Young bloods

Chapter 23

Brienne, 1782

Napoleon slowly lowered the letter from his father on to the library reading desk. He was alone in the room on a Sunday morning. From outside the window came the muffled sounds of the other students playing in the courtyard. Snow had fallen overnight and a thick layer of brilliant white covered the bare landscape around Brienne. Even now a fresh flurry of flakes whirled past the window. Napoleon's heart felt leaden with despair.

A month earlier Napoleon had finally had enough of being the butt of practical jokes and the other petty cruelties relentlessly heaped on him by Alexander de Fontaine and his friends. Even though there had been no repeat of that night in the stables, the very thought of it filled Napoleon with dread, disgust and a bitter hatred for the faceless aristocrats responsible for his torment. Shortly before Christmas, Napoleon was finally driven to act.

He had written a long letter to his father. In it he explained the situation as gently as he could, since he did not want to make his father aware of the shame that soured him. It would be the unkindest act of all to make his father think that he was ashamed of his family's social station, even if that was the truth of the matter. So Napoleon tried to express himself in pragmatic terms. He wrote of all the activities he was excluded from by virtue of his financial situation. He explained that the wear and tear of college life exacted a heavy toll on his clothing and that without money he could not replace outworn clothes and so he was reduced to a tramp-like appearance. He was concerned that he did little honour to his family and reflected badly on them. He felt guilty about this. As a consequence Napoleon felt driven to request that his father must either arrange that a far more substantial allowance be paid to him, or that he should be withdrawn from Brienne and educated back at home, where he would fit in and do far more justice to his family's noble traditions.

The reply from Ajaccio was a blunt refusal. His father told him that there was simply no more money to spare. There was more to being a gentleman than money, and if Napoleon would only conduct himself in the proper manner and behave in a way that befitted a gentleman then his father was sure that he would prosper at Brienne. Inside Napoleon cursed his father for not seeing through the careful phrases of his son's letter to the raw agony of the life he had been forced to endure at the school. Perhaps he should have written in a more forthright manner so that his father could understand the depth of his misery. Another letter then? Napoleon considered the idea for a moment before rejecting it.That would only make him look even more weak and pathetic to his father.The opportunity for an effective appeal had been lost.All that was left to Napoleon now was to make the most of the situation.

Impulsively, his fingers closed round his father's reply and crumpled it up, working the paper into a tight ball. Napoleon turned from the reading table and, taking aim on the waste basket, he lobbed the ball of paper over towards it.The missile hit the rim of the basket and dropped to the ground at its base.

'Buona Parte! Pick that up!'

Napoleon jumped in his seat at the sound of the voice, then turned to look over his shoulder. Father Dupuy had just entered the library to supervise the morning borrowers.

'Pick up that paper!'

'Yes, sir!' Napoleon jumped down from his stool. He hurried over towards the crumpled letter, scooped it up and quickly deposited it in the bin.

'I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again.'

Father Dupuy, accustomed to the Coriscan boy's ill humour and bouts of fiery temper, was surprised by his meek response. 'Is anything the matter?'

'No, sir.'

'What was that piece of paper?'

'It was personal, sir.'

'I'll be the judge of that. Let me see it.'

There was no avoiding the order. Napoleon retrieved the tight bundle of paper and placed it on to the teacher's outstretched hand. While the boy stood in front of him the teacher carefully unravelled the paper and read through the contents. When he finished, he returned the letter to Napoleon.

'Sit down.'

Napoleon pulled back the chair with a scrape, and sat, shoulders loose and drooping as he looked dolefully across the table at the teacher. Father Dupuy took the chair opposite and, folding his arms, he returned the boy's gaze.

'I take it that you want to leave us, Buona Parte.'

Napoleon nodded. 'Yes, sir.'

'I see.' Father Dupuy considered the young man for a moment before he continued.'You'd be a fool to leave Brienne, Napoleon. This institution is the only opportunity for advancement for people like you and me.'

'Sir?'

'This.' He waved his hand around. 'The college. It's one of the few places in France where people from our background can prosper. As for the aristos, once they leave Brienne and some relative finds them a nice, secure, well-paid position, they will have the whip hand.' He shrugged. 'That's the way things are here in France. You must get used to it, Buona Parte. Or you will go mad under the burden of the injustice of it all.'

Napoleon bristled. 'But it isn't fair, sir. I'm better than them. Far better than them. Why should I have to suffer being their inferior?'

'Because there is nothing you can do about it.There is nothing I can do about it either.That is the curse of our social class, Buona Parte. Believe me, I know how you feel. Despite wearing the same uniform, eating at the same table and being taught at the same desk, you feel that there is a vast gulf between you and them. It makes itself felt the moment they open their mouths. They talk differently, they think differently and they live differently.You sit there and you wish all they had was yours. And yet you know it can never be. So then, let's accept that the world is unfair. What then do you do?'

Napoleon shrugged. 'Change it.'

'By yourself? That's demanding a lot of one man.'

Napoleon smiled. 'It's been done before, sir. I've read enough history to know. Alexander, Caesar, Augustus – they took the world and reshaped it according to their beliefs.'

'I know. The first died young, the second was betrayed and murdered by men he considered friends and the last turned his republic into a tyranny. Hardly good role models. Besides, they were all aristocrats, Buona Parte. More proof that history is merely the history of their class.' He smiled. 'Or is it that you aspire to their status? You think you might be a man of destiny… well?'

Napoleon blushed. He found this open talk of his most cherished, private ambitions acutely embarrassing. 'It – it's not for me to say, sir. We are the servants of destiny.'

'No, we're not.' Father Dupuy shook his head sadly.'We are the servants of fools like Alexander de Fontaine. It is up to them to make the history. We are simply the raw material used in the process.' He looked at Napoleon closely, waiting for the response.

'I'm not raw material, sir. I'm better than that. I think my academic record proves it.'

'I know it does, Buona Parte. I've been following your progress closely.' He smiled.'I suppose you saw me simply as a teacher.That I am, but I have other interests and I'm keen to promote ability, in whatever social class I find it.You might be surprised to know that there are some aristocrats who feel as you do about this situation.'

Naploeon's eyebrows rose. 'Really? I've yet to meet them.'

'Oh, you shouldn't judge France by this institution. It is, after all, merely an institution. If you want to encounter the great minds of the age you must go to Paris.'

'You think I could achieve something, sir?' Napoleon felt his heart lighten. For the first time since he arrived at Brienne he felt as though he was being taken seriously. He felt as if the potential he had been aware of in himself was at last being recognised.

Father Dupuy nodded. 'I believe so. To be honest, I thought you were a precocious little swine when you arrived at Brienne, but now I know you well enough to realise that you have a first-rate mind. Despite your poor performance in most of my subjects.'

Napoleon laughed. It was true.While he had mastered French, albeit without eliminating his Corsican accent, he was only mediocre at Latin, and abysmal at German – a language that to his ear sounded like someone gargling and spitting gravel. 'I'm sorry, sir. I will try harder.'

'So you should. Fluency in a range of languages is a vital skill. Sometimes more is lost in translation than meaning.'

Napoleon nodded. He thought he understood the point. Perhaps not. The solution was obvious – at some point men would have to be compelled to speak the same language.

'Anyway, Buona Parte, your grasp of history is excellent and you're something of a prodigy at mathematics. But, I must confess, your most impressive attribute is your force of personality. Of course, it is also your greatest flaw. You'd do well to remember that.'

Napoleon frowned. He had not considered himself to be strong-willed. It had not occurred to him to see it in those terms. Rather, he had always been surprised by the feeble-mindedness he found in others. The failure of his peers to grasp a mathematical principle he had put down to laziness or a measure of wilful stupidity so typical of these aristocrats. Equally, he had understood that those people he could browbeat into bowing to his will, did so out of a weakness of character. The idea that he was innately better than others amused him for a moment, before it began to win a measure of conviction in his mind. Maybe he was superior to some people… to most people. It was an attractive proposition and one that implicitly justified the soundness of his views over those of others.

'What do you intend to do with your life?' asked Father Dupuy. 'After you leave Brienne.'

'I haven't decided, sir. My father thought I might join the army.'

'Then you will still need to win a place at the Royal Military School of Paris.'

Napoleon looked at him eagerly. 'When's the earliest I can apply to the military school, sir?'

Father Dupuy pursed his lips in thought. 'The school's inspector makes his assessments in autumn for the next year's intake. Fifteen is the minimum age for admission. That gives you less than two years from now. I doubt you'd be ready by then.'

'I will be, sir. I give you my word.'

'Good. Until then, you must tolerate these aristocrats. You must learn that what you lack in money, you make up for in other riches. You have a potential that no amount of money can buy, Buona Parte.' He leaned across the table and punched the boy lightly on the chest. 'Now, go outside, and enjoy yourself. I don't know about you, but I find there's something about snow that refreshes my soul and makes me feel twice as strong and half as old. So, go on!'

'Yes, sir.' Napoleon pushed back his chair and stood up. Stuffing his father's crumpled letter into his pocket he made for the door. Then he paused, looked back at Father Dupuy and smiled gratefully. 'Thank you, sir.'

'Napoleon, one thing.'

'Sir?'

'If you see Alexander de Fontaine out there, make sure you throw a snowball at him for me.'

Napoleon laughed. 'You can count on it!'