The Game of Hope

by Sandra Gulland

  “But I have tutors here.” The way Maîtresse was talking made me think I might be leaving the Institute forever.

  “Citoyens Jadin and Isabey will continue to teach you,” she said, “but privately, in Paris.”

  “I’m . . . I’m not coming back?”

  “Caroline will have to return, no doubt—she needs more schooling—and you, too, but from time to time, to visit.”

  Was I really leaving the Institute, my home for the last five years? “But I’ve not finished.” What about the play I was going to be in with Ém and Mouse? What about the report I was writing on Greek art? What about the next Exercice, my last one?

  “The General has sent a carriage for the two of you,” she said, taking a shaky breath. “I would have preferred to have you near, angel, always and forever, but . . .” She touched a handkerchief to the corner of her eye.

  Now I was afraid she was going to cry.

  “I knew this moment would come,” she said, “but I couldn’t have predicted that it would come so soon, much less so suddenly. Nor could I have ever predicted that it would be precipitated by such an enormous change for us all. However, the essential thing is for you to be safe.”

  “I’m safe here,” I said. The pendulum clock sounded. Nine o’clock already?

  “You have to understand: the General is wildly admired, but he also has enemies. You will likely have to be guarded.”

  Tears flooded my eyes.

  She stood, withdrew something from a cabinet and handed it to me with a curious sense of ceremony. “I want to give you this before you go.”

  It was a tiny bottle, stoppered with a bit of cork.

  “I carried it with me while in service to the Queen.” I could see her trembling. She paused to collect herself. “If you ever have reason to think you’ve been poisoned—”

  Poisoned!

  “—drink it down.”

  “But Maîtresse . . .” I was only going home.

  She put her hand on my shoulder. “Promise me, angel. Promise me that you will keep this with you always.”

  “Of course,” I said meekly.

  She embraced me so tightly I could hardly breathe.

  VII

  NEW POSSIBILITIES

  20 Brumaire – 1 Ventôse, An 8

  (11 November, 1799 – 20 February, 1800)

  THE CROSSROADS CARD: NEW POSSIBILITIES

  PROMISE

  The courtyard of Maman’s house was half-covered in horse dung. Many of her plants had been trodden. Caroline and I raised our skirts as we picked our way through the muck.

  “What happened?” I asked old Gontier, Maman’s man-of-all-work.

  “You should have seen it yesterday morning,” he said, leaning on a barn shovel.

  “It looks like a cavalry regiment came through here,” Caroline said, cursing at the muck on her white boots.

  He chortled. “Close. Most all the General’s officers gathered here on horseback before setting out.”

  Before setting out to oust the Directors and take over the government? How was such a thing done?

  Maman met us in the salon, looking exhausted. Her face paint failed to hide the dark circles under her eyes. “Bonaparte didn’t come home until three this morning.”

  “We were woken in the middle of the night by four hussars,” I told her. “At the Institute.”

  “That must have alarmed Maîtresse Campan,” Maman said, her hands at her throat.

  “They were General Murat’s men.” Caroline beamed. “He sent them with a message just for me.”

  “Why the crates?” I asked. There were three big wooden boxes stacked in one corner, and an open one on the floor.

  “We’re moving into the Luxembourg,” Maman said, with an eye on Agathe, who was wrapping an enameled glass decanter.

  We were moving? La Chantereine had been our first family home. Our only family home.

  “To the Luxembourg Palace?” Caroline made wide eyes.

  “Where the government meets?” I asked. And where Father had once been imprisoned.

  “The Petit Luxembourg,” Maman said. “Right next to the palace.”

  “But that’s where the Directors live,” I said.

  “No longer,” she said with a sigh.

  Aïe. “Because of the coup?”

  “Yes. Now we have a Consulate instead of a Directory. Bonaparte is one of the three Consuls in charge. It’s confusing, but don’t worry, dear heart,” she said, embracing me and then Caroline. “We’re safe now.”

  I thought of Maîtresse’s unsettling gift. “Where’s Eugène?” I asked, unexpectedly anxious.

  * * *

  —

  We found Eugène in his bedchamber, helping his valet pack.

  “Where is Joachim?” Caroline demanded.

  Or Christophe, for that matter.

  “Likely with his men,” Eugène said, gulping down the dregs of a coffee.

  “We’re moving into the Luxembourg Palace,” Caroline said.

  “The Petit Luxembourg,” he said, yawning. “The General is there now with Fauvelet, drafting a proclamation.”

  “You should see the crowd at the road,” Caroline said.

  “We’re told that nobody was hurt,” I said. “Is that really true?” I’d seen a poster saying that the General had narrowly escaped death at the hands of twenty assassins.

  “Yes! Amazing.”

  “Was it scary?” Caroline asked.

  “It was!” he said, slipping on his jacket.

  “It was?” I asked, alarmed.

  “I had to address the Council of Ancients!”

  I laughed. Eugène always trembled on a stage.

  * * *

  —

  The General returned that evening, insisting we move to the Petit Luxembourg immediately, but Maman persuaded him that she needed a few days because there were so many things that had to be arranged. Who would look after the cow and the chickens? Who would look after the two geese?

  * * *

  —

  The next day, I was startled to encounter Christophe at the foot of the stairs.

  “Citoyenne Beauharnais! May I help you with that?” he asked, indicating the box of school notebooks I was carrying.

  “No, thank you,” I said, fool that I was. Why didn’t I accept his offer? “You already have your arms full,” I added, gesturing at the bulky package he had under one arm.

  “It’s the proclamation announcing the new Consular government, to be distributed throughout the city. I’ll put a copy out for you to read,” he offered.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’d like that.” Although there was nothing more tedious than a government proclamation.

  “In the salon?” he asked.

  Did he want to meet me in the salon?

  “Shall I put it in the salon?” he clarified.

  “Ah. The proclamation. Of course. Yes. In the salon. That would be perfect. Put it there.”

  “I will,” he said with a grin.

  I put my box of notebooks by the door and raced back up to my room, overcome.

  * * *

  —

  I was outside helping Mimi gather eggs the next morning when I heard horses galloping down the laneway. Only the General rode at such a reckless speed. Soon I heard voices: it was the General—and Christophe.

  “We have enough eggs for now,” Mimi said, putting her basket down to wipe her hands on her apron. “The cook will be needing them, now that the General is back.”

  “Would you mind taking mine in?” I dunked my mesh basket into the washtub we used for cleaning the eggs. I had it in mind to linger in the garden for a spell, out of sight. I felt mortified about how awkward I’d been around Christophe the day before. (Plus, another pimple spot had appeared on my ch
in overnight.) “They’re not heavy,” I pointed out.

  “Good, then you take both baskets in, child,” she said, handing me hers. “I have laundry yet to get down off the line.”

  Groan!

  The way down to the kitchen, unfortunately, was through the house. I decided to go in through the front entrance. From there I’d be able to cut across the dining room and over to the stairs down to the cellar kitchen. The men, no doubt, would be in the General’s office, at the back of the house.

  I was edging around the dining room table (which was covered with maps, books and news journals), making my way carefully, for the two mesh baskets were rather full, when a hand grabbed my boot. I screamed and dropped one of the baskets.

  “Christ!” a voice cursed.

  It was Fauvelet, the General’s secretary, emerging from under the table.

  “Careful!” There were broken eggs all over the carpet.

  “Merde,” he said, standing.

  “Why did you grab my foot?” And what was the General’s secretary doing under the table?

  “I thought you were the maid.”

  “Agathe?”

  He looked sheepish. “She makes the funniest yelp.”

  “Well, Citoyen, she’s going to get a true fright seeing the mess she’s going to have to clean up.”

  Just then, who should come in but Christophe. “Wha—?” he exclaimed.

  There I was, with a puddle of broken egg yolks and whites at my feet, standing next to the General’s secretary who was covered in slime. “I—I d-d-dropped a b-b-basket,” I stuttered, covering my chin with my hand. “Of eggs.”

  “I guess I startled her,” Fauvelet said.

  He guessed? He’d been under the table. He’d grabbed my boot!

  “Citoyenne Beauharnais, let me help you,” Christophe offered, chuckling. He took my basket and rang the kitchen bell.

  Agathe cursed like a sailor when she saw the mess and rushed back downstairs for a mop and bucket.

  “What’s going on?”

  We all froze. It was the General, scowling.

  Fauvelet held out his arms with a helpless expression.

  “He’s made an omelet?” Christophe offered, with a sly smile at me.

  I did my best not to break into a giggle fit.

  To everyone’s relief, the General laughed.

  * * *

  —

  That evening the men sat around the fire—the General, Fauvelet, Eugène, Joachim and Christophe—telling stories of the coup while Maman, Caroline and I took up our needlework. (Or, rather, Maman and I did, for Caroline didn’t take her eyes off Joachim even once.)

  Christophe explained how Eugène’s breakfast party had served as part of the plan. Other aides had been asked to host similar gatherings, each with high-ranking officers. The morning of the coup, Christophe had ridden to each group, told the officers what was happening and sent them to join the General.

  “That way,” Christophe went on, “when the General rode out, he was surrounded by his best men.”

  “The Breakfast Party Plot,” Eugène said with a grin, proud to have been part of it. “Trouble was, we didn’t have time to eat. Would anyone care for some leftover duck with oysters?”

  * * *

  —

  We moved to the Petit Luxembourg two days later: me, Caroline, Eugène, Maman, the General and his secretary, Fauvelet, crowding into our old carriage. The timing of the move had been kept quiet, so we weren’t bothered by the usual crowds.

  “Will we get a bigger carriage?” Maman asked, for we were tightly crowded.

  “One that doesn’t break down all the time?” I suggested, watching out the window for Christophe, who was riding alongside with the dragoons escorting us. He saw me looking and smiled. I glanced away, my heart jumping.

  The General drummed his fingers. “The carriages at the palace have disappeared.”

  “We’ll have our own riding arena,” Eugène said. “Won’t we?”

  Caroline poked me with her elbow. “Aren’t you excited? It’s like we’re going to be princesses now.”

  “Is there a piano?” I asked. “Or maybe a pianoforte?”

  “I’m afraid all we’ve acquired are debts,” the General said, drumming his fingers.

  A PRINCESS LIFE

  The rooms previously occupied by Director Gohier’s family were grand, though decrepit, with moldy wall coverings and high ceilings covered in flaking gold leaf. Worse: Caroline and I had to share the bed of the Gohiers’ sixteen-year-old son. I tried not to think of the sinful habits he likely indulged there. Mimi took away his dirty linens, but his sour smell was everywhere.

  Our windows overlooked the Luxembourg Palace, now to be called “Palace of the Consuls.” Another name change. As if erasing memories could be so easy. It had been used as a prison during the Terror, and I remembered visiting Father when he was incarcerated there. He pretended—or perhaps he even believed—that it was simply a temporary measure. Soon I will be free, he told us.

  Almost directly in front of us was the Rue de Tournon, where my great-aunt Fanny had lived. Eugène, Ém and I had had to stay with her for a time when Maman, Father and Ém’s mother were all in prison. Not far, in the other direction, a short walk up the Rue de Vaugirard, was the Carmes, where Maman and Father had been imprisoned, the last place I’d seen my father alive.

  I also remembered Director Barras (former Director Barras) hosting an elegant dinner at the Palace, celebrating the anniversary of the King’s execution. I hadn’t wanted to go—I didn’t want to celebrate our King’s death—but Maman insisted. I was seated beside her, and on my left was an ill-dressed man who kept talking feverishly to her. I had to sit back, away from my plate, in order to avoid blasts of his cinnamon breath. That was my first encounter with the General, and I was not impressed.

  Unpacking, I came upon Maîtresse’s curious little gift. I took the cork out and sniffed it. It had an almond scent. I dipped a finger in and tasted it. It was a little bitter.

  Safe now?

  * * *

  —

  30 Brumaire, An 8

  The Institute

  My dearest friend,

  It’s dreary here at school without you. And to think that you are living the life of a princess. Perhaps, when we do see you, we’ll have to kiss your feet? For sure I’ll want to kiss your cheek.

  Your Mouse

  Nasty: Writing with a split quill. (I must make some more.)

  * * *

  —

  16 Frimaire, An 8

  The Institute

  My angel,

  Yesterday and the day before yesterday all your friends came to my room at mail-delivery time with the most touching eagerness to see if there was anything from their dear Hortense—and yet not one word from you. I tenderly scold you, my dear girl. Ask your mother to provide you with a writing desk that is well stocked with everything necessary.

  But enough: I scold, I forgive, and if I were near you, I would embrace you.

  Maîtresse Campan

  Note—I suggested to Citoyens Isabey and Jadin that they arrange to give you lessons at the Luxembourg.

  —

  The life of a princess proved to be woefully dull. Caroline and I couldn’t go anywhere without guards. There was nowhere to go, in any case, much less anything to do. Any visitors we wished to invite had to be officially approved, but—worse—the rooms the General had taken for his office were below us, on the ground floor. Eugène, Christophe and the other aides spent all their time down there. It wasn’t at all like at Maman’s little house, where it had always been rather easy to accidentally-on-purpose happen by. In our first five days, Caroline saw Joachim barely once and I didn’t see Christophe at all.

  In spite of the monotony, Caroline complained loudly and at length about
having to return to school. I badly wanted to go back to the Institute with her, but Maman insisted she needed my help. “It’s time for you to learn how to behave in society,” she said, examining my chin for black points and pimple spots. “Be introduced to prominent families.”

  I scowled. Meet a potential husband, she meant.

  * * *

  —

  “Eugène, would it be possible for you to talk to Maman?” I bit my thumbnail, unsure how to put it. “About potential suitors? For me?”

  “Who do you have in mind?”

  “Nobody! But she seems to be focusing on the sons of politicians.” I made a face. “They’ve never served in the army. They’re . . .” Pathetic.

  “You’d prefer a fighting man?” He picked up his riding crop and made a playful dueling lunge at me. “Like who?”

  I caught the tip of the crop and, with a surprise twist, deftly pulled it out of his hand. “Seriously.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes.” I wagged his crop at him. “This is serious. You’ll see, when your turn comes.” Boys weren’t considered marriageable until they were well into their twenties. It was different for girls.

  “Very well,” he conceded. “I’ll consider the possibilities and suggest them to Maman.”

  “Perhaps you might be kind enough to consult with me first?” I suggested, tapping him playfully with his crop before giving it back to him.

  * * *

  —

  “I talked to Maman,” Eugène said, later that day.

  “That was quick!”

  “I needed to know her criteria before I went shopping, so to speak.”

  I focused on my embroidery. I was beginning to regret having recruited my brother as a go-between.

  “She requires that the ideal suitor be of a good family, and that he preferably be titled.”

  I scrunched my nose. “Why? No one has titles now.”