Young bloods - Scarrow Simon (библиотека электронных книг txt) 📗

'Disgusting…' He heard someone mutter.

He continued eating until the porridge was finished, and quietly set down his spoon. As he looked up he saw that most of the other cadets were looking at him with expressions of horror and disbelief. Some had not eaten their porridge, he noticed with delight. At the head of the table, Alexander glared at him, eyes filled with hatred, his neat fingers balled into a fist around his spoon. As their eyes met, a means of revenge occurred to Napoleon. A revenge that would be most appropriate indeed.

Chapter 17

'Be seated.'

The class pulled out their benches and sat down, in silence, waiting for Father Dupuy to begin the lesson. The teacher folded his hands together, stared down at the ranks of faces and began in his customary manner.

'Where did we end last lesson?' he asked. His eyes passed over the students, who were trying their best to be invisible, in their customary manner. Then Father Dupuy nodded at a boy on the back row. 'Alexander de Fontaine.'

'Yes, sir?'

Father Dupuy smiled. 'If you would be so good as to remind me of the point we had reached.'

'Yes, sir.You were talking about the siege of Jerusalem.'

'Indeed. And remind me whose work I was citing in describing the siege…' his eyes turned to another cadet, 'Buona Parte.'

'Josephus, sir.'

'Josephus, precisely.' Father Dupuy picked up the first notebook and flicked it open.'Which leaves me slightly perplexed by de Fontaine's prep from last night in which he quotes, at some length, from Suetonius' eye-witness account of the siege.'

Alexander de Fontaine had some idea of what was coming and shifted uncomfortably on his bench as Father Dupuy paused for dramatic effect.

'Clearly, Suetonius was blessed with a most precocious talent, since he would have been all of one year of age at the time of the siege of Jerusalem. Unless, of course, you are referring to a previously undiscovered historian whose translated works have only just become available in Brienne.'

Alexander blushed. 'No, sir.'

'I see.You are in error, then?'

'Yes, sir.'

'In which case it is only fair that I award you one demerit. I suggest that you pay attention in my lessons from now on.' He picked up a pen, dipped it in his inkwell, and made a note against Alexander's name in the class record book, before looking up again. 'Come and collect your workbook.'

Alexander scraped his end of the bench back and walked stiffly to the front of the class, mounted the podium to receive the book Father Dupuy held out to him, then turned and made his way back. From his desk Napoleon was delighted to see the attempt Alexander was making to hide his shame. Father Dupuy coughed.

'In contrast to de Fontaine's entertaining but inaccurate effort, I am delighted to say that at least some students have managed to write thorough accounts of the siege. Notably Louis de Bourrienne, who has a fine style; clear and succinct and neatly written. For which he is awarded a merit. Here.' He raised the next workbook and held it out. Louis beamed at Napoleon, then rose from his seat and hurried forward to fetch his workbook.

'And now we come to another cadet's work. Like de Fontaine, he seems to have had some difficulty in listening to instructions. Rather than relating the events of the siege this cadet decided instead to offer a critique of the defenders of Jerusalem.' Even though he spoke without meeting Napoleon's gaze, the latter shrank back a little behind his desk. Father Dupuy lifted the next book in the pile and weighed it in his hand as he continued. 'Of course, I had to struggle with the handwriting, which would do shame to even the youngest infant ever to hold a pen. But once I had deciphered the scrawl I am bound to admit that the analysis of the defence of Jerusalem was most sagacious for a cadet of his age. The prose style was not perfect, inclining as it did to a rather hectoring tone, but the argument was compelling.' Now he fixed his eyes on Napoleon. 'Cadet Buona Parte, you will make a fine staff officer one day, assuming you learn to write legibly. I award you two merits for your essay, but deduct one for your presentation. Please collect your book.'

Napoleon had fully expected a tirade of criticism for his wilful departure from the task the class had been set. It took him a moment to accept that his work had been admired instead. Not only that, but he had won a merit. That would go some way towards rescinding the bad feeling he had caused at the morning parade. He stood up and made himself walk at a sedate pace to retrieve his workbook from Father Dupuy. On the way back to his desk he passed close by Alexander and their eyes met in a mutual glare of hostility. Napoleon realised that at least one of his fellow cadets bore him even more ill will than before. Alexander and his aristocratic cronies were going to make life very difficult indeed.

That night, as Napoleon lay on his bed, he reflected on the months since he had arrived at Brienne. Not a day had passed without his thinking about Joseph and the rest of the family. Far from becoming used to his new life, as his father had promised he would, he had become steadily more miserable, yearning for what now seemed the carefree existence he had lived back in Ajaccio. He was far from the comfortable familiarities of home, in an alien world, surrounded by people who looked down on him as a crude provincial and treated him with haughty contempt. Only one friend, and one teacher, stood between him and a terrible isolation.

Napoleon felt his heart harden. Alexander de Fontaine needed to be taught a lesson. He needed to be knocked from that self-satisfied pedestal from which he looked down on the rest of the world. Napoleon had decided on his plan earlier in the day and refined the details in the hours since he had gone to bed, and now he waited for the tower clock to strike two, the very depth of night when all in the college would be still. Under the bedclothes he wore the garments he had brought with him from Corsica. For the task he had in mind he could not risk sullying any part of his Brienne uniform. So he lay still, his mind racing – partly from his restless temperament, and partly in order not to let sleep creep up on him. Then, as the clock struck two, he rose from his bed, carefully eased open the door to his cell and crept out into the still, silent shadows of the college.

As a faint pink glow silhouetted the edge of the roof tiles, the cadets spilled out into the quadrangle to form up for the morning parade. From the end of the line Napoleon stood stiffly, trying hard to give the appearance of a model cadet. He had learned the lesson of yesterday and made sure that his uniform was clean and pressed for this morning. Beneath the cloth he felt his skin tingle with anxious anticipation and his pulse had quickened as he casually glanced at the last few cadets emerging from their quarters. So far no one had noticed anything unusual and Napoleon forced himself to keep still, and stop staring at the last of the cadets trotting across the quadrangle.

'Where's Alexander?' he heard someone mutter.

'No idea. Haven't seen him. He's cutting it fine. He'll be the last – there he is…'

'Good God, what's happened to his uniform?'

As the muttering increased around Napoleon, he thought it was safe to turn and stare along with the other cadets. Crossing the quadrangle towards them was Alexander. His face was a mask of cold fury, and his uniform was covered with dark stains and smears of what looked like mud, but as he approached his classmates and the smell hit them, it was clear that his uniform had been covered with something far more distasteful. A particularly pungent application of pig-shit, as Napoleon well knew. Not that there were any traces on him. He had scraped the filthy ordure from the sty belonging to a local farmer and brought it back in a wooden bucket, in which he had thrust Alexander's neatly folded uniform and stirred it around, before creeping to the water trough in the college stables by moonlight to clean the bucket and make sure that his old clothes were clear of any stains. Only when he was satisfied that no marks would betray him did Napoleon return to his cell and climb back into bed, excited and terrified by the deed he had just carried out, so that he only fell asleep a scant hour before the morning drum beat out its summons.