At that moment, Maman came into the room. “It won’t be for long, dear heart,” she rushed to explain. “Hippolyte needs a place to stay for a spell. He has helped us so much, I could hardly refuse.”
My heart sank.
* * *
—
Citoyen Charles called at the manor shortly after the midday meal, a bouquet of wilting wildflowers in his hand. Maman was all gracious smiles. Even Pugdog greeted him eagerly. (The traitor.)
“Good day, Citoyenne Beauharnais,” he said in his marionette voice, something I had always found amusing—before.
“Good day, Citoyen Charles,” I said civilly, without so much as a smile. Quickly, I turned away, lest he kiss my cheek.
All that afternoon—pretending to attend to my studies— I watched Maman and Citoyen Charles going over their “business accounts.” They covered the billiard table with papers and frowned over them together. Then he would say something silly, and Maman would laugh and laugh.
* * *
—
I began to beg off going to Malmaison, using my music lessons and the heavy rain that summer as excuses, but on one stormy hot day Maman sent a note to Maîtresse. I was to come to Malmaison immediately.
“Is something wrong?” I asked Mimi, putting down my wet book bag and shaking off my hat. I picked up Pugdog and gave him a cuddle.
“She’s not feeling well. She said for you to go on up.”
I put Pugdog down. I didn’t like that he smelled of violets—Citoyen Charles’s scent. “Now?” I asked, unlacing my dirty boots. Maman was strict about her afternoon rest—her “beauty sleep,” she called it.
“She insisted,” Mimi said.
* * *
—
Maman was in her dressing room, stretched out on the chaise longue, her eyes closed. She looked aged, asleep like that, without face paint. I started to tiptoe back out—I didn’t want to disturb her—but the creak of a floorboard gave me away.
“Hortense?” she said, sitting up.
“Is something wrong, Maman?” Her eyes were rimmed red.
“Come here.” She shifted over so that I could sit beside her.
Aïe. This must be serious, I thought.
“Dear heart.” She put her hand on mine. “Eugène has been wounded.”
Badly. A bomb exploded close to where the General had been talking with his aides-de-camp. Eugène was hit, knocked unconscious and buried by rubble.
“And this is true?” We heard false reports so often.
“Director Barras confirmed it,” Maman said, her voice tremulous. “For a time it was thought he had been . . . that he had been killed.”
The thought made me sick. “But he’s not?”
Maman wrapped her arms around me. “Only injured.”
That could mean so many things. “Where?”
She grimaced. “His head.”
Oh no. I’d seen the wounded soldiers, the village idiots. “Will he heal?” I knew what a head wound might mean.
“We can only pray.”
* * *
—
Maman, Mimi and I made an altar to Eugène in the withdrawing room, setting candles and flowers under the portrait I’d made of my brother long ago, the one that had made Maman weep. And now she had reason to. I imagined Eugène returned to us in a crippled state, with that vacant, unseeing stare. I imagined him thus and wept.
* * *
—
I was awoken the following morning by the pounding of a horse’s hooves. I scrambled to my window and pushed open the shutters. I recognized Director Barras’s courier. By the time I was dressed and down the stairs, Maman had reached him and was opening a missive.
“News?” I called out.
“Nothing about Bonaparte or Eugène, dear heart,” she said, examining the document. “But one of Bonaparte’s aides has died from his wounds.”
My heart stopped. “Which one?”
“Captain Croisier,” Maman said, thanking the courier and giving him a coin. “I don’t remember him. Do you?”
“No.” Grâce à Dieu.
—
Maman and I walked to the church in town to light candles. After returning, I played the old pianoforte, working on a melody I’d begun last fall, a melody I’d never been able to get right—until that moment. It infused my soul like a heavenly presence.
Music is pure emotion.
Music is prayer.
Music is forever.
Citoyen Jadin’s words. I played my composition again and again, imagining the notes flying to my brother. Imagining them giving him life.
* * *
—
27 Messidor, An 7
Malmaison
Dear Eugène,
You have been injured—badly. You may be dying and we would have no way of knowing. I can’t sleep for worrying about you. I love you so much. Please get well. Maman insists that I go back to school tomorrow, in preparation for the annual Exercice. I can’t stand the thought of all that gaiety.
Maman and I learned that an aide—Croisier by name—died of his wounds. If only news would come of all the other aides, especially your friend Major Duroc.
Your Chouchoute, who loves you very, very much
Note—I’ve composed a piece of music for you, my first—at least it’s the first I’ve considered “finished.”
If only I could send this.
If only you could read it.
If only . . .
PAGE FORTY-THREE
Maîtresse sent for me as soon as I arrived back at the Institute.
“Angel, I’ve been thinking about you,” she said, putting down her quill. “I understand how worried you must be about your brother, but it will be beneficial for you to be back at school.”
“That’s what Maman said,” I said glumly.
“You are going to love the Exercice. It’s going to be even better than the one last year.”
I shrugged. “I’m sure.” I’d heard how wonderful the last Exercice had been, the one I’d had to miss.
Maîtresse wiggled her fingers. “We are all trembling with excitement.”
Exactly what I feared. “I don’t know, Maîtresse Campan—I don’t think . . .” It didn’t help that my courses had come on so strong I feared I would flood. “I can’t. I don’t have the heart.” And then the stupid tears.
She led me over to the divan by the fireplace. On the low table there was a platter of sweetmeats: sugar puffs, figs and two chocolate madeleines.
“I’m so afraid for Eugène,” I burst out, wiping my cheeks with my sleeve. I cautiously sat down. The wad of rags between my legs felt soggy. I perched on the edge of the divan. “I can’t sleep.”
“You must have faith,” Maîtresse said, stroking my back.
My faith, such as it was, could not save my brother.
“Coffee and cakes, angel? I know you fancy chocolate madeleines, but these sugar puffs are especially tasty.”
“No, thank you.” I wasn’t hungry. “I’m sorry.” I stood, feeling impossibly awkward. “I must go. I have a lesson with Citoyen Jadin.”
“So soon? His lessons don’t usually start until the afternoon.”
“I need to organize my notebook before I see him,” I said, which was almost true.
* * *
—
The doors to the theater had been propped open because of the heat. Citoyen Jadin was sitting on the piano stool, but slumped over the keys, his head in his arms.
“Citoyen Jadin?” I approached, pressing my composition notebook to my chest.
He lifted his head, blinking.
“It’s me, Citoyenne Beauharnais.”
He stood, ceding the piano stool to me with a wave of his arm. “I must have fallen asleep.”
H
e looked thin. His clothes hung from him. How could the composer of such powerful music look so frail?
“I heard about your brother being wounded,” he said, lowering himself onto an armchair. “That’s terrible. Have you learned anything?”
“No,” I said, my voice tremulous. It was hard not knowing—not knowing if Eugène had recovered, not knowing if he was dead or alive, or if he was damaged in some awful way.
“I can imagine. Well, actually, I can’t. I love all my brothers—most of the time,” he added with a wan smile, “but I think I would die of grief if something were to happen to any one of them.”
To die of grief. I’d always thought it was only an expression, but now I thought it possible. “Do you ever think about that? About death, I mean?”
“All the time,” he said. “It’s one reason music is so important to me.”
Music is forever. I thought of the score I had with me, the one I had written for Eugène. “Sometimes I think it’s how I pray,” I said, “by playing music. Does that sound lunatic?”
“Not at all. God listens. Or, rather”—he rolled his eyes—“the Supreme Being.”
“I have something to show you,” I said, handing him my composition notebook. “Page forty-three.”
“What are these?” he asked, leafing through.
“Compositions I copied. Lully’s, mostly.”
He looked at me, his eyes questioning. “This is a considerable amount of work.”
“You said it’s how you learned to compose.”
“And you want to—?”
“Yes. I want to learn. To compose.” There. I had said it.
“And these are your own compositions?” he asked, opening to a section of some of my earliest attempts.
“Oh! Don’t look at those.” If only he would skip forward to page forty-three. “I wrote them when I was just beginning.”
He turned the thick pages slowly, pausing at each. “Tell me, Citoyenne Beauharnais, what sort of music do you most love playing?”
This took me aback. “Sonatas, like the ones you write, that type of thing.”
“Of course, but when you’re tired, or sad and in need of solace, or even when you’re especially happy—what do you play then, just for yourself?”
It seemed a strange question. “Well, I do enjoy romantic melodies, melodies that . . .” That made me cry. That made my heart feel full.
“The type of music one hears on the street?”
I flushed. Yes.
“Then that’s what you should be composing.”
“But they’re so simple.” And yet the composition I had created for Eugène was of this type—simple, yet heartfelt.
“Not in the least. Not the exceptional ones. But my point is, you can only create from love, from what you love. Page forty-three, you said?”
I nodded, choking up. “The page with the folded-down corner.” I couldn’t bear to watch. “At the end.”
At last, he came to it. He read it through and sat back. He exhaled, and then read the score through one more time.
“Play it,” he said, holding the notebook out to me.
“I don’t need the score,” I said. I knew it by heart.
* * *
—
Never had silence seemed so weighty. “Again,” Citoyen Jadin said.
And that was it. I played my piece, he listened, but said nothing. We finished the lesson with my usual drills, and then I left.
“Citoyenne Beauharnais,” he called out as I reached the door.
I turned, expectantly. “Yes?” Was he going to say something about my composition?
“Your notebook. You forgot it.”
Was that all? He wasn’t going to say anything more? “I don’t need it,” I said.
I went to my room, crushed. I felt so ashamed. Over a year before, I had made a secret vow to learn how to compose—or, rather, to “become a composer,” a vow that embarrassed me. So lofty, so naïve. So foolish.
I thought of Maîtresse’s words, about dreaming big dreams and having the courage to fail. But what if one did fail? What then?
THE EXERCICE
The next few days were given over to frantic preparation for the Exercice. That was just as well. It helped keep me from worrying constantly about my brother’s injury and fretting over Citoyen Jadin’s rejection. I might have been miserable, sick with fear whenever I thought of my brother’s injury, but at least I was busy.
On the afternoon of the Exercice, over thirty carriages were parked along the road. I was surprised that it had become such a big event. People had come from all over.
Inside the theater, pots of flowers had been set along the edge of the stage. (The piano, draped with a cloth, had been moved to the back to make room.) We girls, all in white muslin gowns and white boots, our hair in ringlets, stood off to one side of the stage. In the front, facing us, were the two judges, stern-looking members of the National Institute wearing dark coats embroidered with green laurel leaves.
Teachers and the invited guests started filing in, and Caroline showed them to their seats. She had been given the “honor” of greeting them (and thus spared the humiliation of being publicly shamed on stage during the Exercice itself). She wore an official sash, which gave her the appearance of being in charge. Clearly, she was enjoying the role.
Soon most all of the seats were taken, even in the galleries above—but no sign of Maman. I spotted Nana and Grandpapa and nudged Ém. “At least our grandparents are here.”
Some of the privileged few—old Citoyen Rudé among them—sat on the stage in a boxed-off section to one side.
“Isn’t that the man who sat with us at the Meeting of the Vows?” Ém whispered. “The school patron?”
“Yes. The man who wiped his nose on the tablecloth,” I said. It made me uneasy the way he was gawking at us.
“Ew,” Mouse gasped, but then quieted: Maîtresse had gone to the front of the stage.
After Maîtresse’s welcome, the little girls in Green, Purple and Orange came out. They curtsied, said their names and ran out giggling. I blinked to keep from tearing. Nelly should have been among them.
Then came the Blues and the Reds, who were required to read out loud from a text and perform some elementary mathematics. Eliza, clutching Henry, did surprisingly well at her numbers, which pleased me.
Then a round table was carried onto the stage, and twenty-two of us older students took seats around it. The first exam was dictation, which the judges were to examine for handwriting, spelling and punctuation. Then we each read a sentence from Émilie by Jean-Jacques Rousseau, declaring the part of speech of each word. (This took a long time: I heard someone in the audience snoring.)
After that came geography and history, which were more interesting, with the judges asking questions. They always responded “Marvelous!” to whatever answer was given, so I felt more at ease.
We finished by reciting the poems we’d learned by heart. My recitation of “The Dove and the Ant” was very well received.
Then came the part everyone loved best: the prizes. All the students won for something (even Caroline won for Italian), with some winning more than once. Ém won for handwriting and grammar, and Mouse for spelling and figure drawing. I won for landscape drawing, dancing and piano—which astonished me.
“Well done,” Maîtresse said, giving me the award in Citoyen Jadin’s absence.
I was shocked speechless. (Could this mean he liked my composition?)
And then came the award for the Rose of Virtue. One by one, Maîtresse announced the winner at each level, finally getting to the Multis. I was surprised to get it again. It was my third, so I was presented with a porcelain vase as well, embossed with my name. I could hear Grandpapa exclaiming “Brava,” which made me love him all the more.
* * *
—<
br />
4 Thermidor, An 7
Montagne-du-Bon-Air
Dearest Granddaughter,
I am as proud as a duchess over your many awards, but worry, I confess, to see you rather too pale. Watch that you don’t acquire a greenish tinge, for this would indicate Green Sickness, a disease of the nervous system that is tragically fatal to many young women. Do you have depraved tastes, such as for pencil dust or clay? This is a warning sign you should be aware of.
Your grandmother,
Nana
* * *
—
4 Thermidor, An 7
La Chantereine
Dear heart,
I’m sorry to have missed the Exercice, but I had urgent matters to attend to in town. I am comforted knowing that Nana and Grandpapa were able to be there, at least, to add to the applause. I heard that it was a big success. I’m proud that you won awards in literature and music (for harp?). I hear that you won the Rose of Virtue, as well. Isn’t it your second one? I am so proud of you.
No further news about your brother, alas, but I did learn that Major Duroc, a friend of his, was injured in the same attack. Do you remember him? He was tall, and handsome in his way, although rather solemn. Bonaparte thinks highly of him, I know.
Your ever-loving mother
* * *
—
Christophe! Injured? Oh no!
“What’s wrong?” Ém asked, seeing my distress.
“An aide was injured.” I feigned to read the letter over more closely. “But not your husband, Antoine,” I assured her.
“Too bad,” she said, indifferently.
“Ém!” How could she be so cruel?
* * *
—
5 Thermidor, An 7
The Institute
Dear Eugène,
I try not to think of how you and others might be suffering, try not to think of how badly you might be hurt—or worse.
The Game of Hope Page 10
