Young bloods - Scarrow Simon (читать книги полностью без сокращений txt) 📗

Chapter 15

The military college was on the outskirts of the small market town of Brienne. The college was comprised of functional buildings neatly laid out around a quadrangle. It was designed, Carlos told his son, to accommodate one hundred and twenty cadets, half of whom were scholarship boys like Napoleon. So he should not feel unduly out of place.As the cart passed through the quadrangle and made for the coach house and stables at the rear of the main building, Napoleon stared keenly about him.

While one of the college grooms took charge of the cart, a porter scurried over to unload Napoleon's trunk, then led Carlos and his son to the administrative section at the heart of the college. Inside, a hall stretched the length of the building and the varnished parquet gleamed in the light slanting through tall shuttered windows that stretched along the side of the hall opposite the offices.The tang of polish filled the air and the sound of their shoes echoed off smooth plastered walls.

'Over here, sir.' The porter indicated a door to one side. A neatly painted sign indicated that this was the office of the director of the institution. A plain bench ran along the wall beyond the door.

Carlos bowed his head. 'Thank you.'

'I'll take the young gentleman's trunk to his cell, sir.'

'Very well.'

As the porter, burdened down by the luggage, tramped off down the corridor, Carlos and his son exchanged brief looks. Carlos flashed a quick smile and whispered, 'Well, here we are, Napoleon.'

He raised his hand to knock on the polished wooden panel, paused to take a deep breath, then rapped sharply.

There was a muffled cough from inside and then a thin, reedy voice called out, 'Enter!'

Carlos pressed the handle down and pushed the door open. It was heavier than he expected and resisted his efforts with a faint squeak from the hinges before it gave. Inside was a large office, lined with bookcases along which gleamed the gilded spines of books so regimented that it seemed that they were rarely, if ever, taken from their places.The office was bathed in light from a large window that looked out over the quadrangle. In front of the window was a modest walnut desk. Sitting behind it was a thin man in a plain black frock coat and powdered wig. He wore a pair of glasses that made his eyes look far larger than they really were, and Napoleon felt them bore into him as the man subjected him to intense scrutiny. There was a moment's stillness before Carlos coughed nervously and gently pressed his son forward.

'Carlos Buona Parte, at your service.' He raised his eyebrows slightly. 'You must be the director, sir?'

The man slowly swivelled his gaze away from Napoleon towards his father. He made a thin smile and replied in his weak strained tone, 'Yes, I believe that's what the sign outside the door says, Signor Buona Parte.' His eyes flickered back to Napoleon. 'And this is the new boy.'

Carlos's expression was frigid at being addressed in the Italian fashion, but he bit back on his irritation and bowed his head.'Yes, sir. My son, Napoleon.'

'We were expecting you two days ago.'

'I was delayed in Bastia, by a storm. I made up some of the time before I could fetch my son from Autun. I apologise.'

The director nodded his head briefly, as if to indicate that he could barely tolerate the apology.'Very well, sir. I think it only fair to tell you that the boy's entry in the college is allowed under sufferance.'

'Sufferance, sir? What do you mean?'

'Only that it is our custom to extend places to the sons of French nobility. This is our first application from Corsica.'

'Which is now French, as you well know, sir.'

The director shrugged his bony shoulders. 'So it would seem. In any event, I would rather not dilute the quality of our student body by admitting someone from outside of France.' He paused and smiled. 'Mainland France, at any rate.'

'Dilute?' Carlos felt his chest tighten in rage. 'Did you say, "dilute"?'

'I did, sir. But I intend no slur on your island, nor your son, naturally. I am sure that in time the inhabitants of Corsica will acclimatise to their new nationality.To their new culture. Until such time, it is my opinion that the mixing of our respective cultures can only confuse the educational ethos of the college. It is as much a concern for the wellbeing of your son as it is for the rest of the students here. And were it not for the well-meaning but misplaced representations of the Comte de Marbeuf to the Royal Court, I would be able to prevent this unfortunate state of affairs.As it is…' He shrugged again and opened out his pale white hands.

Carlos placed a hand on Napoleon's shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze as he responded to the director.'But as it is, you have been instructed to accept my son into this establishment.'

'Yes, sir. I am sure you understand the sensitivity of the situation.'

Carlos stared at the director a moment before he replied, 'I understand.'

The director smiled in relief. 'I am certain that the boy Napoleon will find that the continuation of his studies at Autun will be for the best.'

'The boy stays here,' Carlos said firmly. 'He has been awarded a royal scholarship.You will educate him, as arranged.'

'I see. Well, if you are adamant that you wish him to be educated here…'

'I am.'

A sudden look of inspiration flickered across the director's face. 'And how does he feel about the situation, I wonder.' He leaned forward, over the edge of the desk and fixed Napoleon with an intense stare. 'Well, boy? Do you wish to stay here? Or return to your friends back in Autun?'

'P-please, sir. I don't know.'

'Napoleon,' his father said sternly, pulling him round so that their eyes met. 'You will be educated here. It is your right. And don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Do you understand me?'

Napoleon felt his insides churn with a mixture of injured pride and a desire to quit this place and be back with his brother. But he would not let his father down. He would not back away from this arrogant Frenchman. Napoleon swallowed nervously and nodded his head. 'I understand, Father.'

'Good.' Carlos patted his shoulder, and turned back to the director. 'It is settled, then.'

'Very well.' The director said in a resigned tone. 'Now, I imagine you have a long journey to make back to your home in Corsica. Please don't let me detain you a moment longer. I'll see that your son' – he made a thin smile at the boy – 'I'll see that young Napoleon here is taken care of.'

Carlos stared at him for a moment, then nodded his head. 'Then I'll take my leave of you. With thanks for taking him into Brienne. I'm sure he will prove himself a worthy student.'

'He looks like a determined enough boy. I'm sure he will try to prove himself. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll have to complete his enrolment records. If you'll be so kind as to take him to the quartermaster's stores at the end of the hall he can be fitted with his uniform. Good day to you, sir.'

Carlos steered his son towards the door and back into the corridor outside. As the heavy door closed behind them with a faint squeal from the hinges, father and son looked at each other in silence. Carlos still felt the anger surging through his veins, but the injured look in the eyes of his son pricked him with guilt.

'Father, do I have to stay here?'

'Yes. I know it will be difficult. But it is the best chance of a future you will ever get. Have courage, Napoleon.'

Courage, the boy thought. Yes, courage. That's all that would protect him now. For the first time he would be cut off from all his family. He would be alone. A Corsican amongst the haughty sons of French aristocrats. Only courage would save him.

'Come now,' his father smiled. 'Let's find the quartermaster. I can't wait to see you in that fine new uniform!'