He shrugged his shoulders in a “who knows?” gesture.
“What about . . .” Did I dare? “What about Colonel Duroc? His family is of the nobility.” Sort of. In a minor way. Maybe.
“You fancy Christophe?” He raised his eyebrows.
“Simply a possibility.” But my blush gave me away.
* * *
—
“Problem solved,” Eugène reported back, looking pleased with himself.
“What problem?” I said, looking up from drawing a horse. I couldn’t get the neck right. I had had a lesson with Citoyen Isabey that morning, and soon Citoyen Jadin would arrive.
“Your husband problem.”
Aïe! “And?” Could he possibly have suggested Christophe?
“At least solved for now,” he qualified.
“What does that mean?”
“I talked to the General.”
Oh no!
“And he talked to Maman, and persuaded her to stop trying to find you a husband right now.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really—because of your immaturity.”
“I’m not immature!”
* * *
—
Citoyen Jadin was pale. I wondered if it was because of the dim light, which filtered in through the tall windows. Had he always been so gaunt? Perhaps I’d not noticed before.
“Welcome,” I said, shifting uncomfortably. “Welcome to our palace.” I rolled my eyes. The tattered yet ostentatious grandeur embarrassed me.
He looked around the room as if lost in a foreign realm, pulling his coat cuffs down over his wrists. “It’s cold,” he said.
“I know.” It was the beginning of winter, and not all that cold outside, yet it was freezing in our rooms. “How have you been?” It seemed strange talking to him so formally. My last lesson with him had been over four months before, in the heat of summer, and since then so much had happened.
“A bit ill, but I’m better now.” Leaning on a side table, he lowered himself onto a chair by the fire.
“Are you sure, Citoyen Jadin? You seem . . .” Frail. “We could postpone for another day.”
“We’ve lost too much time as it is,” he said, gesturing for me to take the stool in front of the old pianoforte we’d had moved from La Chantereine.
“I know! My mother has had me on a busy social schedule. She’s intent on finding a husband for me.”
“Is that what you want?” he asked absently, going through his sheaf of scores. “Marriage?”
“Someday, certainly.” There had been a time when I could talk to him about almost anything, but now he seemed aloof. “Fortunately, Maman has given up, at least for now.” I glanced at the score he handed me. Bach’s Prelude No. 1 in C major. I loved it—who didn’t?—but it was suitable for a beginner. “Citoyen Jadin, do you think I’m immature?” I said without thinking.
“Why do you ask?”
“The General and my mother think I am.” I was still indignant about it.
“You’re playful,” he said, his chin in the palm of one hand, “but that’s not the same thing. You have a sense of humor, yet take things seriously. You’re energetic.” He glanced at me. “Why do you frown?”
“My grandmother thinks I’m too energetic. She’s forever telling me to settle down.”
“Imagine what she would say about all my brothers.”
I laughed to imagine. I’d forgotten how charming he could be when he smiled.
“Have you continued composing?” he asked.
No. Because the one composition I had played for him hadn’t been worthy of so much as a word! “I’ve been busy.” An excuse.
“You must make time for the things that matter.”
It was true, I knew, but sometimes . . .
“I want you to work on composing every day. Start a notebook. Even if you just glance at it,” he said, meeting my eyes. “Promise me?”
“I promise,” I said, but halfheartedly.
He began to say something more, but stopped, his hand on his chest. “Play the Prelude,” he said, once he could speak.
“Citoyen Jadin, respectfully, I learned this piece when I was eleven.”
“Don’t be fooled by simplicity. I want to hear your creative energy when you play.” He paused to cough, then said, “Play as if your very life depended on it.”
A NEW CENTURY
Shortly after, I learned that Christophe had been promoted to colonel and sent to Austria to negotiate peace. I was proud of him—it was an honor to have been chosen for such a big responsibility—but I was miserable that he was gone.
Twelve days after Christophe had departed, I overheard an interesting conversation at dinner. It was a special affair because the General had been named First of the three Consuls, and was now officially in charge of the country. After numerous toasts and discussions about matters political, the Minister of Foreign Affairs (Citoyen Talleyrand, but nicknamed the Lame Devil because of his clubfoot) mentioned that Colonel Duroc—Christophe!—had made a strong impression in Austria and that the King was pleased with him.
I wanted to hear more, but then Talleyrand and the General launched into a discussion of the proposed new Constitution, which was soon to be voted on by the public. I hid a small yawn behind my serviette.
“A constitution should be short and obscure,” the General said. “Now that the cork is drawn, we must drink the wine.”
Whatever that meant!
* * *
—
Every evening the General’s younger brother Lucien joined us for dinner, reporting on the tally of the votes on the Constitution so far that day. “Over 12,000 ayes—12,440, to be exact,” he said, helping himself to all the venison. “Plus 12,000 more from the garrison.”
“How many voted no?” the General asked.
Lucien looked down at his notes. “Ten?” He smiled. “I think it’s safe to assume that it’s going to be ratified.”
“Exactly. In five days we’ll proclaim it,” the General said, tearing off a chunk of bread and cleaning his plate with it.
“That would be Christmas Eve,” Maman noted.
“All the better,” the General said.
“Proclaim it before the vote is concluded next month?” Eugène asked.
“We can’t sit around waiting,” the General said, reaching over to pinch Eugène’s ear. “Let’s get to work.”
“Yes, sir!” Eugène took a few more bites of chicken and stood to put on his gold-embroidered jacket with red cuffs. He looked smart in his new uniform.
“It’s a good fit,” Maman said. She was proud of him. We both were. At only eighteen, he’d been made Captain of the Mounted Guards, commanding over one hundred men, all of them older, veterans of the Italian and Egyptian campaigns.
Eugène grinned, trying to appear dignified, but his dimples gave him away. That and the swinging way he walked, following Lucien and the General out the door.
“Will we celebrate Christmas?” I asked Maman after the men had left.
“Yes, and Easter,” she said, handing her plate to Mimi. “And—who knows?—there might be a masquerade ball at Mardi Gras.”
“Ooh la la,” Mimi said. “That would be something.”
“There hasn’t been one for years,” Maman said.
“Not since before the Revolution,” Mimi said, leaving with a tray stacked with dishes.
“What about the Revolutionary festivals?” I asked, helping myself to two more chicken thighs. Dining with the General was always abrupt. It was challenging to get enough to eat.
“No more,” Maman said, pushing back her chair.
No more Festivals of Virtue, Reason and Labor? No more Festival of Recompense? A relief!
* * *
—
On Christmas Eve the new
Constitution took effect. Outside our gates, the street was thronged, everyone yelling, “Vive Bonaparte! The Revolution is over!” I felt trapped by their fervor.
The next day, Christmas Day, the General asked me to fill in for his secretary, who was ill. “You are well-schooled, Hortense,” he said, “and your penmanship is certainly better than mine.”
(Was that a compliment? I wasn’t sure. His writing was terrible, impossible to read.)
My fingers trembled a little when I realized I’d be writing out letters to the King of England and the Holy Roman Emperor! More and more I was beginning to comprehend the enormous changes in our lives.
Resting my hand while the General was out for a moment—he expected me to keep up with his dictation and he spoke very quickly—I noticed a letter from the French ambassador in Austria. Squinting a bit, I made out a sentence or two about how the King was impressed with Colonel Duroc.
I was all puffed up with pride, but at the same time miserable. If only he would return!
* * *
—
Nivôse 9, An 8
The Institute
My dearest friend,
It’s hard to believe that soon it will be 1800 (by the old calendar, of course), a new century. It seems strange to be celebrating a new year in winter, and not in the fall, as we usually do. Plus, I can’t get used to some people addressing me as Mademoiselle. Can you? Doesn’t it sound strange to you? I’m going to stick with Citoyen and Citoyenne.
I imagine that you will be doing something exciting to celebrate the new century. Not us, alas. Maîtresse is going to have us all awakened—as if we’d be asleep!—and everyone (except for the Little Geniuses, of course) is to stand together in the ballroom holding candles and thinking Improving Thoughts. I love my aunt dearly, but she can be frightfully serious.
She also had everyone make what she called “resolutions” for the coming year. This sounds rather like what we did at that Meeting of the Vows a long time ago, remember?
Ém took over your role of the wicked old woman in our play, and was actually fairly good at it.
Your Mouse
Note—Caroline had to eat at the Repentance Table again. It didn’t seem to bother her, strangely enough. Ém asked her, half jesting, if she was trying to get expelled, and she said yes, she was! Might this have something do to with wanting to get to Paris to see her beloved General Murat?
* * *
—
On January 1, 1800, the first day of the new year—and new century—I resolved to:
Attend to my studies every morning.
Improve my handwriting.
Write more often to Mouse, Ém and Caroline. And Maîtresse. And even Nana and Grandpapa.
Sketch every day.
Play the pianoforte for an hour a day.
Make a new composition notebook and at least glance at it once a day, as I had promised Citoyen Jadin I would.
ARRIVALS AND DEPARTURES
On the second day of the “new year”—it was still just 12 Nivôse to me—Maman informed me that our stay in the Petit Luxembourg was temporary. My heart leapt thinking that we would be moving back into La Chantereine and that everything would return to normal, only to have my hopes cruelly dashed with her next words.
“We’re to move into the Tuileries Palace,” she said.
Aïe. The thought of living where the King and Queen had lived gave me gooseflesh. “Why can’t we just go home?” I missed Maman’s little house.
“Our lives have changed, dear heart,” she said sadly.
* * *
—
The next day we toured the Tuileries, which we were to call the Palace of the Government (yet another name change). Surrounded by miserable shanties sunk into mud, the stink was so strong it made me ill, despite a bitter wind off the river. I hated to imagine how it would smell in the heat of summer.
Inside, it was worse. The royal apartments had been empty for over six years and everything looked a wreck. I saw bloodstains on the wall. I wondered if these were from when a mob broke in.
“It’s only red paint,” Eugène told me, but I didn’t believe him.
“It’s so dark,” Maman said. The windows were high up and caked with grime. Many were boarded over.
“And gloomy,” I said.
“Gloomy like all grandeur,” the General said, leading the way. It would be easy to get lost in those halls. “We’ll be lodged by the river. Moving in won’t be difficult. The hard part will be staying.” He paused at the door of what must have been the King’s chambers. “Louis XVI sat here.”
“That’s the throne room?” I asked. Like everything else, it was in shambles.
“A throne is nothing more than a bench covered in velvet,” he said.
“And the Queen?” Maman asked, shivering.
“Her rooms were below,” the General said. We followed as he led the way down to a lower level, which was colder.
Then, as we stepped into the suite where the Queen had once lived, Maman fainted! Fortunately, Mimi caught her.
“I saw a ghost,” Maman told me later, once we’d returned to the Petit Luxembourg.
“Maman, that’s—” Uneducated, I started to say. I thought of how we’d been foolishly deceived by the Fantasmagorie.
“It was a woman wearing a simple white gown. Her hair was entirely white,” she said, her voice tremulous. “It was the spirit of our poor Queen.”
* * *
—
The next evening, I headed for the reception salon in the Petit Luxembourg, dressed for dinner in my usual white gown and gloves. I was expected to be there at six every evening to help Maman entertain. I had taken care with my hair, braiding it and securing it with a lovely tortoiseshell barrette I’d bought that afternoon in a shop in the Palais Égalité.
I heard my brother’s voice, and that of several other men and women. Mother wouldn’t appear for another half hour, and the General would arrive a moment before dinner was served. I paused at the door as Maman had taught me, composing myself before entering, standing straight and quietly reciting p-words like prune, words that were supposed to give my mouth a more attractive appearance. My efforts at composure were all for naught, however, for on entering I gasped—for who should be sitting by the fire with my brother but Christophe.
They both jumped to their feet.
Christophe was as devastatingly handsome as ever. I took a calming breath. People were watching us.
“How was your journey, Colonel?”
“It went well, thank you, Citoyenne Beauharnais,” he said, offering me his chair.
I lowered myself onto it, feeling its warmth—his warmth. I flushed violently and turned toward the fire, hoping that its heat would be assumed to be the cause.
Eugène, Christophe and I talked quietly for a time of Christophe’s experiences, his challenges and obvious successes. He inquired how the vote on the new Constitution was going.
“It looks encouraging,” Eugène said, “although we won’t know definitively for about forty more days.”
“Ah,” Christophe said. “Too bad. I won’t be here.”
“But you’ve just returned,” I said.
“I’m afraid I must return. Peace treaties take time,” he said, sitting forward.
“So I gather,” I said, pleased to show that I knew something of diplomacy. “The General has me occasionally writing letters and other documents for him. I have found it enlightening.” (Boasting a bit.)
Mimi glanced in to summon me to help with the table.
“You’ll stay to dine with us, Colonel Duroc?” I asked, proffering my hand and making a slight curtsy.
“Thank you, but I’m afraid I have another engagement,” he said, “with Citoyen Talleyrand.”
“Our Foreign Minister hosts an elegant table, I’m told,�
�� I said. “Another time, perhaps?”
“Yes,” he said, lightly kissing my gloved hand, “another time.”
I left the room with the appearance of composure, but my legs trembling.
THE ART OF GIVE AND TAKE
21 Nivôse, An 8
The Institute
My dearest friend,
Thank you so much for the horsehair paintbrush you made me for my birthday. I love it.
How delightful that we are now both sixteen. I haven’t yet started to You Know What, so I’m not getting talks about finding a husband—at least not yet. Thank goodness for that.
Do you know that Caroline succeeded in getting expelled? Or, rather, was “allowed to go” is how my aunt tactfully put it. I take it she’s going back to live with you? At least now you will have one Fearsome with you. She’s been desperate to get back to Paris, and I know you can guess why.
I’m a little worried about Ém. She continues to suffer from low spirits. At least Caroline was a distraction.
Your Mouse
* * *
—
“I finally managed to get out of there,” Caroline said, pulling off her gloves by biting the fingertips, one by one. “Where are the men?”
Where was Joachim Murat, she meant. I told her that he was either with his hussars or with the aides downstairs, where we were forbidden to go.
“That’s cruel!” she said.
I had to agree, now that Christophe was back. “We rarely see the aides anymore.”
“That’s unacceptable!” she said.
* * *
—
It didn’t take Caroline long to change the situation, for six days later she announced, “I’m going to die.”
She didn’t look like she was dying. In fact, she was aglow.
“Of happiness!” she exclaimed. “Joachim asked for my hand.”
The Game of Hope Page 23
