The Last Great Dance on Earth by Sandra Gulland Page A

Caroline retorted.
    “Magnifico!” Elisa’s husband Félix exclaimed. (Why?)
    “Blood is everything,” Signora Letizia said, frowning at her knitting.
    “Speaking of Bonaparte offspring, I have an announcement to make.” Joseph pressed his hands between his knees.
“My
wife is expecting a child.”
    “Our prayers have been answered,” Uncle Fesch sang cheerily, swirling wine in his goblet and then holding it to the light.
    “Cin-cin! Cin-cin!” Everyone raised a glass.
    “That’s wonderful news, Julie.” I caught Bonaparte’s eye. If Julie and Joseph could conceive a child after years of trying, then perhaps we could, too.
    “I credit the waters of Plombières,” Julie told me.
    “Not
my
waters?” Joseph looked pleased with his bad jest.
    “Aunt Josephine already went to Plombières—in 1796,” Caroline said. “It didn’t help her.”
    “That’s likely because of her age,” Elisa said, holding her breath to prevent a paroxysm of hiccuping.
    “Spa waters can be dangerously exciting,” Uncle Fesch observed, his cheeks heated by the fumes of the wine.
    “Pauline has been unable to have a child since our son was born almost three years ago,” Victor Leclerc said, adjusting the set of his tricorne hat—an exact replica of Bonaparte’s.
    “And we’ve tried
everything,”
Pauline said, languorously fanning herself with a peacock feather. “The doctors say I’m a mystery.”
    “Mystery, dear sister? Erotomaniacs are often unable to procreate.” Caroline shot her sister a gloating look.
    “Erotomaniacs?” Hortense looked confused.
    “I’ll explain later,” I mouthed to her.
    “Or
it could be due to an abnormal state of the blood,” Caroline observed. (Addressing me!) “Certain diseases—which I will not mention in front of Mother—are believed to inhibit conception.”
    “How long before dinner, Josephine?” Bonaparte asked, pacing again.
    “I had thirteen children,” Signora Letizia said, twirling yarn around her stiff index finger. * “Five of them died.”
    “A wife has a Christian obligation to produce children,” Uncle Fesch said.
    “Sons,” Joseph said, giving his wife a tight smile.
    January 22.
    Caroline has had her baby—a boy, just as the midwife predicted. I’vesent over one of our cooks. Caroline’s cook has resigned in protest because Signora Letizia insists on keeping a live frog in the kitchen in case the baby shows symptoms of thrush. I pray that this does not happen, for if it does, the infant will be induced to suck on the live frog’s head.
    [Undated]
    Can’t sleep. Still no sign of the scar-faced man.
    January 31
—
Paris.
    At last! This morning, the police discovered the scar-faced man asleep in a bed in a garret. He confessed, revealing the name of the man who had paid him to explode the bomb—the name of the man who had paid him to
murder
Bonaparte. “Georges Cadoudal,” Fouché said with a slow (smug) smile. “Safely in England, regrettably.”
    The Royalist agent! “So you were right, Fouché—it
was a
Royalist plot,” I said.
    “It is proverbial,” Fouché said, offering Bonaparte a pinch of snuff before taking one himself. “The Seine flows and Royalists intrigue. It is the nature of things.”
    “Intrigue and murder are not the same, Minister Fouché.” Bonaparte paced in front of the fireplace with his hands clasped behind his back. “The devil!” he cursed, halting abruptly. “England’s behind this.”
    *
It was not uncommon for a woman to wear a leather mask to protect her skin from the weather.
    *
Due to an injury, Signora Letizia could not bend her index finger.

In which my daughter is impossible to please
    July 5
,
1801
—
a hot Sunday morning at Malmaison.
    It’s confirmed: Hortense, her cousin Emilie and Bonaparte’s mother are coming with me to Plombières. Colonel Rapp, who is to accompany us, has just informed me that we are to be escorted by a detachment of cavalry and three aides. The last time I went to the