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

horses pulled it forward. I put my hand to my side, against the pain.
    Crowds cheered as we wound our way through narrow, rutted streets, along waterways and canals thick with barges. The air was filled with the pungent smell of potatoes, chestnuts, aubergines cooking, fish frying. “This is a beautiful city,” Bonaparte said, stroking my hand. “You will love it here.”
    “Yes,” I said, although I felt disappointed, in truth. Milan was smaller than I’d expected, and it seemed curiously vacant in spite of the crowds. The few women I saw on the street were dressed entirely in black. The shops had no windows; even the residences were shuttered.
    Bonaparte pointed to a sign in the shape of a cardinal’s red hat: “A hatter.” A pair of scissors signified a tailor; a snake, a chemist; a bleeding foot, leeches. “But the water is unclean,” he went on as we crossed over a stinking canal. “We have much to do installing a new sanitation system.” A man in a banditti hat, defecating by the side of the road, raised his hand in salute. “And educating the inhabitants,” he added.
    At one intersection we were obliged to wait for the passage of a cart loaded with an enormous barrel of water. Chained prisoners followed behind, swinging long leather tubes out of which water came, dampening the dust.
    We came upon a great square where five goats were grazing. “This must be the famous cathedral,” I said, astonished by its grandeur. The church looked even bigger than Notre Dame and far more ornate.
    “Three murderers live in there and I can’t do a thing about it.” * Masons stopped their work on one of the turrets to cheer as we passed. I smiled at them and waved. (Like a queen, I thought.) “The façade has been under construction for five centuries,” Bonaparte said. “I intend to finish it.” His statements surprised me. This wasn’t a soldier speaking—this was a ruler.
    We pulled through a broad portico into the courtyard of a villa of glittering pink granite. In the centre was a fountain, spurting brown water. The footman opened our carriage door, his lilac jacket stained from running ahead of our carriage. I stepped down, lifting my skirt up out of the dust. An enormous number of servants dressed in black bowed at our approach.
    I hung on Bonaparte’s arm as he strode up the steps and through two majestic colonnades into a vast marble hall. I glanced back over my shoulder. We were being followed by a crowd of noisy, clattering “help.” Everywhere I looked there were men in uniform, standing at attention. “This is your home,” Bonaparte said proudly, sweeping his arm aloft.
    Lisette blew dust from her hands. “Our trunks will be brought up soon, Madame—or so they say.” She rolled her eyes. The rigours of travel had brought out a feisty humour in my maid.
    A clock chimed nine bells. Nine? “Do you know the time?” I guessed it to be around three in the afternoon.
    “I think it is nine, Madame, but the day begins a half hour after sunset, I am told, so the time is always changing, depending on the time of year.” She blew out her cheeks in exasperation.
    I smiled. She reminded me of Hortense, and a wave of longing came over me. “I’ll be needing a bath,” I told her. I had taken laudanum and was feeling more at ease, enveloped in a rosy glow.
    “I don’t think they know about baths here,” she said, crinkling her nose.
    Lisette reappeared some time later. “I give up, Madame! I tried French, I tried Latin, I even tried Greek. I told them water, they fetched a mirror—a cracked one. I told them a bath, they brought me a melon rolling around stupidly on a tray.”
    “We need Bonaparte.”
    “The General is in a meeting with his officers, Madame,” Lisette said, reappearing. “He said he would only be a moment.”
    But it was over an hour before Bonaparte appeared. A frowning child in a blue smock followed behind him, carrying a vase of flowers.
    “I want a bath,” I told him,