If only he knew that I am like Caroline at heart. I have done everything I could today to ensure that Michel will not bestow his affection elsewhere. In fact, the only difference between Caroline and me is that she has chosen someone to whom her mother cannot object.
For a moment I hope that the disaster of the tableau will curtail the evening’s activities, and we will go directly into the parlor for the light refreshments and champagne Madame Campan has planned.
But then, once the stage is cleared, she stands in the middle of it as though nothing at all has happened.
“If you would be so kind, we have a much more suitable entertainment yet to come. Please take your seats for an anthem, composed by our own dear Hortense de Beauharnais in honor of the occasion....”
Polite applause. Everyone is bored already after the momentary excitement. Madame Campan motions me to stand and take a bow. I oblige. I see my mother’s questioning look; she would naturally expect me to sing it. I turn my eyes away. Let her discover for herself.
“I did not know you wrote this anthem,” Louise says. I sense an ounce of admiration, and look at her.
“I exist for music. It is the only thing I care about. That’s why I am going to help your family.”
She looks puzzled. I don’t bother to explain.
With becoming modesty, Madeleine walks out from the dining room and stands in the center of the raised platform, her eyes cast to the ground. I cannot help looking directly at Michel at last. How I wanted it to be me up there next to him! What a fantasy I had, to prove to my mother that, despite our difference in status, he and I were meant for each other. Now, instead, I plot his removal from the scene, and prepare to betray my own brother’s love.
My view of the stage mists over as Michel plays the introduction.
It’s good, I know. I am not unaware of my abilities, small though they are. I notice even the generals sit up a little straighter at the stirring sounds.
Madeleine starts to sing.
For such a slight creature she has surprising power. I can hear it more readily now that I am not separated from her voice by a wall. Not only does everyone listen, but all inch forward in their seats.
I wonder about Eugène, how he feels to see his beloved here, and turn to look for him.
He isn’t there. When did he leave? It must have been just as Madeleine appeared.
My mother. Could she know? How? And yet the look on her face—rigid, expressionless. She can’t have said anything to him.
Madeleine is soon completely absorbed in her performance. She does not look at the small group in front of her, but reaches out with her voice and her emotions to some audience far beyond. The words I meant to convey so much to Michel she now gives to Eugène. And yet—he’s gone.
At the shrine of Mary,
They both make their vows,
This desired union
That will make them happy.
A union, I think, that both Madeleine and I have wanted. She clasps her hands together and holds them out beseechingly, then opens them as if she is letting a songbird go free.
Everyone in the chapel
Says, when they see them:
Love to the most beautiful,
She looks at me, but not with love. I see something in her eyes that disturbs me, but do not know how to interpret it. I feel not as if she is singing my song to the crowd, but at me, as though it is some kind of weapon she will use against all of us.
She pauses before the final line of the anthem. Michel inserts a flourish at the pianoforte. They have practiced this moment.
Madeleine kneels down, her fingertips brushing the floor as she catches the hem of her dress.
Honor to the most valiant.
After Caroline’s daring gesture, I thought the evening would be calmer. But I am badly mistaken.
As Michel plays the final chords, Madeleine reaches beneath her gown and pulls out a dagger, brandishing it high in two hands, its tip pointed down toward her breast.
Everyone gasps. There is a rattle of metal as the soldiers in the room reflexively reach for their swords. The entire front row stands, a wall of blue coats and white breeches.
Silence. Or near silence. Madeleine breathes hard, her chest heaving. She takes a step toward my mother. Napoléon plants himself between them.
“You think, all of you, that love is simply another game to be played on the board of life. You think that a broken heart is no more deadly than a piece of chipped crockery.”
Madame Campan, who had taken a seat at the front but slightly to the side, makes a move toward Madeleine. “My dear, no one—”
“Taisez-vous!” Madeleine commands, changing her stance. Now she crouches, the dagger in one hand out in front of her, directed toward Madame Campan. She slowly arcs it across us, aiming it from person to person. When the dagger is pointed at me, I swear I can feel its tip graze my cheek, although it is two meters away.
“I did not plan to be here. I should have been many miles away from this place by now,” she says, with a slight shake of her head, her eyes now unfocused, combing the small audience for Eugène.
She does not see, as everyone else does, that he has entered behind her through the side door, his pistol raised and aiming at her heart.
I grip the edge of my chair. Michel! Surely he will do something?
He has left his seat at the pianoforte and now cowers behind it. My heart drops like a stone. Is this the man I thought I loved? First his sister has the power to prevent our union, then he becomes enthralled with a stranger because of her beautiful voice, and now he is not man enough to leap forward and wrest the dagger from a delicately built actress’s hands.
I flick my eyes over to Eugène. He has taken a few noiseless steps toward Madeleine so that he is almost close enough to reach her.
“Now you shall allow me to leave with my beloved in peace. He is here. I know he will come for me. He promised....”
Tears wash down her cheeks. Her nose starts to drip. These are not stage tears, I realize. She is desperately in love!
I must help her after all. I can’t deny Eugène such happiness. “Eugène, no!” I cry.
Madeleine whirls toward him. The dagger catches his hand, but no blood flows. In his shock, his soldier’s instinct faultless, his finger squeezes the trigger.
Madeleine falls to the floor. A pool of blood quickly forms around her.
This time, no one moves.
48
Eliza
Sitting here, in my room, the whole day seems like a dream—or a nightmare.
After the disaster of the tableau. I waited in the drawing room with the others, embarrassed for Caroline, who appeared not to be in the slightest disturbed by what had happened. But she and her General Murat were simply standing to the side as if nothing had happened. He held his uniform jacket closed across her ample bosom. She looked so happy. It was a daring gesture on her part, and it appeared to have worked.
The young ones were buzzing with excitement, clearly wanting to talk it over. They seemed torn between disappointment that the tableau was over, and thrill that something so scandalous had happened in their very well-behaved school.
Of course, they didn’t know what we three have been up to in the past few days. Nor did they suspect that something even more scandalous would occur only a few minutes later.
I wanted to listen to Madeleine sing. I felt I had been uncharitable toward her, ever since I discovered where she was from, what her background was. Clearly, I thought, she is talented and feels deeply. She has also suffered abominably at the hands of her mother, and has had the kind of life I would not wish on an enemy.
Besides, if Eugène had fallen in love with her—the most noble, handsomest gentleman in France—then surely I could accept her.
And of course, I could not restrain my curiosity concerning the dagger I saw her hide under her skirt. I assumed it was simply there in case she needed it when they ran away together. I was certain that was her pla
n. Eugène would hear her sing, fall even more deeply in love with her, and together they would flee the school and run away to be married. The idea was so very romantic, if so very sad.
As I crept around to the door at the back of the ballroom to hear Madeleine’s performance, I had almost decided that if she could not manage to get away with Eugène, I would bring her back to Virginia with me. Perhaps, I thought, she could help me persuade my mama and papa that we should free our slaves and give them a wage for working in our house and on our land. After all, Mama wanted me to gain a French education, and the French have decided that slavery is evil. I wondered how many of our slaves, given a chance, might be like Madeleine—talented and intelligent.
But as I started to make my way to the other door, Eugène walked through. He saw me and bowed in a friendly way.
“Eugène,” I said. I wasn’t sure what to say next.
“I see you delivered my message to the Comédie Française. I confess, I did not anticipate that it would have such an outcome.”
Of course, he had not asked me to take Madeleine away from the theater. I was a little ashamed. I felt my face go hot. “Her mother was so cruel, and she is so unfortunate. I could not leave her there to suffer.”
He touched my cheek. I felt the touch tingle through me, and once again recalled the soft feeling of his lips. “Do not distress yourself,” he said. “You have a good heart. Madeleine is extraordinary, and deserves better than she has had so far in life. But I received a disturbing message some hours after you and I parted, from the servant Marianne at the theater.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. In very shaky writing, it said:
Forgive me, Vicomte, but I fear my mistress, Madeleine de Pourtant, is not safe or sane. When you didn’t come, I thought she would take her own life. Now she has gone away with a strange girl dressed as a soldier, and she has taken a weapon with her. Please find her before something bad happens.
A weapon. “We had a dagger when we left. The servant gave it to us. She seemed to think Madeleine would need protection if her mother sent someone after her.” I couldn’t understand why she would now be concerned about what Madeleine might do with it.
Before he could speak further, the opening strains of the song stopped him with their exquisite beauty. “What does my sister think of her?” he whispered, his eyes misted over with emotion.
I didn’t want to tell him what I believed was true, that Hortense had decided that his love for Madeleine must be thwarted. Why else would she not have sent word to him right away, to tell him that Madeleine was at the school? Since I could say nothing, I put my finger to my lips, and we moved toward the ballroom door in order to hear Madeleine better.
Eugène was enthralled from the first note. I couldn’t help sighing.
“He is too old for you.”
I jumped. I had been concentrating so hard on Eugène, and on Madeleine’s song, that I did not notice Armand. He had left his post at the door to the ballroom and come up behind me. “I don’t know what you mean,” I said, although I knew perfectly well.
“Would you prefer it if I wore a uniform? You seemed not to dislike me so much yesterday, in Saint-Cloud.”
“Shh!” I said. But I had to admit, he was right. I think I hadn’t really looked at him properly until I saw him in his blue coat and white breeches.
I was about to make a conciliatory remark when, on the last line of the song, just when I expected that everyone would begin to applaud wildly for Madeleine’s beautiful performance, I heard instead a gasp and the rattle of swords.
In an instant, Eugène sprang forward and, noiseless as a cat, opened the door. I took a step toward him, but Armand held me back. “Don’t!” he said, then nodded toward the young ones. The two of us shepherded them back and silenced them with a fierce look.
One of the youngest, a member of the Pink class, broke free of the group and stood where she could see through the door. Her mouth opened wide. She turned and said aloud to everyone, “She has a dagger! She is threatening Joséphine!”
My God, I thought. My first instinct was to run to Eugène, but again Armand held me back. I felt cold, as if someone had put ice on the back of my neck.
I watched as Eugène crept forward and drew his pistol from his belt, holding it out in front of him as he moved farther into the ballroom.
It all happened so fast, and yet when I think about it now I see everything slowly, in every detail. Madeleine whirling around with the dagger, her eyes shining, hopeful. The sharp retort and flash from Eugène’s pistol. Her body crumpling to the floor and blood flowering around it. All the young ones screamed, and I felt an ache in my heart so intense that I couldn’t even cry.
Horrified, I turned and buried my face in Armand’s shoulder. He wrapped his arms around me and stroked my hair.
I didn’t want him to let go, but the sound of the door slamming made me push myself away. Madame Campan had rushed through and locked the ballroom door. Her face was as white as the lace on her sleeves, her lips drained of blood.
“You must all go to your rooms. At once!”
I had never heard her speak harshly before then. Everyone was so frightened they obeyed immediately.
All except for me—and Armand.
I looked up at him. “It’s all my fault,” I said. I knew it was. Would any of this have happened without me? If I hadn’t brought Madeleine back to the school?
49
Hortense
I run to my mother’s side. She leans forward, a handkerchief pressed to her closed eyes. Napoléon, Lucien, and Louis form a tight group, standing away from the stage. Madame Bonaparte sits erect. I catch sight of her expression, which is a curious mixture of horror and triumph. I wonder, briefly, how much blood she has seen shed during the course of her life.
“Fetch me my salts,” Maman says to me, but I cannot obey her. Instead, I am drawn to the stage, where now Eugène kneels by Madeleine, who lies in a crimson pool, her life draining away. I join him, not paying attention to the scarlet stain that seeps into my white gown. I pick up her hand. Her eyes are staring and her mouth opens and closes. She lives!
“Madeleine! Madeleine! We have sent for the doctor.” She does not appear to hear me. And her hand is so cold it chills me through.
“It’s no use,” Eugène whispers.
I cannot believe she will die. I lift her arm and put her hand to my cheek, rubbing her wrist, trying to keep her from fading away. I feel as if she is attempting to say something, but cannot speak. I lean forward.
More people throng the stage. I am aware of Caroline, with Murat at her side. I look up and see pity in her eyes. She must realize all too clearly that my brother, my dear Eugène, has accidentally killed the woman he loves.
“Come, Eugène, you can do nothing here.” It is Murat. He is a good man, I realize. I raise my eyes and see that his and Caroline’s fingers are intertwined. Now everyone will know that they are in love. A pain stabs my heart, as though the dagger Madeleine brandished has found its home.
Madeleine stirs a little. She tries to lift her head. Eugène leans closer, mingling his tears with hers. No one breathes.
“It ... wasn’t ...,” she starts to say, but the effort costs her too much, and she falls back again before summoning the will to speak once more. “I would never ... I only did it...” Then louder, her eyes fixed upon Eugène’s, she says, “I love you.”
Her body relaxes completely, her head tipping to the side. The hand I hold slips out of my grasp.
Eugène’s tears flow freely as he shakes his head slowly from side to side.
I sit up and cast my eyes around the room, a familiar place grown strange. Michel and his sister are nowhere to be seen. They must have run out in the confusion.
Beyond the pianoforte, I see Madeleine’s dagger. It’s near the wall beneath the long windows, where it must have flown when Eugène’s bullet hit her tiny frame. Without thinking what I am doing, I stand and walk over
to retrieve it. No one pays attention to me, because the doctor has arrived. I watch from a distance as he kneels by Madeleine, feeling her pulse, confirming she has indeed passed beyond the reach of his arts.
“Her mother must be informed.” It is my mother, the beguiling Joséphine. She stands, dry eyed. I see she is relieved to have such a troublesome situation resolved so absolutely. Yet I also see that her heart aches for Eugène, to have his dreams dashed so violently, and at his own hands.
As everyone backs away, clearly wondering what to do next, I weigh the dagger in my hand and notice something odd about it. The blade feels much heavier than the handle, as if the handle is hollow. I turn it this way and that, and notice a tiny button at the point where one’s thumb would rest. I press the button down. Nothing happens. I test the sharpness of the blade. It is quite dull. So dull that I can push on the tip of it without pricking my finger at all.
Something makes me decide to touch the blade’s tip at the same time as I press the button with my thumb.
I move the blade into the handle until it disappears completely.
“Look!” I say to everyone. All eyes are upon me as I repeat the action.
Maman approaches. “It’s a trick dagger,” she says. “I have seen them used upon the stage. To make it appear that an actor has plunged it into his adversary, the blade retracts smoothly into the handle.”
“That’s what she was trying to say,” I murmur. I cannot help meeting Eugène’s eyes. “She meant no one any harm.”
One by one, everyone leaves. Eugène lifts Madeleine’s body and carries it out to a waiting wagon. The doctor must have sent it.
At last only Caroline and I remain in the ballroom. I am too weary and sad to say anything to her. When she breaks the silence between us, it startles me.
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