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

makes me sick.”
    “Not to mention the banditti.”
    “Did you hear about—”
    “Don’t tell her!”
    “Tell me what?”
    “Nothing, darling. Nothing! You’ll be fine.”
    Evening.
    “Bonaparte’s brother Joseph can’t leave for six days,” I informed Barras.
    “Did he tell you why?” he smirked, rummaging around in his papers. “He’s taking a mercury cure.”
    I raised my eyebrows. Mercury is used to cure syphilis.
    “Having a bit too much fun in town—research for the romantic novel he claims to be writing, no doubt. But can you manage it in sixdays? You’ll need to put together a wardrobe—hoops and the rest of it. The Italians are quite provincial.” “Hoops? You can’t be serious.”
    “Servile, tradition-bound, ignorant, superstitious. Dig out your old corsets. And a bustle.”
    I groaned. I’d had my bustles made into pillows long ago.
    “And don’t forget, Madame Bonaparte, ma belle merveilleuse,” * he lectured, pointing a letter opener at me, “always put your handkerchief in your wineglass—only juice for the ladies.” I made a face. “And no playing billiards with the men, either, no talking with them about finance and politics.” He opened a drawer, riffled through it and then sat back with a puzzled expression. “What am I looking for?”
    “Something to do with Italy?”
    “Ah, yes!” He took out a file. “I’m to get passports for you, Joseph Bonaparte, Colonel Junot and … who else? Oh, that aide-de-camp, the funny little fellow Thérèse calls Wide-Awake. The financial agent—you know who I mean. All the ladies are mad about him.”
    “Captain Charles?” I was hoping the captain would be able to join us. “He’s a financial agent?”
    “Oh dear, you didn’t know? I wonder if it’s supposed to be confidential. I can’t remember who told me. He’s affiliated with the Bodin Company, apparently. It’s hard to imagine—he’s so young … and so very, very drôle. ”
    Drôle, indeed! “At least Fortuné won’t bite him. Even my dog finds him amusing.”
    “You’re taking the dog? Mon Dieu, but this is short notice. Why is it I’m always rushing around doing something for Bonaparte? Ah, here’s what I was looking for. It’s a letter from the most beautiful man in the French Republic, our very own General Lazare Hoche. He requests permission to come to Paris.” Barras held the letter up with a gloating expression. “Pity you won’t be in town.”
    “You’ll see to the passports?” I said, standing.
    “You’re flushed! Forgive me?” He kissed my cheeks. “Ah, but you forgive anything, all my little sins.”
    “I wouldn’t be so sure,” I said, tying my hat strings. Remembering to smile.
    June 23.
    “Madame, it’s … it’s …!” My maid was actually tongue-tied. “It’s the famous General Hoche. Himself!”
    “Here? That’s impossible,” I said, throwing off the down coverlet. It was almost noon, but Dr. Cuce had insisted I get constant rest in preparation for the journey. “General Hoche is in the south. He won’t be in Paris until the end of the month.”
    “I’ll go tell him he’s not here.” The excitement had made Lisette giddy.
    “Perhaps there has been a mistake.” Surely there had been a mistake. “Is this gentleman in his late twenties, tall, with a scar?”
    “Broad shoulders, dark eyes,” she said, her hands clutched to her heart.
    “Lisette, please!” I laughed. “Is my morning gown pressed? Can you find my lace shawl—the one with the silk fringe? Oh, mon Dieu, my hair.”
    “Rose,” Lazare said, turning to face me, taking off his hat. He was bronzed from the sun, his scar white in contrast, snaking down from his forehead onto his right cheek.
    “General Hoche.” I extended my hand. Lazare. Lazarro. He seemed taller than I remembered him. Hercules, Barras called him. “What a pleasant surprise.” Joy flooded my heart. “I congratulate you on your recent victories.” * A man of peace, people are