Suddenly I hear Madame Campan approaching.
“Have the flowers been delivered?” she asks the housekeeper, who follows her into the vestibule from the parlor. When she sees me, she says, “Eliza! Why are you not preparing for the tableau? Our guests will arrive within the hour.”
Beyond the door to the ballroom the voices speak again, but more quietly.
“We must go!”
“No, I shall not abandon you again. You’re right—I was cowardly.”
“Not now!”
Madame comes closer. I hope she was too far away to hear what I’ve heard. “Are you quite all right, Eliza?” She reaches out and touches my forehead.
“Yes, madame,” I say, and curtsy. “I was only pausing to consider the stillness I must achieve in the tableau. I have never taken part in such a thing before.”
She seems relieved and looks away, clearly wanting to continue with her other preparations. She turns to the housekeeper, who is still awaiting her orders. “We must ensure that all the best chairs are in the ballroom for our guests. Call the groundsman and the gardener.” She motions me to step aside so that she can pass through the door into the ballroom.
My heart leaps into my throat. What if they are still within? And in each other’s arms! I must prevent Madame from entering, at least for a moment so they have an opportunity to escape out another door.
“Madame, might I see which flowers you have chosen?” I ask hurriedly. “I should like to take some to Caroline, to thank her for her hard work arranging the tableau.”
She smiles at me. “You have already come along so well here,” she says. “It is very sweet of you to be so thankful of the advantages you reap in being among the first young ladies of France.” Instead of opening the door to the ballroom, she leads me toward the conservatory, through the parlor.
As soon as we pass through, I am certain I hear the ballroom door open and Hortense’s light steps as she runs to the stairs. I don’t know what happened to the young accompanist. I half wonder if he has encountered Armand. Perhaps that is the favor Hortense asked of him. Perhaps they are planning to elope! If Eugène succeeds in carrying Madeleine away and Hortense becomes betrothed to the young Perroquet—oh, dear. Joséphine won’t be at all happy.
Moments later, I bring a small bouquet of lilies up to Caroline, who hardly glances at them for a moment, all her attention focused on a mirror, where she watches her maid Hélène put the finishing touches on her hair. “You had better hurry,” she says to me. “Everyone else is ready. We are about to descend to take our places in the dining room.”
“Do you not want me to help you with your gown?” I say, hoping to keep her upstairs a little longer, to protect Hortense from Caroline’s curiosity as well.
“No, Hélène can manage.” She turns to me and waits for me to leave.
Caroline—could she have a secret, too? How can that be when I have spent so much time in her company as well as Hortense’s in the last few days?
I go to my room and Ernestine helps me don the gown that has been altered enough to suggest a Grecian theme. Just as we finish, the excited babble of boys’ voices rises from the voices courtyard. As soon as they are inside, I hear the sound of carriage wheels on gravel.
“Our guests are here,” I say, waving Ernestine away and standing in front of the mirror.
I am quite surprised by what I see. Something about me has changed. I look... older. Or perhaps I just feel older. I have certainly learned much in these past weeks that has opened my eyes. Paris is a great deal bigger than Virginia.
I wait until all the others pass by my door before I emerge. Somehow, I feel the chatter of the little ones will distract me. I know Caroline is the centerpiece of the tableau, but she has given me a very good place in it. Eugène will see me. He may be in love with Madeleine, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want him to admire me. He kissed me, after all.
He kissed me. In all the excitement since yesterday, I almost forgot that. I succeeded. It was a real kiss. I now have something against which to compare all other kisses.
But it is not Eugène’s face that comes to me as I prepare to go downstairs. It is Armand’s. Armand? It seems he doesn’t dislike me as much as I first thought. And I liked it when he took my hand. He said he didn’t want to hurt me by doing what Hortense asked of him. What did he mean by that? I imagine that the next few hours will reveal much. It nearly makes my head burst to think of it all.
I take my time walking down the hallway to the stairs, reflecting on all that has happened in so short a time. I shall write a long letter to my mother about this evening.
Just as I am about to turn the corner I hear a voice.
“One moment, my dear! I forgot a detail of my costume.”
It is Madeleine. What is it about her voice that is so distinctive? Now that I have heard her sing, I hear that potential when she speaks. But there is something beyond that. It is as though everything she says is for the benefit of an audience. I admit she has captivated me.
As quietly as I can, I tiptoe around the corner. Madeleine is in one of the guestrooms and the door is ajar. I could announce myself and we could walk downstairs together. But I don’t. Instead I step quietly to a place where I can see her but she cannot see me.
I watch her lift her skirt to reveal a sort of long purse, strapped to her leg, with a flap that buttons it closed. She unbuttons the flap, then reaches for something she has hidden behind the mirror on the dressing table.
I catch just a glint of steel before she puts the object into the clever hiding place beneath her skirt. I gasp, nearly betraying my presence.
There is no mistaking it. Madeleine still has the dagger we took from the theater.
46
Madeleine
I suppose what I am planning to do this evening will only confirm what everyone probably already thinks of me. But if Eugène doesn’t take me away tonight, there is only one course of action for me. Returning to the theater is not a possibility.
The excitement of the evening sends a crackle through the air in this quiet place. Even when we all stand in the drawing room completely silent, Madame Campan facing us in her black silk gown with the white lace, I feel a thread of tension binding us all together. Someone on the other side of the group need only take a deep breath, or raise a handkerchief to dab her eye, and I can feel it.
They don’t know it yet, but they will all participate in my drama. I have written these lines for myself—an impromptu ode that takes advantage of the moment. Years of being in the theater has given me insights to people, ways of knowing how to predict their emotions.
I turn. Eliza is staring at me. Her eyes are round, questions behind them. What is it? I have tried only to be kind to her, to be grateful for her help. Perhaps she still has hope that I will consent to sing with Hortense instead of alone. I smile. She looks away, guilty. Or is it fright?
The boys have already trooped noisily into the ballroom and will soon start their patriotic recitation. They will join the audience for our selections when they are finished.
I seek out Hortense, who stands meekly in the background, making little adjustments to the young ones’ costumes. She is beautiful; there can be no denying it. But sad. How can she be so sad? I do not believe that, even with everything her mother went through during the Terreur, she has any cause for sadness now. Could she really imagine that the son of a music master is the match for her? She will undoubtedly do much better. By captivating the young Michel—for I know I have—I perform a great service for her. I intend to use him in a way that will expose his lack of real love for her. It will hurt, for a while. But she will recover.
Over there is Caroline. She, on the other hand, looks triumphant, like her brothers, I imagine. I admire her for it, but I do not like her.
Not as I like Eliza, despite her family’s unfortunate habit of owning slaves. If she were not so young and foolish, I might be friends with her. But she knows that African blood flows in my veins
and she cannot forgive the color of my skin, pale as I am. She has been brought up to expect that such a person like me is less than human. She will think differently by the time this brief performance is over.
“Ladies!” Madame Campan hardly needs to raise her voice. Only one or two whispers break the silence. “As you know, our guests are now seated. Among them—I can hardly believe how honored we have been at this time—are the first consul himself, with his mother, his brothers Lucien and Louis, his aide-de-camp Eugène de Beauharnais, and General Murat.”
This makes the entire room erupt in chatter. I feel it needling into my neck, the sound. How does no one understand that in order to give one’s finest performance, complete stillness and concentration are necessary?
The tableau is to follow the boy’s recitation. I think Caroline thought her masterpiece would be the climax of the evening. I wonder if the sound of the boys’ monotonous voices droning through the door irritates her as it does me.
Yet not all of the schoolboys are on the stage. The older one, the one who seems to have a penchant for Eliza, is standing over by the door. He has been given the task of holding it open for all the performers, I see, when it is their turn to enter the ballroom.
“You go and sit with your mother and brother,” Madame Campan says to Hortense, who has no role on the stage. She nods her head meekly and leaves by the door that leads to the vestibule, so she can enter at the back of the audience.
I confess, I am envious of Hortense. She possesses the kind of beauty that is not merely lovely to behold, but which radiates from her and encompasses everyone in its magic. I see how many eyes follow her out of the room, and without her here our costumes appear a little more drab, the level of excitement dims.
“Remember, we must walk in quickly and quietly, in the order I told you.” Caroline instantly takes charge. “And our changes of pose must be made with as little noise as possible.”
She would be furious if anything disrupted her tableau. I cannot entirely imagine why she has chosen this particularly inactive entertainment. Surely a dance would have achieved her object better. There is someone sitting out there whom she means to captivate—that much is perfectly clear. With a little more time I will discover who.
“We can view the tableau through the back,” Madame Campan whispers to me while the others file obediently through the side door into the part of the ballroom that is behind the makeshift curtain. Polite applause greets the end of the boys’ recitations, and the movement of thirty or so of them, followed by forty girls in Caroline’s tableau, creates quite a din.
I don’t see him, but I hear the young Perroquet playing some music on the pianoforte to hide the inevitable shuffling and nudging, at least one “Ow!” and a stifled “Merde!” Madame Campan takes my hand and pulls me to the door behind the guests. One of the maids—the one called Hélène, who seems to belong to Caroline—opens the door silently for us.
In the moments before the curtain slides to the floor like a silken waterfall, I am transfixed by what I see. I have never stood thus, behind an audience, where I can view the backs of their heads, the parts of their bodies they don’t even notice when they peer in the mirror.
As still as an ice statue, Joséphine sits not in the center, but a little to the side. She perches, one leg out slightly farther than the other, and from here I see that the fan she uses to hide her mouth trembles just a bit. It must be difficult for her to sit so that her head is lower than Bonaparte’s. What a study she has made of success! No wonder she will not give her children away lightly. If only she knew that I could make more of Eugène than any of the fine ladies of Paris....
Next to her is the great general himself, sitting erect and as posed as the tableau we are about to see. His hat in his lap, he taps the fingers of one hand against its brim. He is impatient. Indeed! How must it be to go from the events of the past two days to these meaningless displays?
The other generals, two of them his brothers, sit in more or less the same pose, and all either tap one foot, or look up at the ceiling, or stifle yawns. Yes, I think. You want to go and find your mistresses, let them tell you how brilliant you are and how much your dangerous exploits have aroused them. I wonder, fleetingly, if any of these generals will find their way to the Comédie Française, perhaps even ask for my mother’s company for the evening.
Only one of them does not betray boredom. It is Murat. He is a handsome fellow. I have seen him once or twice at the theater, and always with a different lady. What could be his interests here? Surely not Hortense, who has her eye upon the insignificant young music teacher.
Then it hits me. Caroline! What a match that would be. And the fact that he is here explains her determination to be the brightest star in the performance.
A tutor stands eyeing the unruly boys. He walks behind the last row, where one of the lads is about to drop something down the back of the fellow sitting next to him. The master grasps the boy’s hand and the unsuspecting fellow yelps, making everyone turn for a moment.
I catch Joséphine’s eye. She looks at me vaguely at first; then I see comprehension dawn in her expression. It hardens. I smile a little and nod to her. She shifts her glance slightly to Madame Campan, who is next to me. Something passes between them.
Hortense has taken a seat next to another young lady, not one from the school, nor even anyone I recognize from the theater audiences. She looks a little familiar, though, so I am not entirely certain. I see Hortense incline her head to the lady and speak quietly into her ear. I wish I could hear what they are saying, but instead my attention is diverted by a voice much closer to me.
“You are very fortunate, mademoiselle, in having so influential a friend as Eliza Monroe,” Madame Campan whispers in my ear. “She is naive, but I am not. Listen very carefully to me.”
I try to edge away, but Madame Campan has a tight grip on my arm.
“At the end of this performance, you will plead a headache. I have already summoned a carriage, which will be waiting to return you to the theater whence you came. The driver will have money for you—more than enough to compensate you for this evening’s performance.”
How did she find out? My performance has been flawless. Was it Caroline? Eliza? Caroline is too absorbed in her own matters to care much about me. And Eliza—no, I think she would not try to undo her one act of heroism for the sake of Eugène.
It must have been Hortense. How could she? I thought she wanted her brother’s happiness. And ensuring that happiness would leave the blushing teacher, Michel, for her. Suddenly the game has changed. I will not be undone by Hortense.
Madame Campan’s words cease with the end of the introductory music. Someone yanks the cord with a flourish and sends the curtain tumbling to the ground.
The first pose is quite perfect. A flutter of polite clapping goes through the audience. Then the schoolgirls move to the next, which is almost exactly right except for the youngest girl, who teeters a little. More applause, mixed with a stifled laugh.
After a moment, it is time for the final pose. The young girls must turn away, kneel down, and lean in a dramatic gesture, leaving Caroline and Eliza alone in the center of the stage. But they have not rehearsed on the raised platform, and as they adjust their position this upsets the balance completely. I watch openmouthed as two of the girls topple off the platform and end up sprawled on the floor, their gowns showing indecent stretches of leg.
47
Hortense
At first, I am not certain what has happened. What was initially a well-ordered assemblage of costumed girls becomes a mass of flailing arms and legs. But that is not the worst of it. The boys seated behind me naturally start to howl with laughter. And our guests...
I sense rather than see several men rise and charge toward the stage. Eugène does not, but Napoléon and his brothers and Murat—Before I have a chance to make sense of the situation, they climb over the young ones, trying not to step on their hands and feet, but almost all of the girls ar
e now crying loudly. Murat has removed his jacket and has thrown it over Caroline’s shoulders.
I caught only a glimpse, but I saw that Caroline’s torso was covered only by the sheerest of fabrics, revealing quite clearly the shape and outline of her body. She might as well be naked.
“If this is meant to be a genteel entertainment, then I must wonder about this school!” Louise hisses in my ear. She shifts, as if to rise.
I grasp her arm and keep her where she is. “Please stay. I need your help. Michel needs your help.”
She relaxes and remains seated, but keeps her eyes averted from the stage.
Caroline wears a curious expression. I’m not certain whether it is triumph or shame. Her tableau is a disaster. I should go and help the young ones, but I don’t dare leave Louise’s side. I am depending upon her to get Michel away immediately after the performance, before any damage can be done. Armand is in the dining room, ready to draw him away from Madeleine if need be, and at the same time prevent Eugène from getting to her, either. I hope he performed the first favor I asked of him: to deliver a message to Madame Campan that would reveal Madeleine’s identity.
I glance at my mother without turning my head.
She is laughing. Her close-lipped laugh, the one she reserves for important social occasions, when she will not reveal her teeth to anyone.
I am tempted to laugh myself. Poor Caroline! Whatever she planned, it cannot have been this. Just behind me sits her mother. I pretend to cough and steal a glance at her. Madame Bonaparte is as red as a beet.
Madame Campan comes running up from behind and together with the maids manages to clear the stage of sobbing girls. I wonder what she will say when this is over?
Murat leads Caroline out of the ballroom into the dining room almost tenderly. So he really does love her. I feel a pang of envy. How wonderful it must be to have one’s head and one’s heart in the same, safe place.
All the Bonaparte brothers return to their places. I see bright spots of color on their cheeks. I steal a look at my own brother. I have caught him just looking away from me. I don’t like his smirk of satisfaction. Does he think to consider himself above the Bonaparte clan because I have more sense than to display myself for all to see?
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