Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe by Sandra Gulland

horizon, the icy peaks of Mont Cenis, glittering like an enormous diamond in the sun.
    Church bells rang for afternoon vespers. I’d forgotten how lovely bells sound. I watched as a veiled woman in black made her way to church, her eyes fixed on the ground. What will they think of me, these women? Me, the Parisian merveilleuse in her revealing Parisian gown, enjoying her Parisian pleasures … her Parisian freedom, I was beginning to understand.
    Fortuné yelped at a rapping on the door. “Oh, it’s you,” Lisette said.
    “Please, Mademoiselle,” Captain Charles said, “refrain from such an unseemly expression of unrestrained joy.” He scooped up Fortuné and rubbed his face in the dog’s fur. Then, releasing the delighted dog, he informed me that we would not be going to the palace for another hour.
    “An hour!” I’d been waiting forever, it seemed. Waiting to be taken to the palace, waiting to be presented to the king of this realm. Waiting for the laudanum I took for pain to take effect. “Forgive me, Captain Charles. I’m nervous, I confess.” I’d never met a king before.
    “Why should you be nervous?” The captain brushed off a footstool, flipped up his tails and sat down. “I should think it would be the King who has reason to be uneasy. After all, your husband rather badly trounced him.”
    What was it I feared? That I might do something foolish. That I might become faint, with pain and with fever. That I might embarrass Bonaparte, the Republic. “It’s just that I never expected …”
    “La Gloire?”
    La Gloire, indeed! Fame was the last thing I’d expected from marriage to Bonaparte. Strange, intense little Napoleon, the ill-mannered Corsican—a hero now, the Liberator of Italy. The man to whom kings bowed.
    Lisette held out a glass of orange water. “I put a little ether in it, Madame. You look pale.”
    Late, I’m not sure of the time.
    I survived. It was horrible. (The King fell asleep on his throne!) Barras was right—I should have brought a hoop.
    July 13—Milan.
    Approaching Milan I could hear cheering—it sounded like a lot of people. Bonaparte’s brother Joseph stuck his head out the window, holding onto his tricorne hat. A band struck up the Marseillaise. Amour sacrée de la patrie, I hummed along, a lump rising in my throat. I wanted to look out, but I didn’t think it would be ladylike to be seen hanging out a carriage window. “We should wake Colonel Junot,” I said, waving to a gang of urchin boys who were racing beside us.
    “What?” Junot sputtered, running his fingers through his hair. “We’re in Milan? Already?”
    “Is my plume straight?” Joseph asked, adjusting the tilt of his hat. “How do I look?”
    “Fine,” I said, popping an aniseed comfit into my mouth to sweeten my breath. In fact, all of us looked as if we’d been travelling in rough circumstances for two weeks: rumpled, worn and irritable. It had been a gruelling trip.
    The crowd was chanting Evviva la Francia! Evviva la libertà! I caught sight of an immense Roman arch festooned with bright banners. “Nervous?” Captain Charles whispered. I answered by widening my eyes. Yes!
    There was a crowd—men in powdered wigs and old-fashioned court-style jackets, women (the few I could see) in wide-hooped gowns, their heads covered with black scarves. Behind the aristocrats were the peasants in rags, quite a number, a sea of faces. A column ofgendarmes stood at attention, the sun glittering off their muskets. I thought of my children, Aunt Désirée. They would have thrilled to see such a crowd.
    I recognized Bonaparte’s young brother Louis on horseback with the aides. But where was Bonaparte? My stomach felt queasy. I must not be sick, I told myself. Not now.
    We came to an abrupt halt. “We’re here,” Joseph said, with his annoying giggle.
    “Finally,” Junot said, cracking his knuckles.
    A footman in lilac livery opened the carriage door. A breeze blew dust in. I did my best to ignore