Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe by Sandra Gulland Page A

it—to blink and to smile—for there, standing before me, was my husband, Napoleon Bonaparte.
    His face was bronzed by the sun. Backed by the cheering crowd, his soldiers at attention all around him, he had a regal air. “Welcome,” he said without smiling. “What took you so long?” he barked at Junot, stepping back so that the footman could let down the step.
    Evviva la libertà! a man yelled. Fortuné, in his travelling basket, whimpered to be let out.
    “Your wife has not been well,” Joseph told his brother contritely, his hands pressed between his knees. “We had to make stops.”
    Bonaparte looked at me, his big grey eyes sombre. The footman was having trouble getting the step down. I felt I was in a dream. The man standing before me seemed a stranger—this man, my husband, the Liberator of Italy.
    “May I help?” Captain Charles asked the footman, for the step mechanism had jammed again. “I have had to wrestle that latch many times over the last weeks,” he rushed on, aware of his presumption, “and consequently have come to have an intimate knowledge of its perverse ways.”
    Bonaparte stared at the captain. “You must be Charles, the aide-decamp.”
    “General Bonaparte, sir!” The captain saluted.
    Evviva la Francia! a child cried out.
    “Be quick then, Captain—I wish to embrace my wife.”
    The footman stood back. Captain Charles pressed down on the left side of the step and it gave way with a clatter. Bonaparte took my hand. “Careful!” he said—as if, I realized (heart heavy), I were a woman with child. I stepped down onto the dusty road. He put his hand under my chin. “I have been starved for you.”
    I smiled, speechless, overcome by the dust, the bright sun, the crowd. Overcome by the intensity of Bonaparte’s eyes. “Bonaparte, I—”
    He placed his right hand at the nape of my neck, his thumb pressing against my skull. Then he kissed me—without modesty, without restraint, as if, man and woman, husband and wife, we were the only two people on earth. For a moment I resisted, the roar of the crowd in my ears. And then I gave way to him.
    My hat slipped off. I grabbed for it, then I stood back, pressing Bonaparte’s hand to my heart. Distantly I heard people cheering. He stared at me, his eyes glistening. “We came as quickly as we could,” I assured him, but my voice was drowned out by a trumpet blare. “I’m feeling a bit faint.” Everything looked bleached. The crowd seemed to shimmer in the heat. I took hold of his arm. The other carriages in our caravan pulled into view: Hamelin’s wreck of a hired fiacre, the servants’ carriage, the baggage wagon.
    A man in yellow-striped rags ran through the line of soldiers. “Evviva Napoleone!” he cried out as they pulled him away. “Evviva la libertà!”
    Bonaparte led me to a carriage harnessed to four grey horses, their brass bells jingling. The ornate berlin was festooned with red, white and blue ribbons; it looked like a feast-day cake. “To cover the Austrian royal insignias,” Bonaparte said, lifting a bow to reveal a royal emblem underneath.
    “Aren’t the others coming with us?” I asked as he handed me in. The upholstery was a pale cream-coloured brocade. I sat down uneasily. My periodic sickness had become unpredictable. I could never be sure what to expect—or when. “What about your brother?” And Junot, for that matter?
    “This reception is in your honour,” Bonaparte said, settling himselfbeside me and taking my hand. He was thinking of kissing me again, I knew. I opened my fan and fluttered it, leaning my head against the tufted upholstery. The heat was oppressive.
    “Perhaps a little air,” Bonaparte said, letting down the glass. A bouquet came flying through. He put the glass back up. The crowd was chanting Evviva la Francia! Evviva Napoleone! Their fervour frightened me—frightened and amazed me.
    I heard the postillion cry out something in Italian. Our carriage swung gently as the team of