The Game of Hope

by Sandra Gulland

  All boats. Eugène’s ship had come from the east.

  “It’s a frightful disease, Chouchoute, but don’t worry. We were on that boat for forty-seven days without any outbreaks.”

  Of course. I was relieved. “Who returned with you?” I asked, thinking of Christophe.

  He named Generals Berthier, Lannes and Murat. “And Marmont and Bessières. The General’s secretary, Fauvelet Bourrienne,” he added.

  I’d heard those names before. “And Captain Lavalette?” I asked. Ém’s husband.

  “Antoine? He stopped to visit his family on the way back, but he won’t be long. He’s eager to see his wife.”

  “Is he aware that she got the pox this summer?”

  “Ém? Poxed?” He looked stricken.

  Aïe. I’d been writing confessional letters to Eugène for so long, I’d half-expected him to know. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “Is she . . . ?”

  I grimaced. “Her face, it’s—”

  He groaned, but I pushed on, desperate to know. “What about your friend, Major Duroc?”

  “Christophe? He’s Colonel Duroc now. He’ll be here tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow! I clasped my hands together nervously.

  “It’s late, you must be hungry,” he said. “I’ll find something for us both.”

  “Don’t go,” I said. “Agathe can do that.”

  “She’s abed with Mimi’s cold.”

  Her too? “My cold,” I said with a yawn. I was exhausted.

  I turned at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Maman? But it was a dark-skinned boy about my age, wearing a turban and bright, baggy clothing. A jewel-encrusted scimitar dangled from a thick cord at his side. He looked like a character out of a fairy tale.

  “It’s Roustam,” Eugène said, and rattled off words I could not understand. (Arabic? I was impressed.) The boy bowed. “He’ll find something for us to eat,” Eugène said. “And perhaps some brandy?”

  “And coffee, too, if there is some,” I said, and the boy slipped away.

  “He’s a Mameluke,” Eugène said. “The General made him his bodyguard, although he is really sweet-natured. He’s fifteen, sixteen maybe? He was kidnapped at thirteen and sold as a slave to the Governor of Cairo, who gave him to the General as a gift.”

  “He’s the General’s slave?” I crinkled up my nose.

  “No, of course not. He’s free to do as he pleases, but he’s devoted to the General. He sleeps in front of his door. He must have startled Maman,” he said with a chuckle.

  All was silent upstairs. I wondered how she was doing. Had the General opened his door, let her in?

  Eugène got up and rummaged in a soiled haversack, withdrawing a dark-green shawl, which he handed to me.

  “For me?” I caressed the silky, lush cashmere. “But you’re the one shivering,” I said, handing the shawl back to him.

  “Now all I need is a bonnet,” he said, layering it on over his blanket. I laughed. He looked like an old lady. “Speaking of bonnets.” He reached for the haversack again. “This will amuse you.” He withdrew a long length of striped cloth, folded it lengthwise and, holding one end in his teeth, wrapped it around his head. “Not exactly a bonnet—”

  “A turban?” How bizarre!

  “It’s warm. We got to like them,” he said. “And it kept the bugs out.”

  My brother the French soldier, draped in a blanket and a cashmere shawl with a multicolored turban on his head. I tried not to giggle.

  Roustam came in carrying an enormous platter loaded with figs, walnuts, slices of ham and wedges of cheese, next to a teetering coffeepot, a crystal brandy decanter and demitasse cups and tiny glasses.

  “Thank you, Roustam,” I said, accepting a glass of brandy and a tiny cup of strong coffee, as well.

  “You are very welcome,” he said.

  “You speak our language,” I said.

  “You are very welcome,” he repeated.

  “He understands a bit.” Eugène fired off another volley of incomprehensible words. Roustam flashed white teeth and exited the room backwards, bowing as if we were royalty. “They are a fastidiously clean people. Unlike us,” he said, raising his brows. “And they’re just about as brave.”

  “I have so many questions.” I froze at the sound of Maman’s voice upstairs.

  “Please!” I heard her cry out. “I love you.” Followed by sobs.

  “Uh-oh,” Eugène said under his breath.

  A DIFFICULT REQUEST

  Eugène and I found Maman leaning against the wall on the landing. “He won’t open the door,” she said, drying her cheeks with her shawl.

  A shard of anger went through me. The General was putting us through so much grief. He’d locked Maman out of her own house—had her belongings packed up and moved out—and now he wouldn’t speak to her?

  Keep that door locked forever, for all I care, I thought, digging out a handkerchief I had tucked into my sleeve and handing it to Maman. We would be better off without him—all of them, the whole Bonaparte Clan with their bullying, rude and arrogant ways.

  “This is futile. We should all go to bed,” I said with a sneeze.

  “You go, dear heart,” Maman said. “You’re still not well.”

  “Yes—go,” Eugène said.

  I ached from the grueling days and nights in the jolting coach. The thought of snuggling into a bed—a real bed, my bed—was inviting.

  “We will fetch you if we need you,” Maman said.

  “Promise?”

  In the morning, everything would look brighter.

  * * *

  —

  I must have fallen into a deep sleep and was dreaming of my father again—a disturbing but not scary dream this time. We were in a sort of dressing room and his hair was being powdered by a servant in livery. There was a mirror in front of him: he could see himself, but not me. I was invisible to him.

  “Hortense?” The voice was soft, and the touch as well. “Heartling?”

  “Maman?” The dream was still with me. “Careful, you’ll get powder everywhere,” I said.

  “You’re having a dream,” she said, hanging a lantern from the ceiling hook.

  “What time is it?” I said, blinking from the light. It was cold; I hugged my blankets around me.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe two?”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Bonaparte refuses to speak to either Eugène or me,” she said, her voice breaking. Her breath made mist in the air.

  “You must be cold,” I said, opening my covers. Shivering, she slipped in beside me.

  “Ah, you’re warm,” she said, snuggling in.

  I inhaled her lovely scent of jasmine. When I tried the same tincture, it didn’t smell nearly so nice.

  “But he might listen to you,” Maman suggested.

  “Me?”

  I felt her nod. “Eugène has tried, I’ve tried.” She sighed. “Mimi suggested you talk to him.”

  Plead at his door? That was asking a lot. “I wouldn’t know what to say, Maman.” But most of all, I wanted the General out of my life—out of our lives.

  There was a long and uncomfortable silence. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I don’t think I would be of any help.”

  “Hortense, Bonaparte is so fond of you—”

  “He hardly knows me.”

  “I know you have little affection for him.”

  I was surprised by her blunt statement, surprised she knew. I’d always been careful to hide my feelings for my stepfather, at least around Maman.

  “And too, I understand how intensely loyal you are to Alexandre’s memory,” she went on, her voice soft.

  Alexandre: my father.

  “But listen to me, dear heart. I loved your father, but he didn’t love me in return. And n
ow—now I have married a man who cares for Eugène and wants him to succeed, and who wants to be a good father to you.”

  I made a sputtering sound. I couldn’t help it.

  “But most of all, Bonaparte loves me.”

  Or did. If the General truly loved her, why wouldn’t he open the door? How could he bear to hear her weep?

  “And I’ve come to love him,” she added, her voice soft.

  I heard a night owl screech. I thought of the General’s messy, passionate letters. It was easy enough to see that he had once loved her, that he’d been moonsick over her, but how could she love him? He was rude and uncouth. Even his accent was grating.

  Maman propped herself up on an elbow. “But, more practically, consider what would happen if Bonaparte’s family turned him against me, convinced him to forsake us? What would that be like, do you think?”

  Life without the Bonapartes? I would have loved that.

  “You would be unhappy,” I offered sullenly. It was a stupid question with an obvious answer.

  “Profoundly.”

  She said this so quietly I hardly heard. She said it with such feeling, it tugged at my heart.

  “But I also want you to consider the more mundane aspects. How do you see this happening, this coming apart?”

  “You would be legally separated?” I offered. She and my father got a legal separation. Nana got a legal separation from a man she had married young, and even Maîtresse, long ago, had got a legal separation from her husband because he was gambling away her dowry.

  “I’m afraid not. Bonaparte would want to remarry, so he would insist on a divorce, which could ruin Eugène’s career.”

  Eugène loved being an officer. I thought of how miserable he would be in any other employment.

  “And as for you, dear heart, you know what happened to our dear Émilie.”

  “She married?” I guessed, confused.

  “Yes, but perhaps you’re not aware of the men Bonaparte and I approached who wouldn’t consider marrying her.”

  Other men had been offered Ém’s hand? I was surprised by this revelation. Did Ém know?

  “Why?”

  “Mainly because her father was an émigré, but also because her parents were divorced.”

  An awful thought occurred to me: What if Christophe wanted to marry me, but Maman and the General were divorced? Would he go against his commanding general? Never.

  Maman shifted under the covers. “Hortense?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well . . . could you?”

  I closed my eyes, exhaling noisily. “What do you want me to do, Maman?”

  She gave me a squeeze. “Just see if you can get Bonaparte to open the door. That’s all. Beg if you have to.”

  “I can’t do that, Maman.”

  “Consider it a part you have in a performance,” she said. “Maîtresse Campan told me that you have a talent for acting.”

  I was flattered, I admit.

  “Do it for your brother, for me,” she persisted.

  I sat up. “Very well—but on one condition.” Did I have the courage? “I have to know the truth about Citoyen Charles, Maman.”

  SAD VICTORY

  I heard Maman catch her breath. “I’ve told you,” she said. “Hippolyte and I are friends—and business partners. That’s the truth.”

  “But all the truth?” That was kinder than accusing her of lying.

  She put her right hand over her heart, like a schoolgirl. “Ask me a question, and I will answer it truthfully.”

  “Did you—did you ever sleep with him?” I felt shame for asking such a thing of my mother. “I don’t mean ‘sleep,’ of course. I mean, did you . . . ?” But I could not say it.

  “Almost,” she admitted.

  I was shocked. I thought of the illustrations in that book. The thought of my mother doing all that with Hippolyte Charles made me feel sick. But what did “almost” mean?

  “Did you tongue-kiss?” My cheeks were burning.

  “How do you know what that is?” Maman asked with a playful smile in her voice, snuggling back under the blankets.

  “I’ve . . . I’ve read about it,” I said, putting on a show of bravery. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

  “Once,” she said.

  Once! That was more truth than I could bear.

  “I thought Bonaparte was dead and that I was a widow again. I was bereft, and Hippolyte tried to console me. But, well, we realized how foolish it was. I don’t know how to explain this exactly, but do you know . . . ? Are you aware that some men prefer other men rather than women?”

  “Yes,” I admitted. It was whispered that Director Barras was one such. (And sometimes I wondered about Citoyen Jadin, in truth.)

  “May I tell you something in confidence?”

  “Of course.”

  “You won’t tell Émilie or Mouse?”

  “I promise.”

  “This must be between you and me: our dear Hippolyte is of this inclination.”

  I didn’t respond at first, taking this in. “Oh?” I thought of the times Citoyen Charles had dressed as a girl—for fun, he always said. And then I remembered Citoyen Jadin saying that he knew Citoyen Charles (or that he knew of him), and that there was no truth to the rumors that my mother and Citoyen Charles were lovers. Was this why?

  “Does this shock you?”

  “No,” I offered. It didn’t, somehow.

  “He keeps it hidden, so you must not betray my confidence.”

  “I won’t, I promise.”

  “He has been kind to me, helpful when I needed it most. He gave me Pugdog, but it wasn’t meant to be a romantic gift. He knew how sad I was after Fortuné was killed.”

  Maman’s first little dog, Fortuné, had been tragically killed by a mastiff in Italy.

  “But people insist on interpreting such things otherwise. There doesn’t seem to be a place in our world for a friendship between a man and a woman. So I had to give Pugdog back to him.”

  “I miss Puggy.”

  “Me too—but we’ll get another. I’ll have Bonaparte pick him out. I will have to insist that he choose a small creature. He likes everything big.”

  It was nice to hear the smile in her voice.

  “That is,” she added, “if he ever speaks to me again.”

  “I’ll go, Maman,” I said. Beg if I have to. I would do it for her, and for Eugène. I would do it for my family.

  * * *

  —

  Eugène was sitting on the landing, a candle melting down beside him.

  “Chouchoute,” he said sleepily. “I’m not having much luck.” He took the length of cloth that was hanging over one eye and tucked it back up behind his ear. “Where’s Maman?”

  “She’s in my bed upstairs,” I said, my lantern raised.

  “No—I’m here,” a voice behind me said. I turned to see Maman, wrapped in a blanket. She handed me another. “Don’t get cold,” she said, and I pulled it around me.

  I wondered what time it was, and, as if the world could hear my thoughts, the pendulum clock downstairs chimed three. “Is the General awake?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Eugène said, yawning.

  “Well, then, let’s raise a racket,” I said, reckless with fatigue. “You could fire off a gun.”

  “Why not start more reasonably?” Maman said, her voice reflecting alarm. “Let’s all call out.”

  And so we did, together and by turns. “Open the door. Please!”

  Finally, we heard movement within.

  “Bonaparte, don’t believe the slander. I have not betrayed you,” Maman called out. “I love you.” And with this she began to weep. She was speaking from her deepest heart. My eyes stung to hear.

  She slid down beside Eugène. He put hi
s arm around her, kissed her forehead. “Hortense?” she gestured weakly.

  I’d said that I would, and now it was time. The General was fond of me, Maman had said, but would he listen?

  “General Bonaparte, this is Hortense,” I began.

  And then I was stuck. I didn’t know what to say, so I imagined that my father—my real father—was on the other side of that door.

  “Your daughter,” I said, my voice husky with emotion. “Please, won’t you open the door? I long to see you.”

  I found myself weeping in earnest. I did long to see my father: my real father, not the fantasy father I’d imagined. I longed to see the father I’d never really known, not truly.

  “Every day I have been thinking of you, and praying for you, and now that you are here you refuse to speak? I am sixteen, a girl about to go out into the world. Am I to do it without a father’s protection?”

  I heard Maman moan. The door was never going to open. My heart aching, I cried out, “Do you not love me? Please! Open the door.”

  And with that the door opened and the General stood before us, his cheeks wet. He looked surprisingly frail, his head wrapped in flannel. Maman staggered toward him, dropping the blanket behind her. He opened his arms and she fell into his embrace.

  I glanced at Eugène, who mouthed, with a grin, “Well done.”

  We slipped away, but my victory shamed me. I went to bed, and sobbed into my pillow. I had wanted my father to be there—my real father.

  A CERTAIN SOMEONE

  I woke to the sound of horses in the courtyard. And then I heard Eugène say, “Christophe, tie your horse by the door. The General will be going out soon.”

  Christophe?

  Oh, mon Dieu, my heart about stopped. I jumped out of bed and rang for a maid to come help me dress.

  Mimi appeared, panting from the climb. “This house will soon be swarming with soldiers,” she said with a cough. “It’s been frantic in the kitchen getting ready to feed them all.” She still sounded sick, but insisted that she was fine.

  “How is Maman?” I asked, the awful events of the night before coming back to me.