Free Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe by Sandra Gulland

of him to expect you to join him.”
    “Please, listen to me!” Barras looked at me, startled. I’d never raised my voice to him. “If … if I don’t go to Italy,” I said, more calmly this time, “Bonaparte will come here.” This was the one argument that was likely to persuade him, I knew.
    “To Paris? He would leave his troops in the middle of a campaign?”
    Yes, I nodded. He would. He will.
    “That would get him court-martialled.”
    I nodded. Ruined! Shot!
    “That’s strange. He didn’t mention any of this in his last letter to me.” He looked over the stacks of paper covering his desk. “Here it is,” he said, holding a letter up and squinting at it. “Just the usual business—his conditions for the armistice agreement with the Pope.”
    “Bonaparte is dealing with the Pope?”
    Barras smirked. “Getting a little high and mighty, one could say?”
    “It’s the Republic he represents that is high and mighty.”
    “That’s the problem—that’s what’s getting the Directors so upset. Bonaparte doesn’t represent the Republic, and yet he’s acting as if he does. Ah, here’s the part.” Barras cleared his throat and read out loud. “‘I hate women. I am in despair. My wife does not come—she must have alover who is holding her in Paris.’“ Barras looked at me, amused. “So who is this lover?”
    “The only man who has been admitted to my bedchamber of late is my doctor, I’m afraid. Fevers are not conducive to romance.”
    “I must say, you do look frail. Are you even well enough to travel?”
    Early evening—Fontainebleau.
    “Oh!” Aunt Désirée cried out when she saw us. “I wasn’t expecting you. Hortense, look at you, a little lady in that bonnet. And you, Eugène, such a handsome lad. You’re growing like a cabbage.”
    Hortense jabbed her brother in the ribs. Eugène grabbed her wrist and tried to pin her arm behind her back.
    “Children!” I stooped to give my aunt a kiss, glaring at Eugène. “Why don’t you two go out to the stable to make sure the horses are taken care of.”
    “My groom will look after your horses,” Aunt Désirée said, tightening the sash of her squirrel-lined dressing gown.
    “The children need to be outside,” I whispered as they raced for the door. “It’s a long ride from Saint-Germain.” The walls shook as the front door slammed shut. “And besides, there is something I need to talk to you about, Aunt Désirée—privately.” I settled into the armchair next to the sofa.
    My aunt gave me a baleful look over the top of her thick spectacles. “I warn you, Rose, I’m out of salts.”
    “Still?” I paused. “I have to go to Milan.” “To Italy? But isn’t that where the fighting is?” “I know, Aunt Désirée, it’s just that—”
    “How would you get there? The roads are so perilous. Even between Fontainebleau and Paris, one risks getting robbed. And what about your health? Just look at how pale you are.”
    “I’m needed there, Aunt Désirée, my husband—”
    “A woman belongs with her children. And what about our wedding? The Marquis and I can’t get married without you.” Sniffing.
    I was dismayed. My aunt never used to cry, and now it seemed she wascrying all the time. “I have a suggestion to make. Perhaps the priest could marry you and the Marquis before I leave.” “When will that be?”
    “Possibly next week,” I said, my voice faint.
    “Next week!” my aunt shrieked. “Father Renard was reluctant to marry us next month even.”
    “Perhaps I could explain the problem to him.” Pay him a goodly sum. Or promise to.
    “But Rose, my gown isn’t finished. It isn’t even begun.”
    I heard the children’s voices in the foyer. I put my finger to my lips, shush!
    “The children don’t know?”
    “What don’t we know?” Hortense asked, pulling off her hat.
    Eugène grinned at his sister. “A mystery,” he hissed.
    “You’re going to have to tell them sometime,” Aunt Désirée said angrily,