quality and affordability. In the end he recommended the institution of an old friend of his family, Marcel de Pignerolle. The Royal Academy of Equitation at Angers, despite the name, was no mere riding school, and offered a wide curriculum covering maths, the humanities and swordplay. The clientele was sufficiently exclusive to impress Lady Mornington and the reasonable fees would be much to her taste as well. A perfect combination for Arthur Wesley. Shortly before Christmas Anne announced that she had enrolled Arthur at the Academy in Angers. He would begin his training there in January. She would be returning to England. Brussels, she announced, was too small and too provincial to sustain her interest a moment longer. Besides, she was missing her family.
Arthur listened to all this with the same sad empty feeling that he had felt at Eton. He was being abandoned again.This time, he resolved, he was not going to grieve in the ill-humoured manner that he had adopted at Eton.Then he had hoped that if he seemed to be suffering enough he would provoke some guilt in his mother and she would give him the affection he deserved, and craved. But now, he concluded, it was quite clear how limited her affection for her third son was. In turn, he owed her nothing. Besides, he was on the cusp of a great change in his life. He could sense it. For the first time in his life Arthur could see a way ahead. No longer was music the only purpose in his life. He would dance to a different tune: the deep rolling drumbeat of the army and the shrill call of trumpets.
In January he would travel to Angers and begin his life as a soldier.
Chapter 31
Angers, 1786
As the carriage passed through the gatehouse, Napoleon shifted himself to the side and looked eagerly out of the window. The iron-shod hoofs of the horses clattered on the cobbles of the courtyard that opened out into a vast space before the main entrance to the academy. A troop of riders was being instructed in the centre of the courtyard. Napoleon regarded them closely. They were, no doubt, the sons of various Prussian, Austrian and British aristocrats, dilettantes in their scarlet coats with yellow buttons and light blue facings. Not real soldiers. Not professionals like himself, trained by the finest military minds in Europe. Even though he had received his commission and completed his probation there would be further training to undertake in the months to come before he could consider himself a fully fledged officer of artillery. And when he was off duty there would be manuals to digest and histories to read, aside from the works on philosophy and literature that he read for pleasure. Against that experience Napoleon was inclined to look upon this fashionable academy as no more than a finishing school, run by the cultivated Marcel de Pignerolle and his wife.
The director's invitation to Napoleon, and the four officers who shared the carriage, had been written in a fine hand. At first Napoleon had been tempted to reconsider the invitation. He was tired of being looked down upon by the sons of French nobles because of his Corsican birth. To become an object of curiosity for the nobles of other nations was even more of a burden. The colonel, who had taken something of a shine to his brilliant but awkward lieutenant, patiently advised him to join his comrades and visit Angers for no other reason than it would be useful to meet the men he might one day have to fight in battle. Find out what kind of men they were. Discern the strengths and weaknesses of their national character. It was a compelling argument, and at length Napoleon, with a small show of reluctance, gave his assent to the invitation, to the quiet amusement of his colonel.
'Now, Buona Parte, remember what I said, and keep a close eye on your hosts,' the colonel had concluded. 'You may learn something. At the same time, be mindful that you are a gentleman amongst gentlemen. It is not treasonable to enjoy yourself. Control that fiery streak of Coriscan pride and you may find you enjoy the experience. A man can use all the contacts he can make in this world.'
Napoleon smiled at the memory, and felt a stab of embarrassment at the image of churlish youth he must have presented to his colonel. Well, he was here now, and there was no escaping the situation. He'd have to watch himself and make sure that he said nothing foolish. Whatever provocation might be offered.
The carriage drew up outside the main entrance to the academy and a footman ran forward with a footstool and opened the door for the young artillery officers. Napoleon ducked his head and was the first to emerge from the carriage, jumping down to one side of the footstool. He straightened up and quickly adjusted his uniform, easing out the creases that had gathered in the cloth during the journey. In front of him stood an imposing classical facade: the polished wooden doors leading into the hall were surrounded by a lofty colonnade that reached up to the neat tiles of a handsome mansard roof. The academy was more like a palace than a military establishment and radiated an exclusivity born of two hundred years of training young gentlemen in the basic arts of war.
Alexander Des Mazis craned his head back to take in the decorative tops of the columns framing the entrance. 'Quite something, eh, Napoleon?'
The sound of heavy boots echoed through the entrance hall and then a young man strode out of the building and greeted them with an amiable smile. He was tall, with a broad face, dark hair tied back and brilliant blue eyes. He wore a cadet's uniform and bowed gracefully as he stood before the artillery officers. When he spoke the accent was unmistakably British, but with a peculiar lilting quality.
'Gentlemen, Madame de Pignerolle has sent me to bid you welcome, and convey you to our reception rooms. My name is Richard Fitzroy.'
Captain Des Mazis stepped forward, bowed his head and extended his hand. 'Captain Gabriel Des Mazis of the Regiment de la Fere. May I introduce lieutenants Alexander Des Mazis, Francois Duquesne, Philippe Foy and Napoleon Buona Parte.'
'Delighted,' Fitzroy smiled as he shook the hand of each man. 'If you would follow me, gentlemen…'
He turned and led them inside the academy. The floor had been laid with marble and, while polished, it bore the marks of the passage of tens of thousands of cadets over the centuries. The hall was painted blue, picked out with gold leaf on the architrave. At regular intervals the walls were hung with large portraits of distinguished- looking men in uniform and, looking on these paintings, Napoleon felt a twinge of jealousy amid the burning ambition that filled his heart. One day a painting of Napoleon might adorn the wall of the Royal Military School of Paris, and all men who saw it would think twice about laughing down their sleeves at Corsica.
At the far end of the entrance hall the cadet led them up a wide staircase on to a gallery. Several rooms opened off it, and as the small party strode by, Napoleon saw that they were social rooms, each containing fine furnishings. In one he saw a tall, slender cadet who looked to be his own age reclining on a couch. The cadet, who had mousy brown hair, was reading a newspaper. A figure emerged from the last door along the gallery and, glancing up, Napoleon saw a slender woman of advanced years smiling at them as she gracefully stood aside and waved them forward.
The artillery officers instantly halted and bowed in the fashion that they had been taught by the Military School's dancing tutor. The lady inclined her head in acknowledgement, before turning to the cadet.
'Mr Fitzroy, be so good as to show these men inside. The formal introductions can be made when the director returns from the stables. I've organised some refreshments while they wait.'
'Yes, Madame.'
Madame de Pignerolle turned back to the artillery officers. 'Now, I regret I must attend to my wardrobe, gentlemen. Mr Fitzroy will look after you.'
Napoleon bowed again. 'Very well, Madame.'
As she glided away along the gallery, Fitzroy stood to one side to let his guests enter the room. Napoleon's boots fell softly on a thick blue carpet with an ornate fleur-de-lis pattern in white. A hatstand stood to one side and he slipped his cocked hat on to one of the smoothly worn pegs.The room was large, with a high ceiling, and long windows that overlooked yet another vast courtyard. Around the sides of the room were arranged small clusters of upholstered chairs and ornate drinks tables. Beyond the hatstand was a long table covered with a buffet. Behind the table two footmen stood stiffly, waiting to serve the guests.
'Gentlemen,' Fitzroy waved a hand towards the buffet, 'please help yourselves while I fetch the cadets who will make up the rest of our party.' He bowed, and left the room.
As the cadet's footsteps tapped back along the gallery, Napoleon and the other officers feasted their eyes on the buffet. The food at the Military School was by far the best cuisine the young Corsican had ever tasted, but the display spread across the table here put it to shame. There were large platters of finely cut meats; chilled slices of salmon; plates of cheese, and of cured sausage sliced as finely as sheets of paper; small, shaped loaves of bread,
