The Game of Hope

by Sandra Gulland

  “She’s all smiles.” Mimi chuckled. “Even the General.”

  The General too? I couldn’t imagine him smiling.

  “You should have seen the miserable look on the face of the General’s brother when he discovered them cozy in bed together.”

  I didn’t much care for that picture myself. “Which brother?” I asked, struggling out of my nightdress.

  “The one who puts on la-di-da airs.”

  They all did.

  “The rumpled old one in spectacles,” she said. “The one who looks like a spider.”

  Ah, Lucien. “Old? He’s only twenty-four.” If that.

  “He is?”

  I scoffed. “He fancies it fashionable to look old and rumpled. Anyone else?” Other than my brother. Other than Christophe.

  “Of the Clan? Only the spider one—and he left in a huff.”

  I cursed as a button went flying.

  “Easy, child. Why the hurry?”

  “I want to see Eugène! Fetch the gown Maman gave me for my birthday.”

  “But it’s not yet midday,” Mimi said with a frown.

  “Maman wants me to wear it when we have visitors,” I argued. Well, visitors on special occasions. On special evening occasions. On the occasion of introducing me to a potential husband (in her eyes). But might not Christophe be a potential husband? “But a nice partlet to go with it,” I yelled after her. It was indeed not yet noon. I must not be indecent. That would not make a good impression. “And my best bonnet.”

  My slippers? They would have to do. I glanced at my face in the hand mirror and pinched my cheeks. If only I were pretty. I rubbed dried mint leaves on my teeth to freshen my breath and reminded myself to keep my mouth closed to hide my crooked teeth. (The curse of my family.) Fortunately, it was considered refined not to show teeth.

  Mimi came back with my gown. “I brought you an apron to wear over it,” she said.

  “I’ll look like a schoolgirl in that.”

  “You are a schoolgirl—remember? And I won’t have you staining your best gown.” She turned me so that she could fasten me up the back.

  There wasn’t time to pin up my hair, so I bundled my braids up under my bonnet.

  “Why all the fuss?” she asked slyly. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with the soldiers downstairs, would it?”

  “Mimi!”

  “Don’t break your neck,” she called out as I ran headlong down the stairs. I slowed to a ladylike pace at the bottom, catching my breath. I could hear men talking: Eugène and someone else.

  And then I heard my brother say his name.

  Christophe.

  I stood with my back against the wall, out of sight. What if Christophe didn’t like me? Worse, what if he treated me like a child?

  And what if I’d been wrong about him? I’d built up a romance in my heart. I’d come to believe it was real, true love, but now— What if I didn’t like him?

  “Dear heart, you’re up.” My mother surprised me coming in from the garden, wrapped in a cloak. She was carrying a bouquet of winter greens. “There’s food and coffee on the sideboard in the dining room. Eat however you can manage. The table has been taken over by Bonaparte’s secretary, Citoyen Fauvelet Bourrienne,” she added. “You remember him?”

  “Chouchoute, is that you?” Eugène called out.

  “Go. He’s been wanting me to wake you,” Maman said with a kiss.

  * * *

  —

  Eugène and Christophe were sitting on the bench outside the General’s study, sharpening sabers.

  I became aware of my foolishness, my impossible dream. Christophe—Colonel Duroc—was a man, not a boy, and a supremely fine-looking man, at that. I guessed him to be twenty-five years old, perhaps more. Why would he be at all interested in me?

  “Christophe, have you met my sister?” Eugène asked, laying down the saber and standing to greet me with a kiss on each cheek. (I resisted the urge to brush a loose hair off the shoulder of his jacket.)

  Christophe had difficulty rising. It appeared that his left leg had been wounded—and had yet to heal, I gathered, from his slight wince of pain.

  “Hortense, this is my friend, fellow aide-de-camp Colonel Christophe Duroc. First aide-de-camp now, that is.”

  First aide-de-camp? And a colonel. I was impressed. I curtsied, my eyes lowered. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” (I’d rehearsed this moment many times.) I glanced up and just about died. Surely, he was the handsomest young man alive—slim, with broad shoulders, curly black hair and round black eyes.

  “The pleasure,” he said, touching his hand to his heart, “is mine.”

  He had an elegant, respectful demeanor, which I found extremely pleasing. I reached for the back of a chair to keep from falling over in a faint.

  “Christophe keeps me out of trouble,” Eugène said teasingly, oblivious to my distress.

  “Someone has to,” Christophe answered with affection.

  And then—alas!—the General barked out for them and they went rushing into the study.

  I lingered for a moment in a reverie, recalling the tender way Christophe had held his hand to his heart, recalling the sweet sound of his voice as he’d said, The pleasure is mine.

  I turned to go into the dining room to eat, but Christophe reappeared in the door to the General’s study. “Citoyenne Beauharnais?”

  My heart did a flip-flop. “Yes?”

  “The General wishes to speak to you.”

  “Oh?” Apprehensively.

  He stepped back to bow me through (very elegantly). He smelled wonderfully of citrus.

  The small office room was stuffy, sweltering hot from a blazing fire. Eugène looked up from a table where he was seated with Fauvelet Bourrienne, the General’s secretary. Books, maps and papers covered every surface. The General, wearing a curious red felt round hat, was sitting at his desk, absorbed in reading correspondence.

  “Hortense!” He came around his desk to greet me. “You look well,” he said, his hands behind his back. He was wearing an olive-green greatcoat, in spite of the heat.

  It had been almost a year and a half since I’d last seen him. I hadn’t realized how short he was, at least compared to his older brother, “King” Joseph. Frankly, he looked somewhat ugly. He had a round knob of a chin, and his mouth was small.

  “You’ve grown,” he said.

  I made a curtsy, thankful that he hadn’t reached out to pinch my ear, as had been his habit. “Thank you.” I flushed, aware that Christophe was behind me.

  “General, I’ll be at my desk,” Fauvelet Bourrienne said, pushing past with his arms full of journals. (His desk? Our dining room table, he likely meant.)

  “Ready, Christophe?” my brother said, standing.

  “I’ll be out front,” Christophe said, reaching for his hat.

  Then they were all of them gone and I was alone. With the General.

  “Have a seat.” Pacing, he knocked over a jeweled scimitar, which clattered noisily to the floor. He picked it up and leaned it against his desk, but it fell over again. “Basta,” he said, and left it.

  “Thank you,” I said, lowering myself onto a plain wooden chair.

  “This chair is more comfortable,” he suggested, gesturing to one of the strange chairs Maman had had specially made in an Egyptian design.

  “Thank you, but no, I’m fine.” I sat up straight, my hands clasped in my lap. I wondered how I was going to get out of there.

  “You are doing well at the Institute,” he said, leaning on the fireplace mantel. He had a certain charm when he smiled—which happened rarely.

  Was it a question, or a statement? I wasn’t sure. “I try,” I said.

  “How is my sister doing?” he asked, cracking his knuckles.

  Caroline? Aïe. “You’d have to a
sk Maîtresse Campan,” I suggested, trying to be diplomatic.

  He cleared his throat. “Perhaps you could influence her,” he said, taking a pinch of snuff out of a battered tin.

  “Influence?” His accent was heavy. It was hard to understand him sometimes.

  “Yes. My sister.”

  Influence Caroline? Impossible! “We study different subjects,” I said, squirming.

  “She’s a thoughtless idiot,” he said, kicking the logs, causing sparks to fly. “Not a brain in her head.”

  I thought of how Caroline boasted about her big brother Napoleon. She was proud of him. Clearly, the feeling wasn’t mutual.

  “She’d make an accomplished politician, frankly,” he added, “were it not for her sex. In politics stupidity is not a handicap.”

  “She’s smarter than she lets on,” I said, actually coming to Caroline’s defense.

  And then—thankfully—Fauvelet Bourrienne rushed in about some urgent matter and I was reprieved. Grâce à Dieu.

  THE RULES OF COURTSHIP

  28 Vendémiaire, An 8

  The Institute

  My dearest friend,

  I am so happy for you. I can imagine your joy having your brother safe back home.

  What is it like in Paris? There is much excitement here about General Bonaparte’s return. I’m not surprised that you have so much correspondence to answer! Just remember: Fearsomes come first.

  I’ve started a portrait of you. You are sitting on a rock with a sketchbook. In the background, in the trees, there are spirits hovering. Perhaps left behind by Fantasmagorie? Which is no longer here in Montagne-du-Bon-Air, by the way. During one of their events a girl fainted and could not be revived for some time. It was feared her heart had stopped.

  I am running out of room on this scrap of paper. Write to me as soon as you can. Tell me all about the soldiers. Are you in love yet?

  Ém promises to write. She is relieved to have her cousin Eugène back home safe, but she dreads the prospect of her husband’s return.

  We miss you so very much.

  Your Mouse

  Note—You forgot to take The Rules of Courtship home with you. I’m sending it along with this letter. I think you may need it now!

  And another—I still haven’t gotten my monthlies.

  Nasty: When a clump of tooth-brush bristles gets stuck in your teeth.

  * * *

  —

  I spent a little time reading through The Rules of Courtship, the book Nana gave me on the occasion of my sixteenth birthday. Here are some rules suggested for a young lady:

  Display modest reserve.

  Avoid the public eye.

  Appear disconcerted if a man looks upon you with admiration.

  Never encourage a man’s advances.

  Do not confess your feelings until you are absolutely sure of a man’s intentions. Only after a gentleman has made an offer of marriage may you reveal your feelings.

  Don’t look at a man unless he has made an advance.

  I can’t imagine not looking at Christophe.

  * * *

  —

  30 Vendémiaire, An 8

  The Institute

  My angel,

  Your absence is too much for the heart of your friend. I want to be near you, take every opportunity to develop the reason that nature has given you, which, without the benefit of experience, still needs a loving guide. Even so, I have bowed to your lovely mother’s request to allow you to stay with her in Paris for fifteen more days. I was obliged, in fairness, to grant Caroline the same leave with her family, although she needs every minute of schooling she can get.

  People write to you from everywhere to congratulate you on your happiness. Be sure to answer all letters with care. Remember that what you write is a testament to your education, but it can also be used against you by your enemies. One never knows where a letter will end up. It is childish, unforgivably childish, to write to someone: “This letter is messy, please don’t show it to anyone.”

  The person you are writing cannot promise anything. A letter might be forgotten on the fireplace mantel, fall to the ground, be picked up, read and judged. The custom now of not wearing pockets means that there is more of a chance that this might happen.

  Kiss your mother tenderly for me. Tell her how much I share in her joy.

  Once more, adieu, my dear Hortense. You know how much I love you.

  Maîtresse Campan

  * * *

  —

  30 Vendémiaire, An 8

  The Institute

  My dearest friend,

  Surprise! Another letter from your Mouse!

  Maîtresse tells us that both you and Caroline have been given an additional fifteen days to be with your families. That’s an eternity. You’ve already been gone for twelve! Unbearable!

  What a dull life you must have now, surrounded by handsome soldiers. (Ha.)

  Nasty: Writing with ink so thick it leaves blobs.

  I can’t imagine your brother in a turban. I’m making a portrait of the General in a round Turkish hat and carrying a scimitar under his green overcoat. Of course I have yet to see this apparition, but I’ve read accounts.

  Nasty: Having to sit and wait for ink to dry before starting a new page because there’s no blotting paper, sand or a fire in the chimney to dry it by.

  My apologies for writing such a messy letter. Please don’t show it to anyone.

  I miss you.

  Your Mouse

  Note—Eliza’s mother learns all the Paris gossip and then Eliza snoops and finds out, as you know. She told me that there’s a lot of talk now about your stepfather (of course)—most of it agreeable—but that there’s also talk about his family—most of it terrible. For example, that the General’s sister Pauline entertains three lovers whenever her husband is away, and that his older brother Joseph is getting mercury treatment for syphilis. Did you know that? I gather that it’s not the first time.

  And also (I told you this would be a long letter), the mother of the whole lot of them lived openly in sin with the governor of Corsica for years while her husband was working in Italy, and he’s Lucien’s real father. And possibly the General’s?

  No wonder Caroline is the way she is. I almost feel sorry for her.

  (On second thought, burn this letter.)

  * * *

  —

  30 Vendémiaire, An 8

  The Institute, free time

  Dear cousin,

  Mouse is writing to you, and insists I do, as well.

  I take comfort in Eugène’s return, and I imagine that you do too. Does he know I got the pox this summer? I dread the thought of him seeing me. I am using a new face cream Maîtresse had the cook make up, but it stinks and it’s not doing my scars any good.

  Nana and Grandpapa always ask when “my husband” will be back from Egypt, and I tell them that all I know is that he landed with the General, but stopped en route to visit his parents in the south—where I hope he’ll stay.

  Forlorn,

  Your cousin Ém

  Nasty: Being married to a man I don’t like.

  Nasty: Being the ugliest girl in the school.

  MOONSICK

  Maman’s house was full to bursting. Eugène’s bed had been squeezed in under the eaves in the tiny room on the west side of the attic. His new valet, Constant, had to manage on a camp bed in the passageway. The scullery girl slept on a pallet in the cellar kitchen, and the housemaid slept by the fire in the parlor. Others made do in the rooms over the coach house or in the stable or guardhouse.

  During the day, it got busier as aides and officials came and went. The General’s secretary, Fauvelet Bourrienne, had completely taken over the dining room. Mimi, Maman and I had to make sure that
the side table was always laden with food because the men were hungry all the time. Beginning at dawn, they drank coffee, beer, wine and spirits (although watered—the General was strict about that).

  Caroline came to visit regularly with her family. I made an effort to be polite, but she ignored me. She was clearly only interested in the soldiers. She laughed and exclaimed loudly every time General Murat demonstrated how a bullet went in through one of his cheeks and exited out the other. (It was a story he told rather often.)

  Meanwhile, I furtively watched Christophe. He was manly, yet gentle in his demeanor—and so very handsome I could hardly stand it. I noticed that he liked pork crepeinettes and forcemeat quenelles, so I made sure that these platters were always full. He ate very politely, never making a mess or talking with his mouth full. (Unlike the General.)

  I took to putting a bit of powder on my nose before going downstairs. Fortunately, Maman didn’t notice.

  * * *

  —

  From The Rules of Courtship:

  Five times touching is permitted—

  He puts a shawl around your shoulders.

  He helps you onto a horse.

  He helps you into a carriage.

  He helps you climb stairs.

  He takes your arm through his, to support you out walking.

  If only Christophe would look at me.

  * * *

  —

  One morning, as I was putting out a platter of food, I glanced over at Christophe. I smiled and he smiled back. I could hardly breathe.

  * * *

  —

  I began to write my own Rules of Courtship.

  Five signs that you are truly in love—

  You can’t stop thinking of him, not even for a moment.