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

him,” I said, astonished as much by Fortuné’s response as by the captain’s.
    April 27.
    “My protégé has done it!” Barras slid off his horse. I came to the garden gate, wiping my hands on my apron. He stepped over the little fence and folded me in his arms, twirling me. “I told them he could do it, but this—this is a miracle.” He was in his directorial robes still; one end of the scarlet cape caught on a rosebush.
    “Paul, wait.” I disentangled him from the thorn. My scullery maid stood frozen in the process of hanging a carpet over the stone wall, her head craned over her shoulder.
    “It’s unbelievable. Even I never expected …!” He was short of breath from such a show of youthful vigour, and dangerously flushed.
    “Now, Père Barras,” I said, motioning him toward the garden bench, “perhaps I could persuade you to take a seat? And then—at your leisure! I wouldn’t want to rush you!—if you could tell me, what is this miracle?” Iremoved my apron and used it to brush off the stone bench. “And which protégé?” For Barras had many.
    He paced back and forth on the narrow path, kicking up stones. “Your husband. Who else?”
    “Bonaparte?” I sat back, tilting my straw hat so that it blocked out the sun in my eyes.
    Barras clapped his hands. “He’s had a victory!”
    I smiled, incredulous. Already?
    “Yes—at Montenotte.” He waved his hands in the air as if deranged. “And with that starved, pathetic little Army of Italy that the Directors were so reluctant to grant him.” Pacing again, flinging his cape over his shoulder. “Haven’t I always said I have an eye for talent? I told them he could do it. And now they’ll have to admit that I was right. Ha!”
    April 29.
    Another victory! This one at Millesimo. I’ve pinned a map to the wall in the study and have tagged it with flagged pins, just as Bonaparte did when planning his campaign.
    April 30.
    And yet another at Dego! “I can’t take all this celebrating!” Barras groaned, holding his aching head.
    17 Floréal, Luxembourg Palace
My friend,
    Please forgive this letter—I’m tied up in meetings with the Directors all day. I wanted you to be the first to know: your husband has had four more victories, and in only four days! Twenty-one Austrian flags captured! Im ordering a fire-rocket show over the river—hang the expense. At this rate, Bonaparte will be opening the Pope’s treasure chest soon.
    I advise you not to grant any interviews to journalists, who will be pressing, I warn you. All information must come from the Directory.
    Are you unwell? Thérèse mentioned that you’ve been in bed with a fever. This news will cure, I’m sure. Gather your strength—there will be ceremonies on end.
    Père Barras
    Note—I’m negotiating to buy Grosbois. Imagine, the previous residents were the royal family. With luck and a little persuasion (of the gold variety), the royal estate will be mine for a song. It would take millions to make it habitable again, however.
    May 4.
    Fever, pain again, quite sharp this morning. Dr. Cucé coming soon. 3 :00 P .M.
    Dr. Cucé actually bowed before me. “Madame Bonaparte!” he exclaimed, pronouncing it “Bonne à Pare Té.” “All of Paris is delirious! Four more victories and in only four days. My wife was beside herself when I informed her that my honoured patient is Our Lady of Victories. And when she learned that I would be coming to attend to your health today, she practically fainted dead away. If I may be so bold, might you have a small token, something the Hero of Italy has touched? A handkerchief would be excellent, but better—perhaps one of General Bonne à Part Té’s hairs? I’d happily waive my fee. No! I insist, don’t get up. I’ll look myself. In this drawer? This brush?” I nodded, too fatigued to protest and chagrined that the brush had not been cleaned. “Ah, oui!” the doctor exclaimed, extracting a long, dark hair and holding it to the light. He