The Game of Hope

  In front of each plate was a card set into a wooden holder. On each card, a name had been written in fancy cursive with turquoise ink. (Elegant!) I went from place to place looking for my name and was happy to discover that I had been placed at Maîtresse’s table, along with Ém and Mouse. The Fearsome Favorites!

  Seated beside my place was an old man. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, pulling out my chair for me.

  He turned out to be Rudé, the generous patron Maîtresse had referred to. “Pleased to meet you, Citoyen,” I said. “I understand you donated a piano to the Institute.” I’d been so busy, I’d yet to see it, much less play it.

  “It gratifies me to help,” he said, leaning toward me.

  “That is most kind of you,” I said. He smelled of sour milk.

  “I love to watch little girls,” he said, clearing his throat.

  His comment made me uncomfortable, so I was relieved when Ém and Mouse arrived, flushed from rushing. I introduced them to Citoyen Rudé.

  “Delighted,” he said, touching the tablecloth to his dripping nose.

  Then—thankfully—Maîtresse came in and everyone stood. “Good morning,” we all said in unison.

  Maîtresse looked over the tables. “Caroline is not here?”

  “She was made aware that we were invited,” I offered.

  “Very well then,” she said, taking her seat beside Citoyen Rudé and signaling us to bow our heads for the blessing.

  Of course that was when Caroline showed up, making her usual commotion.

  Maîtresse made a false smile. “Perhaps a lack of punctuality might be the fault you wish to correct this year, dear girl.”

  I nearly gave way to a giggle fit over that.

  Speaking of which, that was the fault I announced I would to try to overcome that year: giggle fits, a weakness Maîtresse attributed to the bourgeois influence of the seamstress I was apprenticed to during the Terror.

  As for the talent I wished to improve, I did not tell the truth. I said I would like to excel at playing the pianoforte, which was challenging enough, but my secret aspiration was even more so. Thinking of Maîtresse’s words on having the courage to dream big dreams, I decided that the skill I wished to acquire that year was for creating musical compositions. I didn’t declare it, of course. It seemed too audacious.

  As for Mouse, she declared that she’d like to overcome her timidity and to hone her talent for painting. (She was already very accomplished.)

  “Charming,” Citoyen Rudé said, his eyes moist.

  Then Ém declared that she wanted to learn how to speak Italian better, and that the fault she wished to overcome was her fondness for daydreaming, a goal Maîtresse heartily approved.

  It took a long time for all of the Multis to admit to a talent and confess to a fault. A number declared that they wished to improve their talent for needlework, or that imperfect needlework was a fault they wished to correct. I could see that this disappointed Maîtresse. Several times she reminded us not to be shy about valuing our intellectual capacities and—especially—our creativity, which made me love her all the more.

  When it was Caroline’s turn to speak, she declined in her sullen way.

  “If you don’t suggest a talent you wish to improve, my dear,” Maîtresse said, “as well as a fault to correct, I’m afraid that I will have to come up with something for you.”

  Caroline glared.

  “You do have a talent for Italian, of course,” Maîtresse said after a moment of reflection, “be it colloquial in nature.”

  There were a few quiet snickers, for Caroline’s Italian consisted mostly of crude curses.

  “A study of classical Italian literature would help you improve,” Maîtresse suggested. “And it was only in jest that I suggested that you work on not being tardy.” She paused before saying, “Although I do have something to recommend, dear girl: that you learn to keep your temper in check.”

  Caroline clasped her fork and knife in her fists. She was obviously trying to keep her temper in check right then.

  A SECRET

  25 Fructidor, An 6

  Plombières-les-Bains

  Dear heart,

  I am much better, so I am leaving for Paris tomorrow. Director Barras wants me back in time for the Republican New Year. There’s to be a civic celebration of Bonaparte’s victorious Battle of the Pyramids and his triumphant entry into Cairo. I will write to your excellent Maîtresse Campan and ask her to allow you to leave early from school that day so that we can go to the celebration together. (Our lovely Émilie will be going in later with your grandparents, I know.) All of the Bonapartes in town will be at this festival and I tremble at the thought of facing them alone—especially the General’s older brother, “King” Joseph, who is intent on making my life miserable.

  On a more cheerful subject, you will be pleased to see how well I am walking. Indeed, I believe I may soon be well enough to sail to join Bonaparte and your brother in Egypt. Director Barras assures me that it is safe to do so, now that the English have been chased from those waters.

  I have been giving a great deal of thought to your prospects. I was sixteen when I married your father and you will be sixteen in the spring. You must not be so unrealistically romantic, dear heart. No young man is going to be ideal, but it’s wise not to linger—a girl quickly loses her bloom.

  You are missed by all here at the spa. Several have mentioned that we were more like sisters than mother and daughter—but I would say that we’re more like the best of friends, wouldn’t you? I confess to being a bit jealous that I have to share you with the saintly Maîtresse Campan.

  Your ever-loving mother

  Note—I am sending along a cleansing salve for the face, to help against the black points and pimple spots you get on your chin.

  * * *

  —

  I soon got word that Maman was back. Citoyen Isabey, our wonderful drawing instructor, drove me into Paris in his carriage. His young daughter Alexandrine—who was in the Purple level—was bouncing up and down with excitement, but almost immediately fell asleep in his lap as the horses pulled forward.

  “How wonderful that your mother has recovered,” he said. He was a tiny man with a surprisingly deep voice. “Pixie Isabey” we Fearsomes sometimes called him.

  “Yes,” I said, keeping an eye out the window as we passed by the quarry where robbers were known to lurk. Isabey’s carriage was so shabby no bandits would ever bother with us, I reminded myself.

  “You must feel proud of your stepfather,” he said, shifting Alexandrine to a more comfortable position.

  “Of course,” I lied. “Did you know my father?” Isabey had been at Court, along with Maîtresse and her sister, Mouse’s mother. He had been one of Queen Marie Antoinette’s favorites.

  “Your natural father? I regret I never met him.”

  “He danced with the Queen,” I said.

  “Did he? That must have been before I was at Court.”

  “But then he became a Revolutionary,” I confessed.

  “In life, as in art, there is always a complexity of hues,” Isabey said, sensing my confusion. “I owe much of my success, such as it is, to both the Court and the Revolutionaries. During the Terror, I was even hired by Citoyen Saint-Just to paint his portrait.”

  The man who led the movement to behead the King? “Didn’t that bother you? Working for a friend of Robespierre?”

  Isabey smiled in his lighthearted way. “One must eat, no? The key to survival is flexibility. Now I’m even working for the Directors.”

  The Directors saved us from the Terror, and were running the country now, but they were known by most everyone to be corrupt. When I was younger, I’d refused to go with Maman to a Directory event—until she pointed out that she owed her life to Director Barras and his friends.

  I heard the
familiar sound of the frogs in the marsh. We were approaching Maman’s rutted street on the outskirts of Paris, an area where artists and actors lived. (And kept women, it was whispered.) The dirt road used to be called Rue Chantereine, but its name had been officially changed to Rue des Victoires in honor of the General’s victories in Italy the year before. That was a high-and-mighty name for a rutted lane, in my opinion.

  “You can let me down at the gate,” I suggested. “I walk it all the time.”

  “Are we here?” Alexandrine asked, sitting up.

  “Not yet, peanut,” Isabey said, finger-combing his daughter’s fine hair. “This is Citoyenne Beauharnais’s house.”

  There was nothing to see but shrubbery. “It’s down that long lane,” I said, and hefted my schoolbag onto my shoulder.

  * * *

  —

  I waved to Didier, the porter, and raced down the familiar laneway. Maman’s house held wonderful memories for me—memories of life before the General. Memories of Maman and me working in the garden together, or of playing chess with Eugène, Maman looking on, tearfully smiling. We had survived the Terror and were precious to one another.

  Emerging into the small courtyard, I heard the chickens clucking. Maman’s two trunks were still stacked by the steps. Pugdog, snuffling, scurried out to greet me. I picked him up and pressed my face into his furry neck. I had wanted to name him Furry, but Pugdog he remained.

  “I’m relieved you’re here,” Mimi called from the open door. She must have seen me coming.

  I let Pugdog down, scratching him behind his ears. “Is something wrong?” Mimi had been with Maman at the spa, and her tone of voice concerned me.

  “I’m not sure,” she said, taking my cloak. “Your mother met with Director Barras last night.”

  Of course she would have, I thought, sitting down to unlace my muddy boots. Maman’s friend “Papa Barras” was the most powerful of the five Directors and the source of all information, both in France and beyond. If there were letters from Egypt, he would have them. I wondered if there had been any news from Eugène.

  “Any news?” I asked, following Mimi into the withdrawing room. The doors to the gardens on each side had been propped open and the light muslin curtains billowed in the breeze.

  “She didn’t say, but ever since, she’s been—” Mimi paused, frowning. “She insists she’s fine, yet she’s been weeping.”

  “Actually crying?” Maman was emotional—tender-hearted, people said—but it was rare to see her cry. I suspected that she was somewhat vain that way. It would have ruined her powder.

  I heard the stairs creaking. “Maman?” I looked up to see her coming into the room.

  “Dear heart,” she said, embracing me warmly.

  She smelled of jasmine. It was easy to see why people loved her—adored her. (I did get a bit jealous.) She was forever doing favors for people, giving them gifts, flattering them with kind words. She wasn’t an intellect, like Maîtresse, yet she remembered the name of every person she met, even the name of a maid she hadn’t seen for years, even the names of that maid’s children. She even knew all the Latin names for the plants in her beloved gardens.

  “How was your journey?” I helped her into a chair. I could tell from the way she was moving that she was still in pain.

  “We only went into a ditch once,” Mimi said.

  “You toppled?” I asked, alarmed. Maman had a morbid fear of riding in a carriage, even on good roads.

  “Rather, we tipped,” Maman said with a smile. “Mimi was my cushion.”

  “Fortunately I’m well-padded,” Mimi said with a laugh.

  I heard the carriage pulling up outside. Soon we would be going. “I have something for you, Maman.” I rummaged in my canvas schoolbag and pulled out a small watercolor portrait I’d made of Eugène. I’d finally captured my brother’s eyes, his open, friendly expression. How I missed him!

  “The very likeness,” Mimi said, looking over Maman’s shoulder. “This is your work, Hortense?”

  I nodded, proud. “Citoyen Isabey helped,” I admitted. He’d painted in some of the details himself, showing me how to use a fine brush.

  With a sob, Maman pressed the image to her heart.

  “Maman?” I had meant the portrait to be a comfort.

  “Forgive me,” Maman said, struggling to rise. “It’s lovely,” she said, placing the portrait on a side table. “Shall we go, dear heart?” she said with a tight, feigned smile.

  THE SCHOOL OF VENUS

  “Hôtel de Ville,” Maman instructed her driver, pulling up her long gloves.

  Aïe. I hadn’t realized that the ceremony was going to be held where the guillotine had stood for most of the Terror. Fortunately, it was not where Father had been executed. There had been so much stink from all the executions at the Hôtel de Ville that the authorities had moved the guillotine to Place du Trône-Renversé on the eastern side of Paris. I’d never been. I didn’t have the courage to see where Father had died.

  As we got close, the crowds became pressing. Two guards escorted us to an area that had been barricaded off. One of Director Barras’s aides showed us to our chairs at the front. The five Directors were standing on the raised platform directly in front of us, looking glum in their red capes embroidered with glittery gold thread. Director Barras waved at us, revealing extravagant lace at his wrist.

  I nudged Maman. “There’s Ém, with Nana and Grandpapa.”

  “Tell them I’ll be right over,” Maman said, seeing her friend Citoyen Charles approaching. “Hippolyte will look after me,” she assured me. “Won’t you, darling?”

  Citoyen Hippolyte Charles was young, only twenty-five, but he acted younger. He swept off his feathered hat and made a tidy pirouette, his long braids twirling. “Always,” he said, giving us both a peck on each cheek. He wore a violet scent. “Help you with what?” he added in his marionette voice.

  I couldn’t help but giggle. Citoyen Charles was so funny.

  * * *

  —

  “There you are,” Ém said, wheeling around Grandpapa’s invalid chair.

  “We were looking and looking for you,” Nana said, embracing me. The corset she was wearing was so rigid it was like hugging a marble statue.

  “Bon-A-Part-Té!” Grandpapa exclaimed. He was enthusiastic about the General, like most everyone (everyone but me, it seemed).

  I stooped to give him a kiss and straightened his powdered wig. “You’re a bit crooked, Grandpapa,” I said, and he cackled. “Your trip into the city went smoothly?” I slapped my gloved hands together to shake off the starch from Grandpapa’s wig. Men rarely wore wigs now, and certainly not powdered ones. The fashion was to look “natural.”

  “At least we didn’t get murdered,” Nana said, clucking with disapproval at what I was wearing. “You look like you’re wearing a nightdress—and no corset? Your mother lets you out like that?”

  My blue gown of light wool was in the new style, without ornament except for a satin ribbon. “This is what ladies wear now, Nana,” I protested. Her own ruffled gown was comically out-of-date. She even sported a bustle.

  “You should follow the example of Madame Lavalette,” Nana said, gesturing to Ém, who had wisely covered her “scanty” school gown with a light cloak. “And besides, a married woman may dress as extravagantly as she pleases,” she went on (illogically).

  Ém made an ever-so-slight roll of her big eyes. I knew how she hated the way Nana made a fuss about giving her the honors a married woman could claim: to be the first to enter a dining room, the first to be seated, and so on and so forth—all those outdated notions having to do with decorum.

  “There’s Caroline,” Ém said, changing the subject. She pointed toward the seats in front of the podium. “And most all of her siblings, it looks like: Pauline, Elisa, Lucien, Joseph. All except Louis and the General, of course.?
??

  “And Jérôme, thankfully,” I said, craning to see over the crowd. Jérôme was the youngest Bonaparte, only thirteen. He had behaved even worse than Caroline when he was enrolled at the boys’ school next to the Institute, and had been put in a military academy so strict he was never allowed out. “But how do you know them all?” I asked my cousin.

  Ém reddened. “Louis introduced some of them to me.”

  I crinkled up my nose. The General’s brother Louis had introduced them to her? When?

  “It’s a big family,” Nana said with a down-turned mouth. “Where are the parents?”

  “The father is dead,” I said, “and as for their mother, I think maybe she’s still in Corsica.”

  “Here comes Tante Rose,” Ém said, pointing out Maman, who was making her way slowly toward us, leaning on Citoyen Charles’s arm. I was relieved to see her smiling.

  Nana, Grandpapa and Ém hadn’t seen Maman for months, of course, so there was much exclaiming and inquiring after her health.

  “It’s a miracle you didn’t die,” Nana said, embracing Maman a bit too vigorously, I thought, considering Maman’s injuries.

  “Bon-A-Part-Té!” Grandpapa exclaimed again, then fell into a doze.

  Maman embraced Ém warmly. “Have you met our friend Citoyen Charles?”

  He tipped his felt tricorne hat, stylishly trimmed with gold lace. “I am a friend of your cousin Eugène,” he told Ém.

  Turning to Nana, I explained, “Eugène and Citoyen Charles served on General Bonaparte’s staff together in Italy.”

  Members of a brass band traipsed onto the platform and began to play an out-of-tune rendition of one of Mozart’s arias for Queen of the Night.

  “But you’re no longer with the General’s staff?” Ém asked.

  “I retired from the military in order to engage in commercial pursuits,” Citoyen Charles said.

  “Commercial pursuits?” Nana said with ill-disguised disapproval.