try hard not to sigh.
We leave the kittens under a bush at the far end of a garden where the boys are not allowed to go and rest the cat beside them, her injured leg splayed in front of her. I break the remaining eggs and shred the chicken and leave both within reach, lowering the branches we hope will keep the cat and her kittens hidden. ‘You’re brave,’ Jeanne-Marie says, the glow still in her eyes. She steps closer and lifts her face for a kiss. Her mouth opens readily and our tongues touch in a tiny spark of electricity that has her shivering. Her breasts fall readily into my hands and she smiles as I grin. So beautiful. Sometime between the kissing and the touching my hand slips down and though she freezes for a second she lets me delve.
I take two new tastes away with me. Cat’s milk and girl. Ones I’d never tried before.
The next day my life changes and for unexpected reasons. Vicomte d’Anvers and the colonel reappear, without the comte this time. I am sent for, examined and asked to explain the scratches on my face and hands. Unable to find a better answer I tell the truth. I leave out the where, the when and the who with. But the kernel of the event remains. For reasons that escape me, rescuing a trapped cat and her kittens from a thorn bush at the expense of my own skin appeals to the vicomte and helps convince the colonel that I’m right for what vicomte d’Anvers has in mind. I’m to be offered a place at the academy, studying artillery and explosives.
‘Almost like cooking,’ the vicomte says.
The colonel snorts but lets the comment stand unchallenged.
1730
Military Academy
The larger of the two cadets is Jerome, round-faced and pock-marked and as red-cheeked as a washerwoman who spends her days by the river. He introduces himself in a thick accent that his friend mocks, whereupon he clenches his fist and his friend raises his hands placatingly. There’s an element of ritual about the exchange.
‘He’s Norman,’ Jerome’s friend says, as if talking about a dumb beast. ‘He still has black mud on his boots.’
‘Good mud,’ Jerome says. ‘Rich mud. Acres of the bloody stuff. Better than that sticky red shit Charlot owns . . .’ They insult each other some more and then their gaze slides to Emile behind me and they wait for me to introduce him.
‘Emile Duras,’ I say. ‘He has brains.’
They look at each other and what they’re thinking goes unsaid. He might have brains but his name lacks the particule that says he’s noble.
‘A friend of yours?’ Jerome asks.
I nod. Emile is here because I am here. His father, or perhaps his mother, decided I was a good influence on their son, or perhaps a good connection, and so Emile has come with me. I have no idea how much money changed hands to make this happen. ‘We were in the same class.’
‘And will be again,’ Charlot says lightly. ‘You’re in my house, my year.’ He’s still looking at Emile, who is the smallest and obviously weakest of the four of us. Charlot nods as if this is how it should be. ‘Duras?’ he says. ‘From where?’
Emile names his town and Charlot considers his answer.
‘Protestant?’ he asks finally.
Emile hesitates a second too long. ‘A good Catholic,’ he says, ‘like my father.’
‘But your grandfather . . . ?’
As Emile admits the truth of it, I remember Marcus’s whisper – Marcus, our form leader, now left behind – that Emile’s grandfather was Protestant, true enough, but before this was Jewish. He converted so that he could change cities and convert again.
‘I had a Protestant great-aunt,’ Charlot says graciously. ‘Strange woman . . . Of course, she was a duchess.’
‘Of course,’ Jerome says.
Our new friends go back to insulting each other.
The academy is recently built, in the baroque style and with stucco mostly unstained. Time will blend it into the hill it commands, but for the moment it looks down on Brienne le Chateau, with the River Aube in the distance, still starkly white and obvious as our destination since we first turned onto the road out of Troyes.
‘Where’s your luggage?’ Charlot demands suddenly.
Emile points to a leather trunk with wide straps and brass buckles. I see amusement flicker on Charlot’s face, and maybe Emile sees it too, because he blushes slightly. The trunk is too new, too obviously bought for this occasion. I have no doubt that Charlot’s case is old and battered, probably belonged to his grandfather, and has an earlier version of his arms embossed into the lid.
‘And you?’ he asks.
I turn a circle, displaying my pristine uniform, a long grey coat, lined red and faced at the cuffs in red with gilt buttons. ‘This is my baggage.’
‘A philosopher.’ Charlot grins. ‘Hear that, his body is his baggage.’ He turns to Jerome. ‘We have ourselves a philosopher.’
‘Better than a saint, I suppose.’
‘Can you fight?’ Charlot asks.
I look at him and remember my first day at the previous school, my fight with Emile that ended with us both black-eyed and bloody-nosed. Maybe this is how it works. Every school you go to you have to start with a fight. ‘Why?’
‘The philosopher’s question,’ Charlot says.
‘Can you?’ Jerome asks.
‘If necessary.’
Jerome smiles and nods. ‘Good,’ he says. ‘Tonight our dormitory will be attacked by the class above. We have to defend ourselves well.’
‘But not too well.’ Charlot looks serious. ‘We must lose but bravely.’
‘How do you know we’ll be attacked?’ Emile asks.
‘My father told me.’ Charlot looks at us and decides he’d better introduce himself properly. ‘I’m Charles, marquis de Saulx, my father is the duke. This is Vicomte Jerome de Caussard, second son of the comte de Caussard. We’ll be attacked because that’s what happens. We’ll lose bravely because that’s common sense.’
‘If we win they’ll come back tomorrow night?’
‘And bring the class above with them,’ Jerome says.
A master is at the stone steps gesturing us inside. We have this afternoon and tonight to settle in. Lessons start tomorrow after breakfast, which is after chapel, which is at 7.30. Waking bell is 6.30, no one will be late for chapel, breakfast or lessons. We nod to say we understand and take his words seriously. The man grunts and then sees Emile’s trunk.
‘Mine,’ Emile says.
‘Carry it yourself. You don’t have servants here.’
I wonder
