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

he’s not like that at all,” I said, as soon as the maid disappeared. “His family is old nobility, and he was educated at the best military schools in France. He’s very fond of me, and especially fond of the children,” I added with feeling.
    “Monied nobility, Rose?” With a squinty-eyed look.
    “He has a good position as a commanding general,” I said, avoiding her question. Not only did Bonaparte have no money, but our marriage contract stipulated that we contribute equally to all our household expenses. “He will be able to help Eugène in his military career.” This was my trump card. I was depending on it.
    “They made a Corsican a general?” Aunt Désirée demanded, attempting to fan herself with the limp green handkerchief. “A general of what?”
    “Monsieur Bonaparte is General-in-Chief of the Army of Italy,” I said, using “monsieur” in a shameless attempt to appease.
    “I’ve never heard of an Army of Italy. Is it French even?”
    “Yes, of course!” I exclaimed—although everything I’d learned about the Army of Italy had led me to believe that it could hardly be called an army at all, more a ragtag collection of drifters and petty criminals, hungry and without uniforms, much less muskets. “He left to take command two days after the ceremony.” The wedding seemed like a dream to me now, like something that might not have happened.
    “A church ceremony, Rose?” she asked, pulling and twisting the green handkerchief, worrying it.
    “No,” I admitted. Bonaparte was anti-Church, but I wasn’t going to tell her that.
    I heard a sniff. Oh dear! Was she weeping? Dismayed, I reached out to comfort her, but she turned on me like a hawk. “Rose, how could you?” she wept, dabbing her cheeks. “How could you have married a man with such a horrible name!”
    I’m writing this now in Aunt Désirée’s guest room in Fontainebleau. I talked to her at length, trying to calm her. I finally persuaded her to take a glass of hysteric water and lie down. (I had a glass as well.) I regret the way I’ve handled things, but at the same time, in coming to Bonaparte’sdefence, in trying to persuade my aunt of the wisdom of what I’ve done, I began to convince myself. Bonaparte had the words “To Destiny” engraved on the inside of my betrothal ring, for he believes in fate, believes that we are fated. Are we? I wonder. I can only hope that somehow, someday, fate will prove that I have done the right thing. For my family’s sake, I dearly hope so.
    March 21—Paris. Almost noon.
    I received my first letter from Bonaparte this morning. So soon! It took me a long time to make out the words, and there are still parts I can’t read. Bonaparte’s handwriting is as impassioned as his words, which are ardent and tender.
    The letter was addressed to Citoyenne Bonaparte in care of Citoyenne Beauharnais, as if Citoyenne Bonaparte were a guest in my house, someone separate from me—which is how I feel yet.
    March 25, sunny, a beautiful day.
    A good (and productive) visit with Thérèse, followed by an amusing few hours with my delightfully eccentric friends.
    Thérèse arrived early in her elegant little barouche which she drove herself (practising, she explained, to enter the races that would be starting up again in the Bois de Boulogne). “And so how is Madame Bonaparte this fine afternoon?” was the first thing she said. The exotic scent of neroli oil filled my antechamber. She bent her knees to make it easier for Lisette to take her fur-lined cape.
    “You’re wearing a wig?” I asked, regarding my friend with astonishment. Under a jaunty hat adorned with a heron feather was a mass of blonde ringlets.
    “Only twenty francs.” She turned her head from side to side to make the curls bounce. “So I bought twenty-seven—and all of them blonde.” She pulled both her hat and her wig off, and dug her nails into her scalp. Her own black hair was tightly braided and coiled. “You haven’t