The Academie Read Free Page A

asks Constance, always the one to say something awkward.
    Eliza draws herself up. “Certainly not! Our Negroes are slaves and do not go to school.”
    I shudder, recalling the slaves I saw in Martinique when Maman and I went there long ago. I must find a way to tell Eliza that slavery is not spoken of in Europe now.
    “I’m fascinated by the Africans. My brother has been in Egypt,” Caroline says.
    My brother has, too. He was badly wounded, at Napoléon’s side. Caroline knows it was a wicked thing to remind me of. But I do not even look at her, just lead the way to the schoolroom for our lessons.

3

Madeleine
    There is no heat in my attic room, and the blanket that covers me is threadbare. I hear a mouse scratching in the corner, but even he does not stay, finding a hole that might lead him below, where the rooms are warmer. Although I am in the heart of Paris, one would never know it. The lights have almost all been extinguished and the sounds of revelry have died away. I could be anywhere in the world, it is so quiet and dark. It must be very early in the morning.
    Somewhere in Paris, girls like me are in school. Or perhaps they are not exactly like me. Those whose fathers were aristocrats and who have any money or friends after the Terreur might perhaps be in convents. Perhaps others, the daughters of members of the Directoire or merchants who have become wealthy through other people’s misfortune, are atprivate schools run by elderly ladies who are trying to put bread upon their tables.
    I am in a school of my own, where I have been learning the skills I need to make my way in the world. I’ve been here almost as long as I can remember. It’s the school of life, interpreted for the entertainment of those who can spare the price of a ticket. Others know it as the Comédie Française.
    We came here—my mother and I—after my papa threw us out of his house. I was very small, but aware enough to understand his stinging words. I slept in a small attic room, hardly bigger than a closet. The door was not stout and I could hear everything that went on below. I knew those times when my papa came to her and they laughed and drank wine and tumbled into bed.
    I also knew when other men were there. Maman was very beautiful, and still is. But her beauty has made her cruel.
    And so on that night when Papa found her with the director of the theater in her bed, I was not surprised by what he did.
    “You and your half-breed spawn can go to the devil!” my papa said, his voice trembling with rage.
    A moment later he yanked open the door to my sleeping cubby and dragged me to my feet. I saw his face go from blind fury to a kind of dawning awareness as I peered up into his eyes. While my mother and her maid threw all hergowns and jewels into baskets and trunks behind him, he knelt down in front of me and took hold of my shoulders.
    “If only you did not have so much of your mother in you, I would keep you, raise you as a lady, so you could make a good match.” I could see behind his eyes to the molten emotions that coursed through him, although I didn’t understand what they were.
    “I have not been naughty, Papa,” I whispered.
    He enfolded me in a fierce embrace, broken when my mother took hold of his collar from behind and made him stand. She slapped him, hard. “You are lucky that I choose not to run you through with a dagger!” she hissed, as if he were the one who had been unfaithful.
    Since then I have learned a great deal about jealousy.
    The theater director could do no less than take us in after that time, but he would not avow us openly. Instead, he made Maman his new étoile , the exotic star to attract crowds who wanted to ogle and gloat over her misfortune. And it turned out that Maman has talent. She enters into the characters she plays. Sometimes, when she adopts the personality of a noble heroine, she even makes me like her.
    But as soon as she steps off the stage and the applause has died away, she