The Game of Hope by Sandra Gulland

Author:Sandra Gulland
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2018-06-26T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

—

Eugène and Christophe were sitting on the bench outside the General’s study, sharpening sabers.

I became aware of my foolishness, my impossible dream. Christophe—Colonel Duroc—was a man, not a boy, and a supremely fine-looking man, at that. I guessed him to be twenty-five years old, perhaps more. Why would he be at all interested in me?

“Christophe, have you met my sister?” Eugène asked, laying down the saber and standing to greet me with a kiss on each cheek. (I resisted the urge to brush a loose hair off the shoulder of his jacket.)

Christophe had difficulty rising. It appeared that his left leg had been wounded—and had yet to heal, I gathered, from his slight wince of pain.

“Hortense, this is my friend, fellow aide-de-camp Colonel Christophe Duroc. First aide-de-camp now, that is.”

First aide-de-camp? And a colonel. I was impressed. I curtsied, my eyes lowered. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” (I’d rehearsed this moment many times.) I glanced up and just about died. Surely, he was the handsomest young man alive—slim, with broad shoulders, curly black hair and round black eyes.

“The pleasure,” he said, touching his hand to his heart, “is mine.”

He had an elegant, respectful demeanor, which I found extremely pleasing. I reached for the back of a chair to keep from falling over in a faint.

“Christophe keeps me out of trouble,” Eugène said teasingly, oblivious to my distress.

“Someone has to,” Christophe answered with affection.

And then—alas!—the General barked out for them and they went rushing into the study.

I lingered for a moment in a reverie, recalling the tender way Christophe had held his hand to his heart, recalling the sweet sound of his voice as he’d said, The pleasure is mine.

I turned to go into the dining room to eat, but Christophe reappeared in the door to the General’s study. “Citoyenne Beauharnais?”

My heart did a flip-flop. “Yes?”

“The General wishes to speak to you.”

“Oh?” Apprehensively.

He stepped back to bow me through (very elegantly). He smelled wonderfully of citrus.

The small office room was stuffy, sweltering hot from a blazing fire. Eugène looked up from a table where he was seated with Fauvelet Bourrienne, the General’s secretary. Books, maps and papers covered every surface. The General, wearing a curious red felt round hat, was sitting at his desk, absorbed in reading correspondence.

“Hortense!” He came around his desk to greet me. “You look well,” he said, his hands behind his back. He was wearing an olive-green greatcoat, in spite of the heat.

It had been almost a year and a half since I’d last seen him. I hadn’t realized how short he was, at least compared to his older brother, “King” Joseph. Frankly, he looked somewhat ugly. He had a round knob of a chin, and his mouth was small.

“You’ve grown,” he said.

I made a curtsy, thankful that he hadn’t reached out to pinch my ear, as had been his habit. “Thank you.” I flushed, aware that Christophe was behind me.

“General, I’ll be at my desk,” Fauvelet Bourrienne said, pushing past with his arms full of journals.

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