How wonderful! Hortense composes music? Every time I see her, I learn something new about her talents. I cannot help admiring her above Caroline, who seems only able to scheme and deceive—and dress beautifully, of course.
But Madame hesitates. Something passes between her eyes and Hortense’s, and Hortense looks down first. She is feeling guilty about something.
Suddenly I realize that Hortense never said where she went while Caroline, Valmont, and I were still in Saint-Cloud. And I have not had a moment to question her or Caroline about when they arrived back at the school, before Madeleine and I appeared. What secret can she have?
“When Monsieur Perroquet arrives, I shall show him your composition and let him decide.” Madame turns away and Hortense nods in acceptance.
Does it have something to do with the music master? The music master! He is such a dandy, and so old. I must ask her about it later, and take my place next to her, joining the group that is already busy turning snaking lengths of silk into stiff, ceremonial flowers to wear in our hair and on our dresses.
Everyone chatters excitedly about the news. But Madame Campan doesn’t complain once about the noise. And no one complains about the work, either. Even the ladies’ maids happily join in, fetching scissors that drop to the floor, threading needles for the younger ones....
Before long all the younger boys from across the street arrive, scrubbed and dressed in their best. Valmont is not among them. Was he discovered? Is he in confinement? Being punished?
The master from the Collège takes his charges into the ballroom, where they rehearse a recitation. I hear their high voices, one at a time, reading the words of a long poem by Racine, originally intended to glorify King Louis XIV. I think perhaps it is a little hasty. Napoléon isn’t a king, after all.
After half an hour of this activity, Madame claps her hands. “Come with me, Hélène, Ernestine. Let us confer about the dresses.”
I would far rather have to do with the costumes than the decorations. I clear my throat. “I beg your pardon, madame, but might I also assist with the costumes? I may have some ornaments that you will like to use.”
I can see that she doesn’t much care, but she is in too jubilant a mood to disappoint anyone, I think, and she lets me follow along.
We go up to the top floor near the dormitory, where a room has been set aside for all the gowns. A smell of singed fabric and starch greets us. This is where the maids iron and mend the clothing. There are long racks lined with dresses in different shades of white. Who would think such a bland color could vary so widely? Madame sets me to pulling out the whitest of them.
Caroline is already here, with one dress spread out on a table. She takes a few ribbons, places them against it, then discards them. I keep one eye upon her as I quickly accomplish the task Madame requested of me, and see her expression gradually change from vexation to triumph.
“Ernestine!” Caroline says. I am surprised she calls my maid, but then Ernestine knows a great deal about fashion.
“Yes, Mademoiselle Bonaparte,” she says with a curtsy.
“Do you think we can transform this gown into a Grecian style, like the ones on the statues in the hall? And these others, too?” Caroline gestures toward the ones I have just finished pulling from the rack.
Ernestine expertly fingers the different weights of fabric. The silk, the cambric, the voile. She purses her lips and closes her eyes, then says, “Yes. I think it can be done.”
“Excellent!” Caroline says. She turns to me and Hélène, who looks undeniably put out that Caroline has asked my maid and not her own to help her. “We shall present a tableau vivant. A little dramatic scene. Let those who wish sing some insipid ditty. The rest of us shall be the Sabine women, an allegory for the strength of France.”
Wonderful! Although I want to sing Hortense’s anthem, the idea of a tableau is much more exciting.
Ernestine claps her hands with delight. “Let us begin immediately!”
42
Madeleine
Yesterday, when I waited for Eugène and he didn’t come, the last thing on earth I expected would be to find myself here, today, with another opportunity ahead of me. Another opportunity to be with him, for him to take me away and make me his.
I feel a little guilty for playing on the sensitivities of Madame Campan and the others, but I do not have the luxury of time and resources on my side. They can spare a few tears for me, just as the audiences at the Comédie Française do. And here—my performance is free.
I think Caroline is aware of what I am doing, but perhaps that does not matter. We are alike. We are ambitious. Perhaps...
I must first ensure that I distinguish myself in the performance later. Eugène has heard me sing, but his mother, the formidable Joséphine, has not. Although she regularly attends the theater, I have not been permitted to raise my voice on a stage where I might outshine my mother, the great Gloriande de Pourtant.
“Monsieur Perroquet has arrived!”
Hortense is breathless when she bursts into the room where I have been pretending to sew sequins on white ribbons, having already instructed the kitchens and discovered that there will be ample delicious food. I have spent so much of my life hungry that I find it difficult not to steal buns from the kitchen, just so I have them to eat later. But I do not want to arouse Madame Campan’s suspicion. So far she seems quite happy to accept Hortense’s story about me.
Hortense comes to me, making an effort, I notice with gratitude, to be kind and accepting. “We must leave what we are doing and go to the music room to rehearse.”
Her eyes shine. Hortense was evasive yesterday when the others asked what she had done. She said only that she left them to try to be certain of something, and that now she was. I see by her expression that the arrival of the music master carries some import for her. Could she be in love with him? It is dangerous for one who will occupy such an exalted social station to be so obvious, so easy to read. I smile, let her take my arm, and together we go back to the ballroom.
The boys—all young—have been cleared out, leaving only a faint smell of sweat and shoe polish, to go back and have some dinner at their school. I discovered from listening to the prattle of the girls that it is directly across the street. I take my place among the forty or so girl students. How strange it is! I have never been among so many my own age. And yet I feel so much older than they all appear to be.
“Monsieur Perroquet is a very able musician,” Hortense whispers. Her voice is calm. I would almost say she sounds disappointed. Perhaps it is not this music master who interests her so deeply. Indeed, I would be surprised if it was. Monsieur Perroquet is a dandy if ever there was one, with his powdered wig and patches, all vestiges of an earlier time. I cast my eye around the room. It, too, is an echo of times past.
The music master wanders among us, moving us about, arranging us by height. This places me in the front, since I am small for my age, suiting my purpose quite well.
“Let us warm up our voices first,” he says.
Until now, the seat at the pianoforte has been vacant. Then a young man enters, head bowed, trying hard not to look at anyone. I steal a glance at Hortense. Her cheeks are bright pink and she clutches her hands together to keep them from trembling.
So that is the way of things! Not the music master, but his assistant. I take a closer look.
He is not bad looking, but in an effete sort of way. His hair is reddish, and his eyes clear gray. I prefer someone with more defined looks, like Eugène. But the young fellow’s hands are very fine. Similar, in fact, to those Monsieur Perroquet is waving in front of us, pointing and rearranging us in our rows.
The young man plays the chords that set us off on our vocalises. He must be the son, I think, and then it takes very little imagination to see how unsuitable Hortense’s attachment to him is.
Madame Bonaparte faces the possibility, I realize, of having her daughter elope with a poor musician, and her son with me, a starving actress.
It would be enough to horrify any mother. But I shall do my best to change her mind.
At first, I keep my voice small. I don’t want to call attention to myself until the right moment. Just blend into the inferior voices around me—that’s all that is required right now.
After a while, Monsieur Perroquet lets his arms drop to his sides in frustration. “Come, mesdemoiselles! I have heard you sing much better than this. I am given to understand that we will have some very important guests for the performance.”
“Monsieur Perroquet?”
The voice I recognize as Caroline’s comes from the last row, since she is one of the oldest and tallest girls. I did not realize she was there. She must have come from elsewhere, as indeed Eliza did, who stands two rows behind me. The music master bows his head slightly, giving her permission to proceed.
“A number of us will not be able to sing in your chorus, for we are to form part of a tableau instead.”
A murmur of delight and excitement ripples through the schoolgirls. I see that there is little enthusiasm for a musical ensemble compared to the opportunity to be seen in costume in a tableau.
Monsieur Perroquet tries not to look cross. “Very well, Mademoiselle Bonaparte. Will those who will be in the tableau please make yourselves known to me?”
All the girls in the white ribbons raise their hands, except for Hortense. All the Blues raise their hands as well. I imagine these are the poor Perroquet’s strongest singers. All the better for me, but I must not appear too delighted.
“Might we be dismissed to attend our own rehearsal?” Caroline asks, no doubt already assuming consent.
Monsieur Perroquet gestures grandly in the direction of the door, setting off a chorus of giggles.
Once they are gone, we are a very pathetic group, I see. Hortense is much taller than the others. I wonder how Monsieur Perroquet will handle this disruption of his plans for a uniform chorus of girls’ voices.
“Perhaps, Mademoiselle Hortense, we can have you sing a solo? Is there a solo passage in your anthem?”
Hortense brings the music forward. “I regret not, monsieur,” she says, handing him the score. I see the slightest flick of her eyes toward the young accompanist, but he stares steadfastly at the empty desk of the pianoforte.
“I have taken the liberty of copying out the parts,” Hortense says. She must have done this days ago, I think, as I watch her distribute a few sheets of music to us.
I accept mine from her hand graciously and cast my eye over it.
It is surprisingly good. I can hear the melody in my mind—and words that embody the ideals of the new France. So Hortense has more talent than one might think for a girl brought up with few meaningful skills. I will be sorry to take her brother away from her, but so it must be.
“How many of you can read this music?” Monsieur Perroquet asks.
I wait to see which of the others indicate that they can do so. Only two. I raise my hand to make it three.
“Please take those who cannot read the score to another room and teach them their parts, Mademoiselle Hortense,” he says.
The young ones follow her like lambs. Clearly she is a favorite with them.
“So, we are left with you three. I know you, Mademoiselle Sylvie, and you, Mademoiselle Jeannette. But I do not believe we are acquainted, Mademoiselle...”
He approaches me. I curtsy, making my speaking voice small and timid, like the orphans I so often play onstage. “I am Madeleine Mornay, cousin to Mademoiselle Hortense. I am visiting from Martinique.”
“Eh bien,” he says, obviously not expecting much. “Michel, the introduction, please.”
The young man at the piano begins to play. I let my throat relax and imagine the first note I must sing, so that when it emerges I have hit it exactly. And then I allow my voice to unfold in all its strength. It feels good to do it, as if I have kept a little songbird in a cage and finally open the door so it can fly free.
I hardly notice when the other two stop singing and there is only me. I pour my feelings into those patriotic words, imagining the love for my country is really my love for Eugène.
I hold the final note, gradually letting it die away to a whisper.
Monsieur Perroquet’s eyes glitter with tears. I have had the effect I desired.
Yet I feel another pair of eyes upon me. I shift my gaze a little, just enough to see Michel, the music master’s son, piercing me with his gaze.
Someone has opened the door and now I feel the weight of many watching me. I turn. It is Hortense, and behind her are the rest of the students.
She looks at Michel and then at me. I want to make her understand that I have no designs on the accompianist. But there won’t be time. The drama must be played to its conclusion.
43
Hortense
Who is this creature my brother has fallen in love with?
Her voice—it is beyond beautiful. It is unearthly. I should be thrilled that my humble composition will receive such a magnificent performance, but something holds me back.
“Hortense! I need the young ones as well for the tableau.”
Caroline interrupts my thoughts. She has been sly, but what else would I expect? This tableau—she invented it on the spot so that she would not have to be part of a chorus. She hates to blend in, and doesn’t do it well. “But what about the chorus?”
“Monsieur Perroquet has decided that Madeleine will sing alone, so the rest of us can concentrate on my project.”
I knew somehow this would be the result as soon as I heard Madeleine sing one note. “If I am to help with the costumes and the movements, I must know the theme,” I say. I wonder if she actually has one.
“The theme is the intervention of the Sabine women. You know the painting, by David?”
Her words shock me. I know the painting, and I know Jacques-Louis David. He came to Malmaison while I was there this past summer to apologize to my mother. It was he who signed my father’s death warrant during the Terreur. Surely Caroline cannot be ignorant of that fact.
I must keep my opinions to myself, though. Madame Campan has entered the salon.
“Ah! A tableau! Wonderful idea, Caroline. And Monsieur Perroquet tells me that our chorus has become a solo. I must admit I am relieved. The fewer who are required to learn words and melodies the better.” She touches my cheek affectionately as she passes. “I shall send Geneviève to Malmaison with the invitation to your mother. Have you any word to add?”
In the flurry of preparations I had not considered the coming scene very carefully. My mother will be here—she would not refuse an invitation from Madame Campan, to whom she owes so much—and she will doubtless be enchanted by Madeleine. Will she recognize her from the stage? It is risky for Madeleine to take such a chance. Risky for my brother to allow it. But of course, he does not yet know Madeleine is here.
The girl my brother loves is either very certain of herself, or very desperate.
I dare not think about my own situation. “No, I have no word for my mother. I parted from her just three days ago.” Best simply to concentrate on the task at hand. Perhaps all will go smoothly, and no one will be upset.
“Hortense! My bow has come undone!”
“I can’t hold my arm like this for hours. It hurts!”
“Ouch! Christine keeps stepping on my toe. You have to move her.”
I cannot believe how difficult it is to get forty girls to strike three different poses at the same time and remain motionless long enough for someone to understand what their frozen actions are intended to convey.
And what a message—Caroline has chosen with care. It is the moment when the Sabine women come to the defense of the men, saving them from bloodshed and destruction. Although I harbor deep hatred for the artist whose painting our scene is modeled after, I approve of the point, and so I do as I am instructed to try to bring this feat of concentration to pass.
Caroline keeps me so busy helping her manage the restless younger ones and arrang
e the decorations for the tableau that I do not realize until nearly teatime that I have been left without any role to play in the actual celebration. Even Eliza has been given a prime spot in the tableau, on one knee next to Caroline herself, who is of course the centerpiece.
And the whole time, from the music room I hear the words and tune I poured my heart into issuing from the throat of the undernourished actress who wants to marry my brother.
Worse, I saw how Michel looked at her.
I am suddenly seized with an idea. If Louise Perroquet considers me unsuitable, she would be devastated at the idea of Madeleine as a match for her brother. I know Madeleine is in love with Eugène, but what if he rejects her after all, and she turns to Michel for comfort? I am jealous, I admit, but I cannot help myself. Even if Michel and I can never be together, I do not want to hand him to this strange creature. I quickly scribble a note and ask a servant to take it to Michel’s house. And then I write another, to Armand de Valmont. He must have some sympathy for my predicament. And he knows so much already.
Of course, I cannot help thinking of my brother. When he told me of his passion a few days ago in the garden at Malmaison, I never thought I would actually meet Madeleine. I simply assumed his infatuation would spend itself in a few flowers and assignations, and he would end up marrying the woman my mother chose for him. Such is the way with many young men.
I was prepared to sympathize with him, to let him cry on my shoulder, but not to help him.
Now she is here, and I, in pursuing my own desires, made their meeting—and possibly their marriage—possible.
As recently as this morning I still held myself apart from the reality of everything. I thought only of my composition, and the idea that Michel would understand the message buried in the words, knowing how much of it was meant for him. It speaks of love for my country, of loyalty and sacrifice. But the words can easily be construed to mean love of a different sort, loyalty to a beloved individual, and sacrifice of safety and comfort for that person. I cannot help sighing. I imagined an altogether different outcome. I pictured myself singing among the pure, sweet voices of the still artless students at the school, with Michel accompanying us. Imagined him hearing only me, the chords anchoring me and supporting my song.
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