Twenty-one dances! We would be dancing until dawn. Citoyenne Lenormand had predicted that a public event would be significant for me. Was this to be the night?
“Your teacher Citoyen Jadin will be playing during the refreshment break,” Maman noted, squinting to read the small print at the bottom.
“Wonderful,” I said, although my feelings were mixed. He’d canceled another lesson. I feared he might still be angry—or, worse, disappointed in me.
Maman, Mimi and I headed into the women’s cloak chamber, a large room lit by candles and crowded with gray-clad servants helping ladies with their cloaks and hoods. They bundled and labeled ours by name. “Citoyenne Bonaparte?” one exclaimed to Maman, and that caused a bit of a flurry. As the wife of the First Consul, Maman was becoming a celebrity.
We retreated to a private alcove with a stuffed armchair and a comfortable chaise longue for reclining. Under a gilt-framed mirror, a low table displayed a supply of hairpins, combs and a box filled with sewing notions, in case a repair was needed. Mimi opened a small tin. “Salts,” she said, crinkling her nose.
* * *
—
Eugène and the General were waiting for us in the long gallery, with Roustam hovering behind.
“Ready?” the General demanded, yanking on his toga. He hated being in costume.
“Don’t worry,” Maman said with a smile, securing his full-face mask and adjusting the tilt of his laurel crown. “Nobody will guess that it’s you.”
“Are you excited?” Eugène asked, offering me his arm. He was well disguised in a mask and an Egyptian robe of an ancient design.
From the roar of voices inside, it sounded as if all of Paris had come. I wondered if Christophe was there.
* * *
—
Much to the General’s chagrin, he was instantly recognized. Everyone stepped back as he approached. Some people even bowed.
A man dressed as Death appeared before us, but his rank smell gave him away: it was Citoyen Fouché, Minister of Police. He whispered in Maman’s ear. I glanced behind to make sure Roustam was close. (Safe now?)
We followed an attendant to the box Maman had rented in the first tier. From there we could see everything. Countless candles gave the vast space a heavenly glow. On the stage, at the front, musicians were setting up. Off to one side was a piano on a platform—for Citoyen Jadin, I guessed. My heart ached to think I’d offended him, and I promised myself that I would make amends. I would practice more often and faithfully continue to compose, as he’d told me I should. I missed his beautiful music, our frank talks, our friendship.
I looked out over the crowd, seeking familiar faces. The women were masked, many in dominos. A few men were in full dress and without masks, but most were in costume. I spotted Ém in a medieval gown, the lovely rose shawl Antoine had long ago given her draped over her shoulders. He was beside her, dressed as a knight. Her father, a Revolutionary in a bonnet rouge, stood behind them.
“Can that be Nana?” Eugène asked.
Dressed as a gypsy! “With Grandpapa.” He was sitting in his chair on wheels, looking about brightly in his ancient Commander of the Navy hat. “See Joachim and Caroline? They’re to the left, between the two columns.”
“Ooh la la,” Eugène said, raising his eyebrows at Caroline’s costume.
I waved, but they didn’t notice, mooning into each other’s eyes.
Maman pointed out the General’s brothers Joseph and Lucien, costumed as pirates. (How appropriate, I thought.) Louis, who was not in costume, was standing with them, looking glum.
“Where is Colonel Duroc?” I asked Eugène.
“Getting ready for his trip north. He’s to leave at dawn tomorrow, but his horse started bobbing its head.”
Aïe. Christophe rode a stunning black stallion. “Is it lame?”
“Likely, so he has to find another mount. He didn’t think he was going to be able to make it tonight after all.”
My heart sank.
* * *
—
After dancing the opening march with Eugène, I found Ém. “I didn’t recognize you,” she said, admiring my costume.
I adjusted my mask and sat down beside her, disheartened about Christophe not coming.
“Who is on your card?” she asked.
I shrugged. “A few more dances with Eugène, of course.”
As well as one with Louis, I didn’t want to mention. He had pressed himself upon me rather forcefully. “And Citoyen Rudé.” I wrinkled my nose in disgust.
“The man who wiped his nose on the tablecloth at the Meeting of the Vows?”
“Yes, the old lecher who drools staring at us.” If I had refused him, I would have had to refuse all other partners for the rest of the evening.
A tall young man in a yellow hussar costume approached us. He was walking with a slight limp, I noticed. Could it be? Yes! It was all I could do not to exclaim in surprise—and elation.
“How are you, Citoyennes Beauharnais?” Christophe said, addressing both Ém and me. He saluted Antoine, who was standing close by with Ém’s father.
“You are mistaken, Citoyen,” I said, disguising my voice. I was near faint with happiness to see him. “I am Aurelie Challamel.”
“I beg to differ,” he said with a sly expression. “Citoyenne Hortense Beauharnais has an unmistakable grace.”
“It’s rather hard to be graceful just sitting,” I countered in my fake voice.
“I watched you in the opening march with your brother,” he said with smiling eyes.
“Moving with an unmistakable grace, no doubt,” Ém said, poking me in the ribs.
“Are you two in league?” I protested, taking off my mask.
“You found a mount, Colonel?” Ém’s husband Antoine asked, joining us.
“I did, Sergeant. Thank you for your help.”
“Is your stallion going to be all right?” I asked. “Eugène said . . .”
“Thankfully, yes. He needs time to heal, is all,” he said. The musicians took up their instruments. Christophe inclined his head toward me. “Citoyenne, may I have the honor of this dance?”
Ém raised her eyebrows at me, her big eyes twinkly.
* * *
—
I took Christophe’s arm and we proceeded to the dance floor. I felt giddy, light as a feather. “Does your injury bother you?” I asked, then immediately regretted it. Had I offended him?
“I’m learning to live with it,” he said.
“A war injury is a badge of bravery,” I said.
“Except that I got mine sitting.”
“On horseback, no doubt.” There were seven other couples on the dance floor, not many, but enough.
“I was in a ditch,” he said with a laugh.
I wanted to tell Christophe that I admired his honesty—usually, soldiers falsely embellished their war stories—but then the music started, a delightful minuet by Lully. Christophe made a formal bow to me, and I curtsied (with an unmistakable grace, I hoped). More couples had come onto the dance floor, but I hardly noticed, utterly absorbed in the touch of our gloved hands, the measured pace and complex hops of the minuet. The slow, intricate dance was no longer favored. Few knew how to dance it, so I was astonished that Christophe performed every step faultlessly, especially the one-and-a-fleuret, in which the half-coupé was followed by the bourrée. (This was my favorite sequence. We were perfect for each other!)
“The minuet is no longer admired,” I noted, making the sink that prepared me for a fleuret.
“Regrettably,” he said.
Slip behind, half-coupé forward to the right, left hand presents. “Yes,” I responded. Yes, yes, yes!
LOVE . . . AND GRIEF
“You really are in love,” Ém said teasingly, after Christophe had escorted me back to the seat beside her.
>
“Why do you say that?” I asked, fanning myself rigorously. I wondered if it was possible to expire from bliss.
“It’s obvious,” she said, grinning.
“Fearsome!” we heard someone call out. I turned to see a girl costumed as a mouse wearing spectacles. Mouse!
“Maîtresse let you come?” I exclaimed.
“She made me come with her,” she said with a glare. “Now that I have begun my You Know What—”
“You have?” both Ém and I exclaimed.
“—she is intent on finding me a husband.” Mouse made a face of wretchedness, crinkling her painted-on whiskers.
“Dressed like that?” I laughed. “Maîtresse is here too?”
“We watched you dancing with that very handsome man,” Mouse said, smiling slyly.
And then—the worst thing possible—Citoyen Rudé presented himself for “the honor of our quadrille.” I’d forgotten that he was next on my dance card.
“I’ll see you after,” I told Ém and Mouse, rolling my eyes in chagrin.
* * *
—
Citoyen Rudé, costumed as a medieval knight, danced in a ridiculously archaic style, making ostentatious gestures with his arms. But that was not the worst of it. As we awaited our second turn to go up the form, he had the impertinence to grab hold of my hand and announce, in a booming voice, “Citoyenne, you would do me the supreme honor of embellishing my meager existence by bequeathing me your hand.”
It took me a moment to understand that he had proposed marriage! I pulled my hand out of his grasp, muttered something about an urgency, and fled from the ballroom in confusion.
Mimi found me on the chaise longue in the women’s cloak chamber. “What happened?”
“A man proposed,” I said, wiping away tears. A revolting man!
“That’s not usually something to cry about,” she said with a smile. “I’ll find your mother.”
Maman appeared shortly after. “Dear heart, you offended the Marquis de Rudé!”
He was now a marquis? How pompous was that? “He proposed to me!”
“So I’m told. You publicly insulted him by your rude response and he’s left in a huff.”
I was happy about that.
“I will have to write him an apology,” she said, “and you will have to as well.”
“But Maman, you’ll let him know that I . . . that I won’t . . . ?”
A beggar woman approached and raised her mask.
“Maîtresse Campan!”
“Angel, I understand that the Marquis de Rudé made you a proposal of marriage.”
Did everyone know? Did Christophe?
“Which she rejected,” Maman said. “And none too gracefully.”
“Now, unfortunately, everyone is whispering about it,” Maîtresse told her.
I didn’t like the way they were talking about me as if I weren’t there.
* * *
—
I found Mouse, Ém and Caroline standing at the entrance to the ballroom.
“What would these people have me do!” I asked them indignantly, relating all that had happened.
“Marrying is the goal of every girl,” Caroline said, flashing her wedding ring.
“Marrying a good man,” Ém qualified. “You were right to refuse, Hortense.”
Mouse concurred. “Citoyen Rudé is menacing.”
“I think so too!” It wasn’t just me. “But Maîtresse isn’t happy about it. He’s an important donor to the Institute.”
“I hope she doesn’t want me to marry him now,” Mouse said.
“She would never do that,” I assured her.
The musicians began to play a military song and the crowd started cheering: Vive Bonaparte! Peace with Bonaparte!
“We saw you dancing with Christophe Duroc,” Caroline said, teasing.
“Speaking of whom!” Mouse squeaked.
I turned to see Christophe making his way toward us through the crowd.
“We need to refresh,” Ém said, dragging Mouse and Caroline away.
* * *
—
“Citoyenne Beauharnais.” Christophe made a courtly bow. By candlelight, his yellow silk hussar costume seemed to glow. He looked more handsome than ever. “I have a message for you.”
People were singing the “La Marseillaise” in the ballroom, singing it boisterously. I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly. “A message for me?” I hoped he didn’t know about what had happened with Rudé.
“Yes. The General would like you to play the piano during the refreshment break.”
Play in front of this enormous crowd? I couldn’t! “I thought Citoyen Jadin was going to.” I hadn’t seen him. Was he in disguise?
“He sent a request that you play in his stead. He is . . . unable to come.”
Something in the hesitant way Christophe spoke puzzled me. “Why?”
“Would you care to sit down?” he asked, indicating an upholstered bench.
“Do you think I’m going to faint or something?” I was joking. “I’m not the fainting type.” Well, not usually.
“Please?” he said, imploring.
I lowered myself onto the bench. He sat down beside me, close enough that our knees almost touched. He smelled sweetly of tobacco—tobacco and something citrus. Orange water, perhaps?
“I don’t like having to be the one to say this,” he began, staring down at the patterned carpet. People were milling about, coming and going. “The General and I were asked not to tell anyone, at least not just yet,” he said, lowering his voice, “but your music instructor, Citoyen Jadin—I am so sorry, Citoyenne, but he . . . he died.”
I stared at him. “Hyacinthe Jadin?”
He nodded regretfully.
“That’s impossible,” I said evenly.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, lifting up his hands, and then letting them fall. “He had consumption.”
Mon Dieu. My stomach lurched. I thought of how ill Hyacinthe had been. I recalled his terrible cough. “But he’s so young.” Was so young.
“I know,” Christophe said gravely. “It’s tragic. Apparently he didn’t want anyone to know.”
We don’t have much time, Hyacinthe had told me. Again and again. He must have known all along, known he was dying. I won’t always be here to encourage you, he’d warned me at our last lesson.
Everything began to spin.
* * *
—
“What happened?” I heard a woman say.
“Did she faint?” a man asked.
“Citoyenne Beauharnais?” I heard Christophe’s voice close beside me, but I could not respond.
“Stand back. She needs air,” I heard him say.
He lifted me up. I felt light as a cork, safe in his strong arms.
He lowered me onto a divan in a sitting area between two columns. “I fainted?” I managed to say.
“I believe so,” he said, pulling a wooden chair up beside me.
I struggled to sit up. Was I becoming one of those women, one of the silly, simpering ones who were forever swooning? And then it came to me again: Hyacinthe was dead. “Is it true, what you said?”
“One of his brothers came to tell us.”
I choked down a sob. I thought of Nelly, my father. Death was so cruelly irrevocable. “He had faith in me,” I said, taking a jagged breath. And now he was gone? Forever? “Have you ever had a friend like that? Someone who challenged you to become better than yourself? Or more fully yourself, even when you didn’t think it was possible?”
Christophe leaned forward, his hands clasped. He nodded. “Your stepfather, actually.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised. I’d seen how the General encouraged Eugène—and me as well, I realized. He’d told me I was a composer, a good co
mposer. My heart sank, realizing the mistakes I’d made. I’d been ungrateful. Worse, I’d been—yes—immature. The General might have been socially awkward, and he wasn’t tall or handsome, but he had other qualities, qualities of the heart and mind that mattered so much more.
“The General trusts me,” Christophe said.
Because Christophe was so very trustworthy. But I couldn’t tell him that. At least not yet. “Then you understand how I feel,” I said.
“I do,” he said.
I wondered what it would be like to kiss him.
“I think I can stand now,” I said. A march was in progress. Soon the dancing would stop and food would be served.
“Are you sure?” He offered his arm and helped me to my feet. I took a few cautious steps.
“Have you seen my daughter?” I heard someone ask.
Maman?
“Dear heart!” she said. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
I glanced up at Christophe. Did my mother know about Jadin? No, his eyes said, stepping back. Don’t say anything.
“It’s Maîtresse Campan,” Maman said. “She’s had a bit of a shock.”
“Is she all right?” I sat back down on the divan, to be safe. There had been too many shocks that evening. It wouldn’t do to faint again. “What happened?”
Maman sat down beside me, taking my hand in hers. The iridescent layers of her butterfly gown wafted out around her. “She saw our ghost,” she said with a grimace. “The Queen.”
Mon Dieu. I glanced at Christophe. He must think us lunatic.
“Might it have been someone in costume, Citoyenne Bonaparte?” he suggested.
“I wish it had been, Colonel, but no.” She glanced over her shoulder. There was nobody close by. “I saw her too,” she said quietly.
Aïe. “Maman, that’s . . .” Ridiculous, I started to say, although I was beginning to think that anything was possible. “Is Mouse with her?”
“I can’t find her. Could you see to Maîtresse? I would, but Bonaparte is expecting me.”
The Game of Hope Page 28
