The Game of Hope

  She had almost got to L (with help) when Citoyenne Florentine appeared. “Still no sign of Caroline?” she asked Fru-fru.

  “Who is Caroline?” I asked. The room was almost empty now.

  Florentine snorted with amusement. “General Bonaparte’s sister.”

  “Annunziata? But her name’s not Caroline.”

  “She changed it,” Florentine said with an exasperated roll of her eyes.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised. The Bonapartes, who were from Corsica, seemed to like changing their names. Buonaparte had been changed to Bonaparte and Napoleone to Napoleon. One of the brothers, Luciano, had changed his name twice, first to Brutus and then to Lucien. The General had even made Maman change her name from Rose to Josephine! And now Annunziata had changed to Caroline? How they all kept track was beyond me.

  “And this is the fifth time she’s been late.” Citoyenne Florentine took a notebook and wooden pencil out of her hemp bag and made a notation.

  Uh-oh. A demerit? “I can help dress Fru-fru.” I wondered how many demerits Annunziata-now-Caroline had. Twelve in a month and she would have to eat alone at the Repentance Table. One good mark erased two bad ones, though, so maybe she was in the clear. “Nelly is almost ready.”

  “Good, I have to get wood for the fire,” Florentine said, heading back out.

  “I’m ready now.” Nelly turned, beaming.

  “Not quite.” She had put her smock on backward.

  As the triangle for breakfast sounded, Annunziata-now-Caroline appeared.

  “Where were you?” Fru-fru demanded, pulling on her woolen socks.

  “Mind your own business,” she said, without an apology for being so late.

  “Good morning,” I said, forcing a smile. She was, after all, a member of my family now, like it or not. “I’m told you changed your name to Caroline.”

  “So?” She had a negligent air that seemed almost wanton, in spite of her cherubic appearance, her fat cheeks and rosy complexion.

  “It’s a pretty name.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “There you are,” Citoyenne Florentine said, a load of firewood in her arms. “Hortense, go ahead to the dining hall with Fru-fru and Nelly,” she said, setting the wood down on the hearth. “I need to have a word with Caroline.”

  * * *

  —

  The dining hall was a large, cavernous room big enough to seat all the students—over two hundred and seventy of us, at last count. The tables were covered with bright cloths that matched the color of the different levels: green, purple, orange, blue, red, white and multicolored. An enormous fire was roaring. Scents of freshly baked bread and fried pork filled the air. I’d missed the delicious food at the Institute.

  Ém and Mouse were with the Multis by the door to the cellar kitchens. I gave them our silly Fearsome Threesome greeting, wiggling my fingers at my forehead. They wiggled their fingers back, which always made me laugh.

  Nelly and Fru-fru made their way to the long, low table covered with a green cloth and stood at their places. “Good girls.” I kissed them both and headed for the corner where the Multis stood, ready to serve.

  “Hortense, welcome back,” the dining hall monitor said, stopping me. “I’d like you to read this morning.” She handed me a note with the inspirational reading Maîtresse had chosen for the day.

  “Happily,” I said, turning toward the lectern at the front of the hall.

  The monitor rang a brass bell and all the girls sat down, their chairs making a racket in the cavernous room. Another shake of the bell and everyone bowed their heads.

  The Inspiration, as usual, was one Maîtresse had written. This one was about finding the confidence to dream big dreams, and having the courage to fail.

  A quiet descended over the room as I read, everyone rapt—until Annunziata-now-Caroline came in, noisily bumping into tables and chairs. Everyone turned to gawk, then titter, as she crashed her way to the small table directly in front of the lectern: the Repentance Table.

  Oh no! I thought.

  But Caroline didn’t seem to care one way or another. With an expression of indifference, she plopped herself into the chair, placing the framed notice of her crimes in front of her, as if she’d won a prize.

  I finished the reading, rushing through it. “Life, liberty and equality,” everyone responded in a murmur at the end.

  “Amen!” Caroline snorted, chewing on a thumbnail.

  Flustered, I stepped down from the lectern and joined the Multis. Like clockwork we fanned out, some carrying bowls heaped with warm rolls, others with platters of cheese or cold meats, and some, like me, with pitchers. But for the sound of cutlery and plates, footsteps, whispers and the occasional ill-suppressed giggle, everyone ate in silence.

  After serving the girls in White, I headed to the Repentance Table with a pitcher of coffee in one hand and hot milk in the other. Café au lait? I gestured silently, holding up the jugs.

  “I prefer cognac,” Caroline said with a fake innocent smile. “But eau de vie might do—as you and any other drunk would know.” This in a voice loud enough to carry.

  A pox on your perfect teeth! I thought, walking quickly away, resisting a temptation to upend both pitchers over her head.

  * * *

  —

  As soon as everyone had finished eating (everyone but us servers), the monitor rang her bell. In unison, the girls stood, pushed in their chairs and filed out, beginning with the youngest.

  I smiled to see Nelly turn at the door and curtsy. Well done, I nodded, and her cheeks blotched pink.

  Table by table, in order by level, the girls followed, passing by the Repentance Table, some pausing to read the note listing Caroline’s offenses. In the end, she stood and followed them out. At the door, she pulled up her gown and stuck out her naked backside at us.

  * * *

  —

  “Did you see that?” Mouse said, sitting down next to me. Kitchen maids were setting full bowls, platters and pitchers along the length of the two long Multi tables.

  “Kind of hard to miss,” I said under my breath. We were supposed to eat in silence as well, but the rule was laxer when it was only the Multi servers. “You didn’t tell me she changed her name.”

  “You didn’t know?” Mouse said, slathering butter and peach preserves on a roll.

  “Is it true she demanded cognac?” Ém asked, helping herself to ham and cheese.

  I was near faint with hunger. “And she called me a drunkard. What’s this about a ghost at school? Both Nelly and Fru-fru were on about it.”

  Mouse leaned in close. “Someone in Red—”

  Ém made a sign of caution: quiet!

  I glanced up to see the dining hall monitor headed toward us.

  “Hortense, Maîtresse Campan would like to see you.”

  “Now?” I’d yet to eat a bite.

  LA MAÎTRESSE

  Maîtresse Campan’s study was my idea of heaven on earth. It even had a smell I loved, leather with a hint of almonds. Book-filled shelves lined the walls and there were stacks of books on every surface: on the windowsills, on the big table she used as a desk and even on the floor. It was different from my mother’s house in Paris, where there was hardly a book to be found.

  “Welcome back.” Maîtresse’s housemaid, Claire, hugged me. She was not much taller than a ten-year-old, but round as a hoop. “Maîtresse will be right with you. Would you like a coffee?”

  I needed something to perk me up.

  A warm cup in hand, I examined Maîtresse’s books. Many of the titles were familiar, on subjects I had studied: histories of France, Spain and some other countries, including England (a country we were forever at war with). There was also a new book on Egypt, I noticed. And then there were the texts on meditations, harmonies and fables—I loved those subjects. Geography, Greek litera
ture and mythology. Etiquette and the art of conversation. There was a dense tome, as well, on grammar and logic, and a few religious texts, which surprised me. Maîtresse insisted on our religious education—I had even been confirmed—but she took care not to do so openly. She had had problems with government authorities in the early years of the school and had to close down the chapel (or, rather, disguise it as a storage shed).

  I heard the creaking of a hinge and turned to see Maîtresse closing the door behind her. She was dressed simply in black mourning for her husband, who had died the year before. Her face was lined, plain and unpowdered, her eyes radiant.

  “Good morning, my angel,” she said.

  I loved that she called me her angel. She had endearing names for all of us girls, but I was her only angel. It made me feel special.

  She enfolded me in her vanilla-scented embrace. “How are you this morning?”

  “It’s wonderful to be back.” I had missed the Institute, and her especially, but of course I was too shy to say so.

  “A health spa for the infirm is not a place for a young and lively spirit,” she said with a loving smile. “Were you able to get back to sleep last night, after that dream? You don’t seem”—she made sparkle-fingers—“your usual effervescent self.”

  It was impossible to hide my feelings from Maîtresse. She always somehow knew. “It’s not that.” At least not entirely. “Annunziata got punished this morning. Caroline, I mean. She had to eat at the Repentance Table.”

  Maîtresse let out an exasperated sigh. “I know.”

  “But she was a bit—well, she acted horribly toward me, and then she did something offensive to the Multis.” I told her what had happened.

  “That girl,” she said. “She’s like a wild creature, feral almost. If only I knew what she wanted. Do you know? Does she ever say?”

  “We don’t exactly have conversations.” To say the least.

  “I appreciate that you try.” She gestured to the divan by the crackling fire. “I sent for you because I think it time we talked about this dream you keep having,” she said, arranging the down pillows to make us comfortable. She sat down, patting the place beside her.

  I settled in—a little apprehensively, in truth. I had had many a talk with Maîtresse on that blue damask divan, most rather tearful. It was there she’d informed me that my mother had married General Bonaparte, a man so stern and humorless he frightened me to death. Not long after, Maîtresse had broken the news to me that Maman had gone to Italy to be with the General, and that I wouldn’t see her for a very long time. If ever.

  “You woke some of the young ones last night,” Maîtresse said, refilling my cup with coffee. “Sugar?” She put in two heaping spoonfuls. “They thought you saw a ghost,” she added with a smile.

  “Nelly and Fru-fru told me.” Although they had talked of “the” ghost—not “a” ghost.

  “Foolishness, of course,” Maîtresse said.

  “Of course,” I echoed, although seeing my father in that dream had been rather like seeing a ghost—or so I imagined it might be, having never actually seen one. Not that ghosts existed.

  I was about to ask if anything curious had happened at the Institute while I was away, something that might have prompted the girls to imagine a ghost, when Maîtresse asked, “Have I ever told you I once met your father?”

  “No. Really?”

  “I was thinking of it this morning, because of these.” She propped her feet up on the tapestry footstool, displaying red silk slippers, exquisitely embroidered with gold thread.

  So rare. So elegant.

  “They were a gift to me from the Queen.”

  I glanced up at the portrait of Queen Marie Antoinette on the wall. She had been one of the first to be beheaded. Maîtresse had been her trusted attendant up until the end. It was a miracle she had survived the slaughter.

  “That painting does not do Her Majesty justice,” Maîtresse observed. “It fails to capture her wit, her vivacious spirit. Actually, you remind me of her,” she said, giving me a playful nudge. “I’m writing a memoir about my years at Court, and wearing these slippers brings it all back. This morning I recalled seeing your father dance at a magnificent ball. This was long before the Revolution, before you were born. Your father had the honor of dancing with the Queen.”

  Why did I not know about this?

  “They opened the ball with a minuet.”

  Ah, the minuet! I would have loved to have seen that. The minuet was my favorite because it was so elegant, every move precise. It was rare to see it danced well anymore, or even danced at all. It took years of schooling to perform properly.

  “And this was a traditional minuet, which could last for over an hour. The rare times we see a minuet danced today, it’s far shorter. Your father was the best dancer in Paris. That’s why you dance so exquisitely, no doubt.”

  The awful dream image suddenly came back to me, my father’s white-gloved hand, his hood falling back. I put my cup down with a clatter.

  “Calm,” Maîtresse said, her hand on my back.

  I took three deep breaths, as she had taught me. “I’m fine,” I said, swallowing.

  Safe now?

  “Did you have this dream while you were away?”

  “Twice,” I replied, then paused. Someone had begun to play the pianoforte.

  “And it’s always the same?” Maîtresse asked.

  Always.

  “It might help to write down memories of your father.”

  “Maman says I shouldn’t think about him because it disturbs me so much.” Yet the dream persisted.

  “How is she doing?”

  “She’s recovering well. At first, I had to feed her like a baby. She couldn’t hold a spoon.”

  “But she’s walking now?”

  “Yes, although . . .” Whoever was playing the pianoforte was playing it exquisitely, passionately, yet with a light touch. If only I could play like that, I thought. “Although with difficulty.”

  “News of the General’s victories must have cheered her—the capturing of Malta, the landing at Alexandria, the triumphant Battle of the Pyramids.”

  “Yes. And yet the celebrations were a strain on her.” And me. So boring.

  “Any news of your charming brother?”

  I grimaced. “Eugène is a negligent letter-writer.” It didn’t sound quite like the pianoforte, but what else could it be?

  “You must worry.”

  “I do,” I burst out. Eugène was two years older than me, yet I had somehow always felt older, coaching him on lessons and helping him prepare for exams. And now he was far away, fighting savages in a land of plague. I got weak with fear thinking about it. “Who is that playing?” I asked, changing the subject. The music had a fragile elusiveness.

  “That’s our new music instructor, Citoyen Hyacinthe Jadin. He’s young, only twenty-two.”

  “I don’t recognize the piece.”

  “It’s one of his newer compositions.”

  “He’s a composer?” I couldn’t imagine anything more amazing than creating a piece of music.

  “And a genius, in my opinion,” Maîtresse said. “I don’t use that word lightly, believe me. He teaches girls at the Conservatory in Paris, but I persuaded him to come out here now and again to give private lessons. He’s penniless, so he agreed. I told him he could have use of our piano, which was another incentive.”

  “The pianoforte, you mean?”

  “Ah! But of course—you weren’t here. Our generous benefactor, Citoyen Rudé, donated a piano to the school. So very kind of him.”

  “A piano?”

  “It’s similar to a pianoforte, but with a broader range. It can reach to seven octaves.” She paused, a finger raised. “Hear that?”

  I did. Also, the tone was more fluid.

  “It has
eighty-eight keys, twenty-two more than a pianoforte. I’m told that both Haydn and Beethoven have begun to compose on one.”

  The music stopped and started, stopped and started, as if he was repeating a measure, trying to perfect it.

  “I’ve been reserving a place in his teaching schedule for you,” she said.

  “Maîtresse Campan, I’m afraid that—I can’t, at least right now.” Private lessons cost extra. “My mother is short of funds, because of all her medical expenses.” The truth was that my stepfather had arranged for his brother Joseph to give Maman an allowance while he was away, but Joseph refused to cover her medical expenses, claiming that her treatments were not the family’s responsibility. So mean.

  “Your mother and I will sort it out when she gets back to Paris. It’s only that . . .” Maîtresse put her hand on my shoulder. “Music is one of your talents, angel, and Jadin is the best teacher in the country. I’ll introduce you to him once you’re settled.”

  The pendulum clock chimed the hour and the music stopped. “Goodness! I neglected to offer you something to eat. You must be starved.”

  I was.

  She rang the service bell and Claire appeared holding a serving platter.

  Chocolate madeleines? My prayer had been answered.

  —

  I was finishing my fifth chocolate madeleine when there was a rap on the door. I brushed the crumbs off my bodice. It was the woman who looked after the office on the ground floor. Citoyenne Hawk, we students called her, for she patrolled who came and went.

  “Three government inspectors are here,” she told Maîtresse, her voice timorous.

  Aïe. A jolt of fear went through me. Anything to do with government officials brought back unpleasant memories.

  “They showed up unexpectedly,” Hawk said, adjusting her wooden false teeth, which tended to slip.

  “As they are wont to do,” Maîtresse said, ringing her service bell. “Bring me my garden smock,” she told Claire when she reappeared. “And leather boots,” she added, glancing down at her aristocratic slippers.