Read Online Assassin's Creed: Unity by Oliver Bowden - Free Book Online
Authors: Oliver Bowden
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was the same as he always was, but his words emerged slow and forced and brandy clouded his breath.
“I can tell you’re being strong, Élise,” he said, “stronger than I am.”
Inside us both was a hollow ache. I found myself almost envying his ability to touch the source of his pain.
“It was expected,” I said, but was unable to finish because my shoulders shook, and I gripped him with hands that trembled, allowing myself to be enveloped by him.
“Let it out, Élise,” he said, and began to stroke my hair.
And I did. I let it out. And at last I began to cry.
E XTRACT FROM THE J OURN AL OF A RNO D ORIAN
12 S EPTEMBER 1794
Guilt-stricken, I laid down her journal, overwhelmed by the pain that poured off the page. Horribly aware of my own contribution to her misery.
Élise is right. The Madame’s death hardly even gave me pause for thought. To the selfish young boy I was, it was just something that prevented François and Élise from playing with me. An inconvenience that meant that until things returned to normal—and Élise was right, because of the house opting not to mourn, things did seem to get back to normal more quickly—I had to make my own entertainment.
That, to my shame, is all the Madame’s death meant to me.
But I was only a little boy, just ten.
Ah, but so was Élise, just ten. And yet so far ahead of me in intelligence. She writes of our time with the governor, but how he must have groaned when it was my turn to be taught. He must have packed away Élise’s textbooks and reached for my more elementary versions with a heavy heart.
And yet, in growing so quickly—and, as I now realize, in being “groomed” to grow so quickly—Élise was forced to live with a burden. Or so it seems to me reading these pages. The little girl I knew was just a little girl, full of fun and mischief and yes, like a sister, inventing all the best games, being handy with the excuses when we were caught out of bounds or stealing food from the kitchen or in doing whatever other japes she had planned for the day.
Little wonder, then, that when Élise was sent to the Maison Royale de Saint-Louis school at Saint-Cyr in order to complete her education she ran into trouble. Neither of those two opposing sides of her personality were suitable for school life, and predictably she hated the Maison Royale. Hated it. Though it was just under thirty kilometers away from Versailles, she might as well have been in a different country for all the distance she felt between her new life and her old. In her letters she referred to it as
Le Palais de la Misère
. Visits home were restricted to three weeks in the summer and a few days at Christmas, while the rest of her year was spent submitting to the regimes of the Maison Royale. Élise was not one for regimes. Not unless they suited her. The regime of learning sword with Mr. Weatherall was a very “Élise” kind of regime; the regime of school, on the other hand, was a very “not Élise” kind of regime. She hated the restrictions of school life. She hated having to learn “accomplishments” such as embroidery and music. So in her journal there is entry after entry of Élise in trouble at school. The entries themselves become repetitive. Years and years of unhappiness and frustration.
The way things worked at the school was that the girls were split into groups, each with a head pupil. Of course Élise had clashed with the head of her group, Valerie, and the two had fought. At times, I read with a hand to my mouth, not sure whether to laugh at Élise’s daring or be shocked by it, they
literally
fought.
Time and time again, Élise was brought before the hated headmistress, Madame Levene, asked to explain herself, then punished.
And time and time again she would respond with insolence and her insolence would make the situation worse and the severity of the punishments was increased. And the more the punishments were increased the more rebellious Élise became, and
“I can tell you’re being strong, Élise,” he said, “stronger than I am.”
Inside us both was a hollow ache. I found myself almost envying his ability to touch the source of his pain.
“It was expected,” I said, but was unable to finish because my shoulders shook, and I gripped him with hands that trembled, allowing myself to be enveloped by him.
“Let it out, Élise,” he said, and began to stroke my hair.
And I did. I let it out. And at last I began to cry.
E XTRACT FROM THE J OURN AL OF A RNO D ORIAN
12 S EPTEMBER 1794
Guilt-stricken, I laid down her journal, overwhelmed by the pain that poured off the page. Horribly aware of my own contribution to her misery.
Élise is right. The Madame’s death hardly even gave me pause for thought. To the selfish young boy I was, it was just something that prevented François and Élise from playing with me. An inconvenience that meant that until things returned to normal—and Élise was right, because of the house opting not to mourn, things did seem to get back to normal more quickly—I had to make my own entertainment.
That, to my shame, is all the Madame’s death meant to me.
But I was only a little boy, just ten.
Ah, but so was Élise, just ten. And yet so far ahead of me in intelligence. She writes of our time with the governor, but how he must have groaned when it was my turn to be taught. He must have packed away Élise’s textbooks and reached for my more elementary versions with a heavy heart.
And yet, in growing so quickly—and, as I now realize, in being “groomed” to grow so quickly—Élise was forced to live with a burden. Or so it seems to me reading these pages. The little girl I knew was just a little girl, full of fun and mischief and yes, like a sister, inventing all the best games, being handy with the excuses when we were caught out of bounds or stealing food from the kitchen or in doing whatever other japes she had planned for the day.
Little wonder, then, that when Élise was sent to the Maison Royale de Saint-Louis school at Saint-Cyr in order to complete her education she ran into trouble. Neither of those two opposing sides of her personality were suitable for school life, and predictably she hated the Maison Royale. Hated it. Though it was just under thirty kilometers away from Versailles, she might as well have been in a different country for all the distance she felt between her new life and her old. In her letters she referred to it as
Le Palais de la Misère
. Visits home were restricted to three weeks in the summer and a few days at Christmas, while the rest of her year was spent submitting to the regimes of the Maison Royale. Élise was not one for regimes. Not unless they suited her. The regime of learning sword with Mr. Weatherall was a very “Élise” kind of regime; the regime of school, on the other hand, was a very “not Élise” kind of regime. She hated the restrictions of school life. She hated having to learn “accomplishments” such as embroidery and music. So in her journal there is entry after entry of Élise in trouble at school. The entries themselves become repetitive. Years and years of unhappiness and frustration.
The way things worked at the school was that the girls were split into groups, each with a head pupil. Of course Élise had clashed with the head of her group, Valerie, and the two had fought. At times, I read with a hand to my mouth, not sure whether to laugh at Élise’s daring or be shocked by it, they
literally
fought.
Time and time again, Élise was brought before the hated headmistress, Madame Levene, asked to explain herself, then punished.
And time and time again she would respond with insolence and her insolence would make the situation worse and the severity of the punishments was increased. And the more the punishments were increased the more rebellious Élise became, and
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