The young lady I saw at the piano enters the room, closing the door behind her. “My brother has told me a little about you.”
She approaches and sits on the edge of the bed. “I am sorry to have intruded upon your household,” I say. “I had no idea Michel had a sister.” And, I must confess, I am very relieved to discover it. My imagination leaped immediately to the conclusion that the lady I saw at the pianoforte must have been his love, his true love, and that he must have written to tell me he had been mistaken about me after all. Curse Caroline for stealing that letter!
“Michel is very distressed. I can hardly console him enough for him to tell me the entire story. Perhaps you could enlighten me as to why such a famous young lady as yourself, Hortense de Beauharnais, stepdaughter to our country’s greatest general, has arrived at our door, dressed in such unconventional garb.”
I can’t quite discern what she thinks about me. She has sympathetic eyes, but she does not smile. “You have the advantage of me,” I say. “You know my name, but I do not know yours.” I am reluctant to unburden myself to Michel’s sister, who is after all a stranger to me. And I know how protective sisters can be of an only brother.
“Forgive me, of course. I am Louise Perroquet. There are only three of us, with Papa. Our mother died when we were both children.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, a little ashamed that I know so little of this man I love, who I am ready to elope with this very minute if he will have me. “I believe I may have misinterpreted something. Your brother and I... we love each other. But he sent me a letter through your father, and I began to read it, but was interrupted. The letter vanished before I could form anything but a vague impression of what it said.”
I don’t want to tell her more. I still don’t know how she feels about Michel and me.
“It is unlike my brother to enter into a secret correspondence. Still more strange that my father would have permitted it. I wonder why it is that my brother has not mentioned you to me before today. We share all our secrets. He is devoted to the family.” Her eyes shine with pride. I realize then that she considers me an enemy, a rival, someone capable of undermining the security and safety of their family. I understand how that feels: not wanting anyone to upset a fragile balance of affection. “Such an omission would indicate that perhaps you have misinterpreted his intentions.”
The words hit me like a slap. No! In the times we have been together I cannot have mistaken his feelings. Something else is going on; I know it. I can say no more to Louise. “Where is Michel? I must speak with him.”
“He has left the house to give a music lesson to the daughter of a wealthy merchant. She is a dear friend of mine, and I have long cherished the hope that she would one day be my sister.”
Clearly, Louise will do everything in her power to obstruct Michel’s and my love for each other. “I must return to the Académie. I fear I ...” I look down at my uniform, now splotched where my tears have fallen.
“Please select one of my gowns to wear. Corinne will help you do your hair. I’m sorry not to invite you to stay for a dish of tea, but I have calls to make.” She stands. She is very pretty, but there is an edge of sadness around her eyes. She curtsies, no more than a dip, says, “Good-bye, Mademoiselle de Beauharnais,” and turns away from me.
“I must know something before you leave,” I say.
She stops and looks over her shoulder at me, not willing to interrupt herself for more than a moment. “Yes?”
“We have never met before, so how can you dislike me so?”
She takes a deep breath before speaking. “With a father and a brother who are both musicians, it is left to me to take care of the practical matters of the household. I know what kind of woman my brother must wed to ensure his happiness and the security of my father and myself. And that is not someone like you.”
“How can you know what I am like?”
She flares her nostrils. I can see she wishes she could say what is in her heart, but will hold something back, out of respect for her brother’s feelings. “One need only reflect upon your mother’s life, her blatant disregard for economy and desire to be admired by all men, to have a sense of what a man like my brother might suffer at your hands.”
She turns and walks away quickly before I can say another word.
36
Eliza
I am quite astonished at the freedom of traveling dressed as a man, and on horseback as well. At first when I started to gallop away from Eugène, I felt exposed, almost naked. Sitting like that atop a horse, my legs free to move without skirts clinging to them, seems almost indecent. That and the lingering memory of Eugène’s kiss combine so that I am no longer certain who I am. Am I a young American girl on an adventure? Or a boy soldier who has just witnessed the making of history? Am I a foolish young lady with hopeless dreams? Or did I just receive my first real kiss from someone I love?
The events of the morning have become more and more unreal as I ride, yet I became more and more accustomed to sitting astride. I stopped wondering, after a bit, where Hortense had gotten to, and what happened with Caroline and Valmont. Everyone I pass takes it as a matter of course that a young soldier would be riding a horse on the highway to Paris, looking as though he is on some urgent business or other.
Even the sentry at the city gate did not question me further when, as Eugène suggested, I said I was on Bonaparte’s business.
Now I find myself walking my tired mount through the streets. He hangs his head, foam dripping from the corners of his mouth near the bit. Poor beast. Before I deliver Eugène’s message I must find a place to give him water and food. The actress can wait.
I see a stable and deposit my horse there with a groom, tossing him a coin and telling him I will return. I find my way to the nearest fiacre stand, climb like a schoolboy into the first empty one I find, and ask the driver to take me to the Comédie Française.
He cracks his whip above the horse’s flanks, and we trot off for about a minute, if that. Then he stops.
I look out the window and call up to him. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” I ask, now irritated at the fellow.
“Ici la Comédie Française,” he says with a mischievous shrug, pointing to the building to our left, with its columns along the facade and an alley beside it.
My face burns. How was I to know I was close enough to walk here? My mother and I took carriages everywhere when we were in Paris together, so I have no idea what is where.
I step down and fish in my pocket for a coin, but the fiacre driver, perhaps thinking he’s taking pity on a green young man going to pay court to an actress he admired when he was among his comrades, waves me off and walks his fiacre forward, where it’s quickly engaged by someone else.
Brushing some dust off my sleeve, I go toward a door where I see men entering, most clutching bouquets of flowers. I assume because it’s easy for them, it will be easy for me to get in.
At first, all is well. The door is not locked, and I step through it into a dim interior that smells of perfume and sweat.
“What do you want, soldier?” says an old man in drab clothing who is seated just inside. He sticks a leg out to prevent me from climbing the stairs.
“I have come with a message for Madeleine de Pourtant,” I say, mustering all the authority I can.
He looks me up and down, an expression on his face I can describe only as disdain. What disdain! No one has ever glared at me like that! “Mademoiselle de Pourtant is not receiving visitors.” He points to the door I came through.
“My message is most urgent,” I say. I ought to be glad not to be able to deliver Eugène’s words of love to his mistress, but I am furious at being treated like this by a mere servant. I will not be denied. “I am under strictest orders by my officer to see that she gets it.”
“I’ll take it to her,” he says, reaching out his hand and grinning, revealing several gaps where teeth should be.
I don’t know what to say to this, and am about t
o protest, when a head peeks through the door at the top of the stairs. “Alors, Gric, what is all this fuss? Has Adèle’s gentleman arrived yet?”
“Only this little cub here who insists he has a message for Madeleine.”
The lady steps through and gasps. “Come up quickly, young man! She is waiting most anxiously.”
I can’t resist looking down my nose at the surly Gric as I pass him and take the stairs two at a time.
The lady who saved me grabs my hand and pulls me through a maze of corridors. I hear snatches of voices practicing songs, the beat of a cane against the floor as dancers rehearse, and a deep male voice declaiming some lines I recognize—from a play by Molière my mother and I saw together before she left. It’s as if the magical world one sees on a stage has been shaken together and tossed on a table like dice.
Before I know it we have entered a room so chaotic and colorful I don’t know where to look. Candles burn even at this time of day, before mirrors that reflect their points of light and make everything glow. Heaps of gowns in vibrant colors hang from hooks and strew the floor. Before each mirror are pots of white lead, red lip stain, lapis blue powder for around the eyes. A lady looks up at me with half her face painted and the sight frightens me. The contrast between the white of the lead makes the other half of her face appear dark as night. She laughs. There is something familiar about her.
“Is Madeleine still up there?” my guide asks, ignoring her.
The half-painted lady sucks on the end of a pipe and blows out a plume of aromatic blue smoke before answering. “Yes. Crying. I’ll show her why she should cry soon enough!” She jerks her head toward the ceiling.
Suddenly I recognize this lady. She is the very same one Caroline and I saw at the masked ball! The one who tried to engage with Eugène, but was spurned by him. Swathed in dirty robes, her face so strangely made up, she looks like a different creature.
I make a move to leave the dressing room and seek out Madeleine, but the lady at the dressing table stops laughing and leaps to her feet, grabbing my arm. Her eyes roam over my entire body. I swear it feels as if I am meat hanging in a butcher’s shop and she’s looking for the most succulent bit to have sliced off. “What’s your name, lad?” she asks, her voice now sweeter than I would have imagined possible.
“Madeleine! Madeleine! The messenger is here! You must come down!” I hear my guide outside in the corridor.
I want to listen for a reply, but my attention is dragged away again by the half-painted woman. “I asked you a question. It’s impolite not to answer. I am Gloriande,” she says, blinking rapidly in a coquettish gesture and putting out her hand to be kissed. I cannot ignore this gesture, so I take her hand. I notice it is well veined, that of someone much older than her face appears.
I bow over the hand, not intending to actually kiss it and hoping my trembling from the strain of keeping up my disguise isn’t too obvious. But who am I? How can I answer her question? I never planned on having to give a name! I seize upon the first man’s name I can think of. “Émile,” I say. “Émile Gouin at your service.” I hope I’ll be able to remember what I’ve told her in case I need to repeat it.
“How old are you, Émile?”
I realize I am very small and there is no trace of a beard on my face. She must believe I’m just a boy and is trying to embarrass me. If only she realized how wrong she was!
But I am saved. A sound draws our attention to the door of the dressing room, where I see a girl standing, a defiant look on her face. She appears not much older than my fellow Blues at school. Her eyes—a beautiful deep brown, impossibly large and rimmed by long, dark lashes—are red and swollen from crying, and her hair is disheveled. This must be Madeleine, the object of Eugène’s love. I am surprised, and somehow touched.
“Marianne says y-you have a m-message for me.” She is hiccuping still. She must have been crying for hours. I am frozen in place. She reaches her hand out to me, and I quickly find the folded and sealed paper Eugène gave me. I walk to her and give her the note.
Suddenly she takes my shoulders and plants two wet kisses on my cheeks—wet mostly because of the tears still streaking her face. “I’m to wait for a reply,” I say. Seeing how sad she is makes me want to cry, too.
Madeleine tears open the seal and unfolds the letter, her eyes burning into the page as she reads as if her life depends on it. When she gets to the end, she sinks like a wilted flower to the ground and presses the letter to her chest.
“Are you ill?” I ask.
“Yes, she’s sick. Sick to death!” Gloriande’s voice is harsh once more. “She has conspired against me. She wants to leave the theater, she says. Why? Because of her precious Eugène, whose mother spends so much money on herself she can give him none of his own for presents that he might shower upon Madeleine.”
“Maman, tais-toi!” I’m shocked to hear Madeleine address this woman as her mother.
It’s almost impossible to believe that this dark, deep-voiced creature is the mother of the woman Eugène loves. I cannot help myself. My mouth drops open.
The older lady gives a snort of laughter. “I can read, can’t I?” She fishes in the pocket of her gown and pulls out a filthy scrap of paper.
“Ma chère Madeleine. Words cannot convey my feelings for you. I hope to carry you away soon, but first I must satisfy your mother’s carnal wants....” She is not reading, I realize, but making up the words.
“How dare you! You don’t know what he says—you can’t read!” Madeleine leaps toward her mother, but Marianne stops her.
In an instant Gloriande is on her feet. She raises her hand and slaps Madeleine hard, leaving a red handprint on her cheek.
Without thinking, I step between mother and daughter. Marianne has shrunk back out of the way. I don’t blame her; I’m not certain myself what will happen next.
Something shifts inside me. All at once I realize that Eugène has not been ensnared by a scheming actress, but genuinely loves this young girl who, I imagine, has been thrust upon the stage for her mother’s sake. I feel the horrible difference between her situation and mine, and I want to help her. I must think fast.
“Stand away, Gloriande,” I say, feeling brash to address a woman my mother’s age by her first name. “Madeleine is coming with me.”
I feel Madeleine’s delicate hands grasp my shoulders and she breathes into my ear. “I cannot! She will send them after me. But thank you.”
“We are going to leave now, and Madeleine will not return.” I say it as if I can really make such a thing happen. I wonder, briefly, if the courage comes with the uniform.
Before I realize what is happening, I feel Marianne press something into my hand. It is a dagger. I hold it out menacingly toward Gloriande, who takes a step back.
I reach back with my other hand and grasp Madeleine’s hand firmly. Keeping her behind me, I make us back away from Gloriande. When we reach the door, we turn and run. It is my turn to lead someone quickly through the maze of corridors above the Comédie Française.
Once she realizes I am serious, Madeleine does not resist, but helps me find a different way out that will avoid the nasty gatekeeper, Gric.
Soon we are out on an unpaved Paris street. Madeleine throws her arms around me and says, “Merci, merci, merci!” planting kisses on my face between each word.
I gently push her away from me, holding her off so I can look in her face. “I am not who I seem,” I say, “but you can trust me.”
“Where will we go? Where is Eugène?” she asks.
“We’ll go to Saint-Germain-en-Laye,” I say, knowing I must return to school. “Eugène is still at Saint-Cloud.”
The excitement fades from her eyes. “So it was true. About the coup. But his mother, Joséphine. How will we ever...?”
“I don’t know. But we can’t stay here. I’ll tell you the rest on the way.”
I decide it’s best for us to go in a closed carriage rather than try to make the broken-down horse bear the we
ight of two. Soon we are on our way back to Madame Campan’s. I have no idea how I shall explain what I have done, who Madeleine is. What is more, I have no idea where Caroline, Valmont, and Hortense have gotten to by now.
We sit in silence part of the way. Once the gates of Paris are behind us, Madeleine turns to me. “You’re a girl, aren’t you?”
I nod, thinking I may as well start the tale then, but she puts her hand on my arm to stop me.
“And you’re in love with Eugène.”
Now it is my turn to weep. Madeleine comforts me the rest of the way to Saint-Germain.
37
Hortense
As I put the finishing touches on my retransformation into a young lady who attends Madame Campan’s school, I still feel the sting of Louise’s comments about my mother.
There is some truth to what she says, and yet... Louise—like the rest of the world, it seems—does not know the full horror of everything my mother has been through. Maman clings to luxury as a way to stave off want, and she does it not for herself but for us, for me and Eugène. I know this. I see it with my soul.
And yet ... Surely we would be as happy if she could simply have wed any of the soldiers or merchants who have fallen in love with her? We could live in peace and security, and Eugène and I could both marry whom we want, rather than have to live up to her idea of who is worthy of us.
A timid knock at the door. “Entrez.”
It is Corinne, the maid, come to see if I need help with my hair. I decline politely and descend to the front door.
The house is clean and simple, but not without its touches of luxury. A painting hangs on the wall of the vestibule, a pastoral scene. A shepherdess brings a basket of fruit to a shepherd. I can tell by the light that it is evening, implying that the two are lovers. For a moment I imagine the pair is Michel and me, and soon my view is misted over with tears I must try to hold back.
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