do anything about Michel with Eliza to look after and no idea how we will get away. And if someone discovers that we are in disguise—it turns my stomach to imagine how we might be taken advantage of.

  “Shh!” Eliza says. “I hear someone coming!”

  Indeed, the march of a single pair of boots approaches, and we turn to face the entrance, dreading what will happen next.

  The tent flap rises to reveal Valmont. He has a musket on his shoulder, which explains why he was not similarly hauled up for unpreparedness. He eases it off and lays it on the ground, shaking out his hand and rubbing his shoulder. “I’m afraid lifting a paintbrush is not so strenuous as this.” Eliza runs toward Valmont and flings herself against him. He looks a little shocked, but I see him pat her kindly before he pushes her away.

  “Hush! This is no time for tears. Come with me, and I’ll show you what Caroline is doing.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “Perhaps it’s fortunate you are with us today.” I look at Eliza as I say this. Since she was the one who met him to get the breeches, I can only imagine that her words gave our plans away.

  “We don’t have muskets,” Eliza says.

  “I know where to get them.” Valmont gestures for us to follow him outdoors. “I’ll explain what I’ve discovered on the way.”

  I see that now all the soldiers are closer to the château and facing in one direction. I imagine that whether or not we are armed doesn’t make a bit of difference now. No one is looking toward us. They are all concentrating their attention on a single door, as if they mean to march through it together.

  “They have all arrived,” Valmont whispers. “I followed Caroline and saw them enter. The Council of Five Hundred must already be inside the main château, but the Directoire is in this building here.” He points. His words are clipped and efficient. I find myself a little irritated that he has somehow taken charge of our excursion. But I have my own plans, of which he knows nothing.

  Although I know that what’s happening beyond that door will change everything for the entire nation, right now I don’t care. All I want to do is find Michel. I turn to Eliza. “I think we should not stay together. I’ll see if I can spot another way into the building.”

  Valmont nods. “We need to get inside if we are going to discover what they are doing. But first we must furnish you two with Charlevilles, like mine.” He pats the barrel of the rifle. “Then we can take our own separate ways. Eliza and I can try to find Caroline.”

  He leads us to a tent where a store of rifles lies stacked to the side. I admit, I am a bit puzzled by Valmont’s consideration for Eliza. It continues in the tent, as he helps her hoist the rifle to her shoulder. I swing mine up with ease. My mother taught me to shoot during the Terreur, when we were all fearful for our lives.

  Once we are equipped, we stride forth together as if we belong there. I nod to Valmont, who nods back. Swiftly, I turn as if I know where I am going and leave the two of them behind.

  “I want to go with her!” I hear Eliza whisper just before I am out of earshot.

  I glance behind. Valmont is pointing ahead and saying something to Eliza. He is distracting her from me. Does he know what I am about? Could that be why he has taken Eliza under his wing? />
  I see Eliza square her shoulders, trying to look as much like Valmont and the other men as she can. Her actions melt my heart a little. She is so young! I almost call her back to me, but then I realize I have no choice. The steps I have already taken have led me on from here. I turn away and leave them to their adventure.

  31

  Hortense

  Forgive me, Eliza, I think as I watch her disappearing with Valmont into the columns of soldiers. She is concentrating on not faltering under the weight of the musket, which is indeed quite heavy. But I have other things to accomplish. My future—and my future happiness—depends upon what occurs in the next few hours.

  No one is looking back. All eyes are forward on the drama that is taking place within the château. I take my chance and lean my musket against a stone wall, then follow the trail of horse droppings to what I hope is a stable.

  How will I dare? I cannot permit myself to imagine. I must simply act, and hope that what follows justifies the means I will have to employ.

  To my satisfaction I see that I have located the palace stables. With most of the activity centered on laying siege to the Directoire and the Council of Five Hundred, no one is taking much notice of the courtyard or the stable building.

  I enter the dim, warm space. The smell of horses has always soothed me. The sweet hay mixed with polished leather reminds me of happy hours riding over country fields and through the woods. When I was young, I would jump upon whatever beast I found in the paddock, my bare legs against the smooth barrel of the horse. I did not mind, then, about propriety.

  It wasn’t until I went to school that I was forced to ride sidesaddle like the others.

  But now, that early freedom will stand me in good stead.

  A stable boy starts to his feet when he sees me. I can tell that he has been napping on a bale of straw. Imprints of it are still upon his cheek. I have to think fast, before he has a chance to question me.

  “I must take a message to Malmaison,” I say, not able to think of any other place within easy riding distance that might be believed. “Saddle that mare for me, lad.”

  Either I am more convincing than I feel or he is simply accustomed to following the orders of anyone wearing a uniform, because in a matter of moments he leads the chestnut mare I spotted out of her stall and brings a mounting block to her side. I step upon it and swing my leg over, urging her forward with a twitch of my muscles, and we soon leave the stable boy behind.

  I am not certain of the way, so I stop at the first crossroads, where I see a peasant driving his donkey cart to market.

  “Excusez-moi,” I say, aware that I am perhaps more polite than the fellow is accustomed to. “Can you direct me to Saint-Germain-en-Laye from here?”

  He takes off his cap and slowly points along the road. “Take that way; then, when you see the tavern, turn right. It’s only four kilometers from there.”

  I thank him and continue.

  This is the first moment I have had since everything began yesterday to consider what I am about to do. Without having had the opportunity to read the note from Michel, I cannot be certain that it was a proposal. And yet, everything in his face, and in the attitude of Monsieur Perroquet’s words to me, convinces me that it can be nothing else.

  I know with every pound of my horse’s hooves on the packed dirt road that I am certain to alienate myself from my mother forever. I have always tried to protect her in my way, to be loyal to her whatever others are saying. Much of what she has done since being released from prison has been for the sake of Eugène and me. She does not want me to suffer the deprivation and degradation she suffered at the hands of my unfaithful father.

  Yet by pushing me into the arms of a man I do not love—just as she was sent to be a wife at the age of fifteen to someone she had never before met—she does exactly that. I am convinced it was the lack of affection between Maman and Papa that led to her troubles, nothing else.

  Sooner poor than miserable, I repeat to myself, making a rhyme of it and then a tune, and then imagining the evening hours when Michel and I will sing together, our children fast asleep in their beds in our small but comfortable house. His father, Monsieur Perroquet, makes a good living as a music tutor, after all. At least he appears to. He arrives at the school in a coach and dresses in silks.

  By the time Saint-Germain comes into view it is full day. Even though I am disguised, I must avoid the street where the Académie is located. It would not do to make liars of all three of us. We are supposed to be in our beds, nursing illness from eating something spoiled at Malmaison.

  I slow my horse to a walk and meander through the back streets until I reach the Rue Saint-Pierre. I wish I could make myself invisible, but a lone soldier on a horse is not the most common of sights in this quarter, and I soon find I have an assortment of children following along, singing bits of the “Marseillaise.”

  “Allez-vous en!” I say, hoping my voice sounds sufficiently gruff. The smaller ones back away. I feel wretched that I have frightened them. One of the older boys remains where he is and casts me a defiant stare.

  “You!” I say. “Which one is number thirty-six?”

  He steps forward and salutes me. “I shall be a fusilier one day, like you. My name is Hippolyte.”

  “Well, then, Citizen Hippolyte! Can you direct me to the house I seek?”

  “Is the music master in trouble? I should like that. He is such a fop.”

  I cannot help the flush that floods into my cheeks and must make my voice harsh to convince the boy that it is anger, not embarrassment. “That is no affair of yours. I merely pay a social call.”

  His shoulders droop and he points to a modest house diagonally across the street.

  “Be a good lad and look after my horse for me?” I say, swinging my leg over and dismounting. Instantly Hippolyte’s face is transformed and beaming with pride.

  “Yes, sir!” Another salute, which I return, and then I walk to the door of the house where my fate awaits me.

  32

  Eliza

  Valmont and I keep pace with each another, although his strides are much longer than mine. We are almost at the front of the columns of soldiers, when suddenly a sergeant I cannot see cries, “Avant!”

  I feel everyone around me step forward like a single creature, musket barrels like trees pointing into the misty air. I glance around me to see if I can tell where Hortense has gone, but I cannot find her.

  The rifle is so heavy it makes my arm shake. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to hold it like this, and then I will be certain to give away that I am not as I appear. I don’t want to look weak in front of Armand, who—for a painter—makes a very convincing soldier.

  I catch quick glimpses of the men’s faces. They are all concentrating on what is happening ahead. There is no mirth, no softness in them. They would have little sympathy for a young girl who is on a silly adventure just for the sake of chasing after a young man who probably thinks no more of her than a pet dog.

  I struggle not to let the sudden realization that I am on a fool’s errand overwhelm me, but focus on finding Caroline again.

  “There she is!” Armand whispers. I feel his breath on my cheek and follow his gaze. She is right at the front, near the door to the gatehouse. How did she manage it?

  “How will we reach her?”

  “Stay right next to me,” he says. I confess, I’m glad he’s here. With Caroline and Hortense off on their own, I’m not sure how I would manage.

  Staying as close to Armand as I can, I begin to march as if it is my duty. To my surprise, the men seem to sense us coming and step aside so we may pass.

  Soon we are nearly level with Caroline, but just as we start to move toward her she darts into a passage between the two buildings: the smaller one, the gatehouse, where she said the directors are being held, and the main château, where the Council of Five Hundred wait, all unsuspecting that something dramatic is about to happen.

  I start to follow Ca
roline, but Armand puts his hand on my arm to stop me. “Best to leave her to it,” he says. “I think we might be able to see something this way.”

  The door of the gatehouse opens, and I see a tight-knit group of men in uniforms covered in braid and ribbons marching around the side from the front. It is the generals, being led by Napoléon. He is noticeably short among the other men. I watch as one by one the leaders of the French army enter the building. I see Louis and Lucien with Napoléon, as well as Caroline’s Murat. Where has she gone? “Hmmph!” I say.

  “What?” Valmont says.

  “Oh, nothing. I just noticed Murat.”

  “Caroline’s beloved,” he says, surprising me. I wonder how he knows. But of course, he and Hortense spoke for quite a long time at the cotillion. Perhaps she gave him a lot of information.

  We have gradually moved forward, pushed by the press of men behind who want to see what is happening. Armand nudges us into a better position to get a glimpse through the door.

  At first, all I can see is the backs of the generals and their aides-de-camp, still clustered inside the gatehouse. I wonder why I have not seen Eugène, who would surely be by Napoléon’s side. A sentry stands with his musket stock resting on the ground, looking straight out over the heads of the massed army.

  “Now just follow me,” Armand says.

  Before I can ask what he is doing, he steps smartly forward to the door. I do as he does, summoning all my courage.

  “Halt!” the sentry says. “Only the generals and their ADCs are permitted within.”

  We stop. What now? I hold my breath, wondering if Armand will say anything.

  He salutes in a crisp gesture. They must teach them at school, I think. “I have an important message for Lieutenant de Beauharnais,” Armand says.

  The sentry looks us up and down. “You won’t find him in here! He’s gone off in that direction.” He points away from everything.

  This time we both salute, and step a little back.