The Game of Hope

  “And one can only get the pox once,” Maman went on.

  “But I’m protected too,” I said, my voice shaky. I pushed up my sleeve to show her my scar.

  “I know, dear heart, but we dare not risk it,” Maman said. “Promise me.”

  * * *

  —

  Dear God, I prayed, please do not take Ém. I can’t bear to lose her. I would die.

  If God spared her, I promised Him, I would give up madeleines.

  Forever.

  * * *

  —

  Every morning, I set a chair outside Ém’s room and read to her from Paul and Virginia. She did not make a sound. She might have been sleeping, for all I knew, but I liked to think she was lying there, quietly listening.

  The story was a romance, which I rather liked, much to my surprise. It was about a boy and girl who were friends as children, and then fell in love, but it was also about life on their island, where everything was perfect and natural and uncorrupted by artificial sentimentality or the modern world.

  I skipped over the love poem about bleeding bosoms.

  * * *

  —

  After days sitting outside Ém’s door, I heard her speak, but it was fever-talk. It made no sense. I heard her call out for her father, as if her very life depended on it. The emotion in her voice made me weep.

  There was a nauseating odor coming from her room, sweet and pungent, like that of rotting flesh. The doctor, Maman and Mimi donned masks, smocks and gloves before going in. After, Mimi took Ém’s soiled linens out to a woodpile and burned them.

  Late that night, I woke from a night-fright. This time, it was not my usual dream. This one felt different, and it wasn’t about Father. In the dream Maman came to me, and said, “We may lose her.” She didn’t speak in the dream, but somehow I knew that’s what she said. I also knew she meant Ém, and I said to her, “Do you mean she might die?”

  I sat up, my back against the down pillows. What was going to happen to Ém? By the light of the night candle, I saw my Game of Hope cards scattered on top of my trunk. I gathered them up and returned to bed. I stacked them, cut them and shuffled them four times. Then, thinking of Ém, I withdrew two cards at random, getting the Moon card followed by the Ship, which (according to Lenormand’s booklet) signified disagreement leading to misfortune.

  Aïe. I withdrew one more card: the Coffin.

  I quickly hid the cards away. They were scaring me. I lay back on my bed, pulling my blankets over my head. I knew that the Coffin card meant transformation, but it also could mean death.

  * * *

  —

  The doctor told Maman we should prepare, which made her sob.

  I was sick with dread. Ém’s last words to me were I hate you.

  I kept seeing Mouse at the edge of that roof. She could have died—because of me, because of the awful thing I told her.

  I felt chilled in spite of the heat. Maman put her hand to my forehead. “I’m fine,” I told her angrily, ducking away. Stay away from me. I’m evil!

  * * *

  —

  10 Fructidor, An 7

  Château Grignon

  Dear Hortense,

  Thank you for your letter. I was horrified to learn that Ém has the pox and I’m relieved that she’s recovering. I wanted to come visit, but Maîtresse forbade it. There is quite a bit of uneasiness here at the Institute, especially after little Nelly. How is it possible that Ém caught the pox and we’re all fine? We did everything together.

  But that isn’t the only reason I’m writing. I want you to know that I have been thinking more about what happened, about what you told me about my mother. I had to learn the truth about her death at some point. I do wish I might not have been told in that way, but I understand that you did not mean to hurt me. None of us are perfect creatures, as much as we’d like to be.

  I also want you to know that I didn’t intend to jump. I went up to the roof to be alone, and to be closer to the sky, and to feel my mother in the heavens. Please believe that this is the truth.

  I embrace you, my friend. We have all lost so much. We must treasure what we have, treasure each other.

  I miss you.

  Always,

  Your Mouse

  Note—I have been painting with watercolors, using the wash techniques Citoyen Isabey taught us. I am in love with cobalt blue. I have made some brushes from squirrel hair—one of these is for you. Also, I have ten lumps of bread drying. The bread our cook makes is of a perfect density for erasers.

  * * *

  —

  Along with Mouse’s letter was a package, wrapped with a pretty blue-and-white-striped satin ribbon. It was the porcelain vase with my name on it. Inside was the rose I’d won, and a simple note from Maîtresse: This is yours, my angel, and always will be.

  AN APOLOGY

  The doctor finally pronounced Ém free to come out of her room. She had been sick for a month. She had survived, but what would she look like?

  A veil covered her face. Maman led her by the hand into the sitting room, as if she were blind. I thought for a moment—with alarm—that she was blind. One often saw blind beggars with pox-scarred faces.

  “My darling girl,” Maman said, for she loved Ém truly. (I admit I was sometimes jealous.) “Raise your veil. We want to see your eyes. You will always be beautiful to us.”

  “That’s true,” I said, although I had doubts.

  “Come.” My mother’s voice was low and caressing. “We’re your family.”

  Reluctantly, Ém raised her veil. I was prepared to smile no matter what, but my eyes flooded. My cousin, the most beautiful girl in school, looked . . . well, frightening. The skin on her cheeks was that of a pitted creature, like a lizard’s skin. I felt I might upsick, but I dared not look away, lest she notice.

  “Oh, Émilie, it’s not too bad,” Maman lied. “And with time it will get better.”

  Grâce à Dieu, we’d taken the precaution of removing the looking glasses, I thought. “We’re so grateful for your life,” I said, my voice unsteady. That was true.

  “My life is over,” she said.

  It broke my heart to hear those words.

  * * *

  —

  Maman and I strolled with Ém in the garden the next morning, but soon she begged to return, fatigued. We walked her back to the house, as if she were a child. “No need to see me in,” she told Maman.

  I kissed her cheeks—her skin was rough—and Maman and I returned to our stroll, disheartened.

  “Fortunately, she’s already married,” Maman said, putting her arm around my shoulders.

  But to a man she didn’t like. Ém didn’t care that he was lost to the sands of Egypt. Worse, she was glad of it.

  I told Maman I’d overheard Ém calling out for her father. “If only there was a way to find out if he’s alive, and maybe even bring him back.”

  Maman made a clucking sound of doubt.

  “That would be such a comfort to her,” I persisted.

  “It’s not possible, dear heart. He’s an émigré, considered an enemy. His name is on the List.”

  The List: the names of the thousands of men and women who had fled France during the Revolution, men and women forbidden ever to return.

  * * *

  —

  “There’s something I must tell you,” I told Ém one lovely summer morning.

  We were in the withdrawing room, where she could rest on the settee while I worked on my embroidery and mending. She had her veil off, so I could see her eyes, which were still strikingly beautiful, although dull, without spark. Her battle against death had hardened her.

  “I want you to know that I’m sorry.”

  She looked at me, puzzled.

  “I’m sorry for what I said,” I went on, “before you got sick.
It was wrong of me to judge you.”

  “What did you say?”

  She didn’t remember? I was relieved, but also perplexed. How was I to apologize?

  “Oh, something about . . .” I didn’t think it wise to mention Louis. I cleared my throat. I was making a mess of things. “I was being judgmental, and you got mad.”

  “At you?”

  “It had to do with your husband, Antoine.” That wasn’t entirely true—but it wasn’t entirely false, either. “I said that you should write to him,” I lied. Although I did think that.

  “No wonder I got angry,” she said bitterly.

  “I want you to know that I’m sorry.” Truly, truly, truly.

  * * *

  —

  In spite of Ém’s recovery, Maman was despondent, and soon I discovered why. Looking in her desk for paper to write Mouse a letter, I—of course—glanced through her correspondence, happening upon a note to her from Director Barras.

  * * *

  —

  16 Fructidor, An 7

  Petit Luxembourg

  Chère Citoyenne Bonaparte,

  Very well. I’ll see what I can do about getting François de Beauharnais’s name erased from the List. I wouldn’t be too hopeful, however. There is a murderous mood in Council these days.

  Speaking of which, you should be aware that opposition to your husband is growing. What news we receive is worrisome, and now it’s being claimed that thousands of his men have died of thirst because the desert wells were filled with sand by his enemies. It’s also said that he has lost the confidence of his troops, who are on the point of rioting.

  Much of this is slander, of course, but I advise you to give up your life of retirement. I can’t fight this battle alone.

  Barras

  * * *

  —

  I couldn’t sleep, much less eat. My mouth was dry and I had a twitch in my right eye. Maman fussed over me. “I’m not sick,” I protested—yet I was. Sick with worry. Thousands of our soldiers had died of thirst?

  * * *

  —

  On Eugène’s birthday, Maman organized a celebration for him, putting aside gifts “for when he returns.”

  If he ever returned. I tried not to give in to despair, but it was hard, thinking of the letter Director Barras had written Maman.

  “What’s wrong, dear heart?” Maman kept asking.

  “Nothing,” I insisted, for I dared not say I’d been snooping.

  * * *

  —

  Four days later, Maman announced to Ém and me that she planned to move back to Paris after we returned to school.

  “I must plead for a rescue,” she said, “plead for the Directors to authorize sending a fleet to bring Bonaparte and Eugène home, all our men. It’s the only way.”

  I advise you to give up your life of retirement, Director Barras had written. I can’t fight this battle alone.

  “School?” Ém said with dread in her voice.

  I understood. We’d been away the entire summer because of her illness. She would be returning scarred.

  FIRST DAY

  The fall air was brisk. Girls were skipping about in the school courtyard, jumping rope, running hoops or chasing each other. Caroline was standing in the shadows (plotting revenge against me, no doubt). We’d not spoken since “the incident.” It seemed a minor matter to me, in truth. Ém’s brush with death from pox had put everything in a different light.

  I looked for Mouse but didn’t see her. Even though we’d been writing, we hadn’t seen each other since that terrible day. Would things be different between us?

  Eliza ran up to us, her bonnet ribbons hanging loose. “Why do you wear a curtain of inscrutability?” she demanded of my cousin, referring to the veil Ém was wearing.

  I threw Ém a sympathetic glance. The first day back was going to be especially hard.

  “Ém got the pox this summer,” I told Eliza.

  Eliza clutched Henry to her heart and stepped away, as if Ém’s pox were catching.

  “She’s fine now,” I assured her. “Aren’t you, Ém?”

  She managed only a nod, looking out at the world from behind her white veil.

  * * *

  —

  On entering our room, I was disappointed (and a bit relieved) that Mouse wasn’t there. Her bed was as tidy as ever and her sketchpad and sticks of charcoal were lined up on the study table we shared. I noticed a drawing of Ém and me tacked to the wall and my heart warmed.

  I also noticed the hand mirror on the little table we used for our toilette. Unfortunately, Ém noticed it too.

  “Give it to me,” she said, raising her veil.

  “You’re still healing,” I pleaded.

  “I have a right to see my own face.”

  Reluctantly, I handed her the mirror. “The scars will get better with time.”

  But Ém wasn’t listening. She was staring at her reflection, her big eyes glistening. “I look like a monster,” she said, putting the mirror back on the table.

  “That’s not true!” In spite of her scars, she still had a lovely grace.

  I turned at the sound of someone outside our door. Ém quickly let down her veil.

  Mouse burst into the room and jumped to embrace Ém. “My prayers were answered—you lived. I was so frightened. Take off that veil. I’m your dearest friend! And yours, too,” she said, embracing me shyly.

  Dear Mouse!

  Ém lifted off her veiled bonnet. There was silence as Mouse took in Ém’s transformation, her once-perfect face now poxed.

  “I frightened myself just now,” Ém said, sniffing.

  “It’s getting better every day,” I said. A bit better.

  “You’ll always be our lovely Ém,” Mouse said with all her heart.

  * * *

  —

  Ém and Mouse left for Maîtresse’s opening address, but I hung back to change my gown, which I’d somehow stained. As I was arranging my Multi sash, Ém burst into our room. She threw off her bonnet and veil, and fell down on her bed. “I want to die,” she sobbed, pressing the bed sheet to her eyes.

  “What happened!” Had a student humiliated her? Had she been shunned? I imagined the worst.

  “Louis is down there,” she said, her breath coming in gasps.

  What was he doing at school?

  “He wouldn’t look at me,” she said. “He got Caroline to bring me a book I had given him.”

  Ém had given Louis another book—which he’d asked his sister to return? “That’s awful,” I said, although of course I was thinking that a quarrel between Ém and Louis was not such a bad thing. “I know how much it must hurt,” I said truthfully.

  I heard the triangle clang: the assembly would soon begin. “We should go down,” I said.

  “I can’t,” Ém said, weeping still.

  “Maîtresse will understand,” I said, embracing her.

  * * *

  —

  Cutting through the garden to the theater, I chanced upon Louis sitting on a moss-covered bench. He was picking apart a rose and throwing the petals one by one into the fountain. Or trying to. Mostly he was missing.

  “How could you do that to her?” I was furious at him for causing Ém such pain. After all she’d been through!

  “You don’t understand,” he said feebly.

  “I don’t. You dishonor a married woman without any care to her reputation, and then you won’t speak to her because she’s poxed?”

  “That’s not the reason.”

  Was he blinking back tears? “Then what is?”

  “It’s my fault, what happened to her,” he said, his voice raspy.

  What?

  “Our love for each other was sinful—”

  It certainly was!

  “—an
d God has chosen to punish us by taking away her beauty,” he said, trumpeting into a lace-edged handkerchief. “You are right to detest me, Citoyenne Beauharnais. I see her scars; I have my own.”

  * * *

  —

  I sat through the assembly without listening as Maîtresse introduced five new students and a geography instructor, followed by a review of the rules, an introduction to the staff and the usual rousing speech about our intellectual and creative capacities. All I could think of was how angry I was at Louis. He was a weakling, feigning to justify his cruel behavior with a burden of guilt. I despised him!

  THE RACE

  A month after returning to school I got sick. It was not the pox, Dieu merci, but the infirmary was full, so Maîtresse sent me to Maman’s in Paris to recover. I was happy to escape Nurse Witch’s vigorous care, but even so, it was tiresome. I ached from head to toe, too ill to draw or play the pianoforte.

  * * *

  —

  Nasty: Wishing to know the hour, but having a fit of coughing as the clock begins to chime and losing count of the bells.

  * * *

  —

  Nasty: The grating, scraping sound of a maid shoveling cinders when you are trying to sleep.

  * * *

  —

  Maman came home one afternoon agitated after meeting with Director Barras. “He said that the other Directors don’t care that Bonaparte’s stranded,” she said, her manner despairing. “They have no intention of instructing the Minister of War or the Council of Ancients to send a fleet to bring them back. They could—they have that power—yet they refuse!”

  “But how are they going to return?” Would I ever see my brother again? And what of Christophe?