Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe Read Online Free Page A

please. Your room is in the basement. It is small, but it has a window and it will be your own.” “Yes, Madame!” Her teeth are excellent.
    March 20, just past noon—still in Paris.
    It was early, not yet ten in the morning, when I heard the children in the foyer. I stood and prepared to face them, clasping my hands to hide my betrothal ring. Nothing has changed, I was going to tell them; marrying Bonaparte did not mean I loved them less.
    “… and then my horse jumped the cart.” Eugène lumbered into the drawing room with the grace of a heifer. Hortense followed, frowning, pulling at her hat strings.
    My daughter greeted me with reserve, stiffening as I embraced her. “My hat, Maman,” she said, pulling off her crêpe bonnet, leaving on the white lace cap underneath. I knew by her manner, her averted eyes, that she was angry with me.
    “I jumped the grey mare.” Eugène smelled of soap and perspiration. I pushed a curl out of his eyes. At fourteen, he would soon disdain his mother’s touch, I knew.
    “But what’s this about jumping carts?” I reproached him.
    My new maid came to the door. She looked comely in my cast-off gown of peach chintz. “You rang, Madame Bonaparte?”
    Bonaparte. Hortense and Eugène exchanged glances. I motioned to Lisette to come forward in order to introduce her. She curtsied to them both. A flush coloured my son’s cheeks. Hortense dipped her head, but it was clear her thoughts were elsewhere, her eyes darting about the room—looking for evidence, I realized, of Bonaparte.
    “Thank you, Lisette. If you could bring us some hot chocolate? And the comfits.” Hortense has a weakness for sweets.
    “Maman, it was safe. The mare can jump five feet easily,” Eugène said, falling into the down armchair, his legs sprawling.
    Hortense lowered herself onto the chair with the horsehair seat, her shoulders back, her posture faultless (for once). I took a seat by the harp. “I understand that Madame Campan has talked to you both about mymarriage to General Bonaparte,” I said—too bluntly, I thought. Not the way I’d rehearsed this speech in my mind!
    “Four days ago,” Hortense answered, enunciating precisely.
    “Yes, she told us. We know all about it,” Eugène said, squirming.
    “I want you to know that General Bonaparte cares deeply about both of you.” I felt I’d handled things poorly, that I’d let them down. I wanted to reassure them.
    “Maman?”
    I sat forward eagerly. “Yes, Eugène?”
    “Can I go to the Luxembourg Palace this morning, before we leave for Fontainebleau? Director Barras told me I could ride his horses any time I wanted.”
    I sat back, stupefied. Horses? Was that all my son could think of? How confusing this situation was! “No, Eugène,” I said, making an effort to sound calm. “I have another plan. Today is Palm Sunday. I was thinking we would go to mass together.”
    Hortense looked surprised. (And pleased, I observed with relief.)
    “Church?” Eugène groaned, sliding down into the depths of his chair.
    “We’ll walk,” I insisted, standing.
    I was surprised by the number of people standing in front of Église Saint-Pierre, enjoying the spring sun before going inside. Not only was it a Décadi * and a Sunday (a rare concurrence), but Palm Sunday as well. For once everyone could enjoy a feast-day together—Catholics and Atheists, Royalists and Republicans alike. I put my arms around my children as we climbed the steps. If there could be peace in the nation, then surely there could be peace in my little family.
    Fontainebleau.
    We weren’t able to leave for Fontainebleau until shortly after two, so it was quite late by the time we pulled into the courtyard of the Beauharnais home in Fontainebleau. “I expected you earlier, Rose,” Aunt Désirée said, patting at her powdered hair, which was dressed in fat sausage rolls. Her immaculate house smelled of beeswax and turpentine.
    “We got off to a late start,” I explained, keeping