The Arrogant "Boy"

I have been living as Marcus at the Brienne Military Academy for three days now, and everything here is still tolerable.

 Marcus' father is the headmaster of the military school, so the teachers here are all very indulgent towards me. Even the instructor Philippe, who dislikes me the most - that bald-headed man with a fierce gaze - only dares to glare at me sternly for some of my not-too-egregious disciplinary infractions, but does not dare to reprimand me further.

In this brand-new world, my interest in anything pales in comparison to that for Napoleon. To me, the most joyous occurrence each day is greeting Napoleon with a "Good morning, Napoleon," but the response I often receive is merely a look of disdain. I feel that he thoroughly dislikes me.

However, to be fair, it seems like there is no one in the school that Napoleon does not dislike. Everyone also tends to isolate him, referring to him as the "Barbarian of Corsica." Even among the teachers, there is no one who likes him.

Soon, it will be time for the history class, which is the subject I dislike the most. Of course, a large part of it is because Philippe is the teacher for this course. As noon approaches, the brilliant autumn sun shines through the stained-glass windows in the classroom, bathing me in its warmth, making me feel drowsy. But this tranquil comfort is soon disrupted by Philippe's arrival. As he enters, the entire classroom instantly falls silent. I force myself to stay alert and sit up straight, preparing for the lesson to begin.

Philippe's voice is soft when he lectures, but it has a peculiar penetrating power that allows every student in the classroom to hear him clearly. The first half of the history lesson goes relatively smoothly, until he starts recounting the French army's conquest of Napoleon's homeland, the island of Corsica.

What is puzzling is that the French army's occupation of Corsica is only tangentially related to the topic Philippe is lecturing about. Perhaps he is doing this intentionally, with the sole purpose of making Napoleon uncomfortable. I glance over at Napoleon, and notice that the future Emperor of France is already on the verge of exploding.

Unable to restrain himself any longer, Napoleon suddenly stands up when Philippe mentions that the Corsican resistance leader Paoli was forced to flee, and glares at Philippe defiantly, loudly declaring, "Your words are unfair. We were vastly outnumbered."

Philippe, standing tall on the elevated podium, looks down at Napoleon, his dark eyes gleaming with a victorious light. "That only serves to demonstrate how foolish your resistance was." Unwilling to back down, Napoleon retorts angrily, "One day, we will drive out all of you invaders!"

This statement is like poking a hornet's nest. The classroom instantly erupts into chaos, with laughter, shouts, and a freckle-faced boy pointing at Napoleon and letting out a series of grating guffaws. "Silence!" Philippe roars, his voice overpowering the din. The students immediately fall silent.

At this moment, Léon stands up and asks a few questions about France's foreign policy during the reign of Louis XIV, seemingly trying to steer the lesson back on track. However, Philippe pays no attention to Léon, and instead glares furiously at Napoleon, angrily waving the textbook around.

"Insubordinate, disrespectful to the teacher, disrupting class order, impertinent..." His bald head turns bright red, and with each misdemeanor he lists, the textbook is swung menacingly in Napoleon's direction. "Get out, stand outside," he shouts, pointing the book towards the door.

For a moment, I thought Napoleon would refuse to obey. But in the end, he walks stiffly towards the door, clinging to what little dignity he has left. After class, people are buzzing with discussion about what just happened. Napoleon also returns to his seat, his face twisted in fury as he gathers his books.

A young man named Hoche begins to vividly recount to a few other boys how his uncle made his fortune on the island of Corsica. Léon tries to urge him not to bring up this topic anymore, but Hoche is on a roll and refuses to be silenced.

He describes in great detail how his damned uncle, in order to protect a wounded comrade, cut down three Corsican cavalrymen. When he reaches the more dramatic parts, he even has the other students act out the roles in the story.

"The last cavalryman came charging at my uncle like a whirlwind, his mount foaming at the mouth, the saber gleaming with blood," Hoche continues his vivid narration. "But my uncle calmly raised his musket to his shoulder, and with a 'bang'..."

At that moment, I truly hear a "bang" - the sound of Napoleon charging like an arrow towards Hoche and punching him to the ground.

There is an uproar from the crowd, and Hoche's friends immediately rush over to slam the slight-framed Napoleon to the ground. Hoche also gets up, clutching the back of his bleeding head, joining in the punches and kicks against Napoleon. "Stop!" a student shouts, beginning to try and pull the brawling youths apart.

Having seen enough of the spectacle, I too now rise to my feet and start helping to calm the conflict.

Napoleon's lips are split, and a bruise is swelling above his left eye. I grip his shoulders firmly, feeling his body still trembling with fury.

"One day, I will make you French pay," the future French emperor rages, his words sounding now like hollow threats that only draw more laughter and mockery.

Just as I start to worry the situation is spiraling out of control, the math teacher, Monsieur Dieu, walks in. He is not a terrible teacher, and upon entering, he quickly instructs the gathered students to return to their seats.

"Napoleon, you've been fighting again," he states matter-of-factly, not questioning. "Goodness me, Hoche, look how much you're bleeding - don't just stand there, get yourself to the infirmary. And you, Napoleon, you go as well."

Hoche leaves the classroom accompanied by a few friends. I place my hand on Napoleon's shoulder, suggesting we go to the infirmary together. But he raises his elbow and shrugs off my well-intentioned gesture, walking away on his own.

As absurd as it is, I find myself inexplicably feeling a twinge of sympathy for Napoleon. For him, France is a hostile land; the military academy of Brienne is a hostile school. He is so lonely, enclosed within these towering walls, forever on guard, isolated and alone.

There is a tradition at the military academy of Brienne where the students take turns dining with the headmaster, but Napoleon has never been afforded this privilege. One evening at the dinner table, I mention this to my father, and he promises to invite Napoleon to dine with him the following Sunday.

Philippe, ever the persistent nuisance, becomes disgruntled upon hearing my father's decision. "You are the headmaster, sir. Even if you allow that Corsican savage to dine with us, you should order him to come, so he understands he is a conquered man. That way, the fellow won't be so arrogant."

My father casts a cold glance at Philippe. "What need is there for commands when an invitation will suffice? Moreover, Napoleon is a Frenchman. His father was a French nobleman, not some conquered subject."

After Philippe storms off in indignant frustration, I begin to badmouth the bald-headed nuisance to my father. He simply chuckles mildly, then sets down his glass, the ice cubes clinking. "Do you know why Philippe dislikes Napoleon so?"

I was tempted to retort with a sarcastic "Why does a dog eat its own excrement?", but thought better of it. Instead, I respond uncertainly, "Is it because of his lack of pedagogical virtue?" "No, it's because all three of his brothers were killed in action on Corsica."

On the appointed day, Napoleon arrives at the feast in his freshly laundered uniform. In contrast to the austere school halls, the headmaster's quarters are spacious and luxurious. Plush carpets cover the floor, and four silver candelabras bearing dozens of flickering candles adorn the dining table, their dancing light illuminating the wall hangings. A towering bookshelf stands by the door, brimming with hundreds of precious volumes. A small bathroom occupies one corner of the room.

During the meal, the spacious dining table seats only seven, feeling quite empty. To my surprise, my father and Napoleon engage in lively conversation, discussing everything from geography to mathematics to renowned ancient generals. The atmosphere remains congenial until Philippe, seated at the table, begins to stir things up, speaking in a snide tone about Paoli, an individual greatly revered by Napoleon.

"Paoli," Napoleon replies with some fervor, "was a great man, a patriot. I can never forgive my father for having served as his adjutant, and for acquiescing to Corsica's annexation by France. He should have shared Paoli's fate, falling alongside him."

"Do you love Paoli more than your own father?" I ask, somewhat taken aback. Napoleon is silent for a moment, then says pensively, "I revere Paoli. But I love my father, even though he abandoned me here and has remained indifferent."

After the meal, the servants clear away the dishes. The professors depart one by one, and my father leaves to attend a funeral. I ask Napoleon if he would like to join me in going to the theater to see a Shakespearean play, but he declines. 

As I walk out of the bathroom, freshly changed, I find Napoleon gazing intently at the top shelf of the bookcase. Following his line of sight, I see that the book captivating his attention is Rousseau's "The Social Contract".

"The chair is over there, you can stand on it to reach the book," I say with a mischievous glee. "Or step aside and I'll get it down for you." But Napoleon's icy glance quells my teasing mood. I simply walk over to him, rise up on my toes, and retrieve the book, handing it to him.

"May I borrow this book?" Napoleon asks, "The school library does not have it." "I'm afraid not, my father hates it when people take his books without permission. But you're welcome to read it here." I pat his back, feeling like I've taken the first step in my 'suck up to Napoleon' plan. "Leon and I have plans to go to the theater, so I'll take my leave first."

The carriage has been waiting on the street for some time in the fine, misty rain. I hop onto the seat. The coachman cracks the whip, and the carriage begins to move smoothly forward, joining the flow of traffic at the corner. Halfway there, I suddenly remember that I left the tickets in the pocket of the clothes I changed out of, and quickly have the driver turn back.

As soon as the carriage arrives at the school, I rush towards the headmaster's office, silently praying that I'm not too late. After a mad dash, I push open the door and hurry to the bathroom, where I find Napoleon soaking in a steaming bathtub, engrossed in a book.

I'm not sure whose voice was louder. But the next thing I know, Rousseau's "The Social Contract" comes hurtling towards me. I instinctively duck, and then see Napoleon hunched over, clutching the edge of the bathtub, like a stray cat trapped in a cardboard box.

"You... you..." I stare wide-eyed, my trembling finger pointing at him - no, at her. I start to doubt my own sanity. "You're a girl?"

In a flash, Napoleon leaps out of the bathtub, sending hot water splashing everywhere. Glistening droplets glimmer on her pale skin. She quickly wraps herself in a bathrobe, the thin fabric immediately soaked and clinging to her shapely, well-proportioned figure, accentuating her alluring curves.

But the allure is lost when she grabs a dagger from somewhere and charges towards me. If I hadn't quickly stepped back, the blade would have gouged out my right eye, leaving a deep, bone-exposing scar on my cheek.

I cry out in alarm and backpedal. "Have you lost your mind? Calm down!"

"I'm going to kill you," Napoleon roars, advancing again with the dagger flashing in her hand.

I hurriedly dodge to the side, but the blade still grazes my arm, slicing open a large gash in my loose sleeve. She's serious about this! I rush towards her, grabbing her arm, trying to wrench the dangerous dagger from her hand.

But Napoleon refuses to cooperate, struggling fiercely and attempting to stab me. We end up entangled on the slippery floor, rolling around. I end up on top of her, wrestling the dagger away, but then my wrist is seized and slammed against the ground. The agonizing, dislocating pain makes me cry out.

Then the dagger is pressed against my neck. Perhaps it's because I've already died once before, but I don't feel particularly afraid. Napoleon lies on the floor, one hand gripping the dagger, the other pulling her bathrobe to cover the tantalizing parts of her body. Even her ears are flushed red, and her chest heaves with ragged breaths.

"I won't tell your secret," I promise. As ashamed as I am to admit it, in that moment of life and death, I even had a nosebleed.

The dagger is now pressed against my temple.