Read Online Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe by Sandra Gulland - Free Book Online
Authors: Sandra Gulland
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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Directors wouldn’t permit you to go, we wouldn’t grant you a passport. It’s simply not safe yet. And besides—” He propped his chin in the palm of one hand, regarding me with his puppy-dog eyes.“I doubt that it would be in our best interest, frankly. You’d distract the Liberator of Italy from his military duties.” He made a lecherous grin.
“So the Directors wouldn’t allow me to go to Italy?”
He shook his head, the feather in his cap bobbing.
I left shortly after, but not until I’d promised Barras I would attend the first weekend gathering at his new country château. “It will be wonderfully restful,” he promised me.
May 19 — Grosbois!
I am sitting in a chair that was likely sat in by Louis XIV, the Sun King. I am writing at a desk where treaties have been drafted, staying in a château where the great men of history have slept.
I am, frankly, stunned by the magnitude of Grosbois, now Barras’s country estate. This is a castle.
“What it is, is a headache,” Barras said, pointing out all the repairs that are needed to the roof, the foundation, the windows. For it has fallen, to be sure, into neglect. It took two manservants eight full days just to capture and kill the vermin, he told us. ( All the vermin.)
We are a small party: Thérèse and Tallien (recently reconciled but already bickering, alas), Julie and Talma * (also together again), a Deputy Dolivier (who is also a banker), Fortunée Hamelin (thankfully, her pompous husband stayed at home), Ouvrard and his wife, Lucile Beaucarnot, a singer with the Opéra (Barras’s current favourite) and her comely young brother. They are all out walking now, in search of views. I did not feel robust, so I declined.
In any case, it was an excuse to enjoy a short but delicious sleep under silk sheets—under the purple, ** Aunt Désirée would say. Soon I’ll ring for Lisette and begin dressing for dinner. The water in the basin has been scented with rose petals; a crystal bottle of the finest claret has been placed on the table in front of a flower-filled fireplace. I can smell bread baking.
Three cooks are at work preparing what will no doubt be yet another of Barras’s sumptuous feasts. (The menu is before me now.) Barras has arranged for a string ensemble to play as we dine. And then after, sated no doubt, we will retire to a golden salon where Talma will read, I will play the harp while Lucile Beaucarnot sings and—eventually, inevitably!—Thérèse will have us aching with laughter over her hilarious imitations. “And then the game room,” Barras warned us with a wicked grin, flinging his scarlet cape over his shoulder. He is clearly happy in this role, the grand master, orchestrating our pleasures. I am only too willing to oblige.
Late (I’m not sure of the time).
We gathered for dinner at five in full dress. (My new cream-coloured muslin gown embroidered with gold thread was perfect for the occasion.) “May I have the honour?” Barras offered me his arm. We led the small procession into the ancient dining room.
“A fresco by Abraham Bosse?” Thérèse inquired. The walls were painted with a medieval scene.
Barras shrugged. “I just live here.”
“How old is this place?” Ouvrard said, examining the massive fireplace that dominated one end of the room. He is a tall man, young (in his mid-twenties), exceptionally well-made. The wealthiest man in the French Republic, it is said.
“It has been a royal domain since the thirteenth century. Le Monsieur was the last resident,” Barras said. Le Monsieur, the Pretender, the brother of King Louis XVI—and, according to Royalists, King. “We walk in the footsteps of history.”
“You walk,” I corrected him.
We were seated, we ate, each attended by a silent valet. We drank, we got noisy: I took in the news. The deficit was a concern: two hundred and fifty million. The government was going to sell a number of National Properties in an effort to raise money. * The
“So the Directors wouldn’t allow me to go to Italy?”
He shook his head, the feather in his cap bobbing.
I left shortly after, but not until I’d promised Barras I would attend the first weekend gathering at his new country château. “It will be wonderfully restful,” he promised me.
May 19 — Grosbois!
I am sitting in a chair that was likely sat in by Louis XIV, the Sun King. I am writing at a desk where treaties have been drafted, staying in a château where the great men of history have slept.
I am, frankly, stunned by the magnitude of Grosbois, now Barras’s country estate. This is a castle.
“What it is, is a headache,” Barras said, pointing out all the repairs that are needed to the roof, the foundation, the windows. For it has fallen, to be sure, into neglect. It took two manservants eight full days just to capture and kill the vermin, he told us. ( All the vermin.)
We are a small party: Thérèse and Tallien (recently reconciled but already bickering, alas), Julie and Talma * (also together again), a Deputy Dolivier (who is also a banker), Fortunée Hamelin (thankfully, her pompous husband stayed at home), Ouvrard and his wife, Lucile Beaucarnot, a singer with the Opéra (Barras’s current favourite) and her comely young brother. They are all out walking now, in search of views. I did not feel robust, so I declined.
In any case, it was an excuse to enjoy a short but delicious sleep under silk sheets—under the purple, ** Aunt Désirée would say. Soon I’ll ring for Lisette and begin dressing for dinner. The water in the basin has been scented with rose petals; a crystal bottle of the finest claret has been placed on the table in front of a flower-filled fireplace. I can smell bread baking.
Three cooks are at work preparing what will no doubt be yet another of Barras’s sumptuous feasts. (The menu is before me now.) Barras has arranged for a string ensemble to play as we dine. And then after, sated no doubt, we will retire to a golden salon where Talma will read, I will play the harp while Lucile Beaucarnot sings and—eventually, inevitably!—Thérèse will have us aching with laughter over her hilarious imitations. “And then the game room,” Barras warned us with a wicked grin, flinging his scarlet cape over his shoulder. He is clearly happy in this role, the grand master, orchestrating our pleasures. I am only too willing to oblige.
Late (I’m not sure of the time).
We gathered for dinner at five in full dress. (My new cream-coloured muslin gown embroidered with gold thread was perfect for the occasion.) “May I have the honour?” Barras offered me his arm. We led the small procession into the ancient dining room.
“A fresco by Abraham Bosse?” Thérèse inquired. The walls were painted with a medieval scene.
Barras shrugged. “I just live here.”
“How old is this place?” Ouvrard said, examining the massive fireplace that dominated one end of the room. He is a tall man, young (in his mid-twenties), exceptionally well-made. The wealthiest man in the French Republic, it is said.
“It has been a royal domain since the thirteenth century. Le Monsieur was the last resident,” Barras said. Le Monsieur, the Pretender, the brother of King Louis XVI—and, according to Royalists, King. “We walk in the footsteps of history.”
“You walk,” I corrected him.
We were seated, we ate, each attended by a silent valet. We drank, we got noisy: I took in the news. The deficit was a concern: two hundred and fifty million. The government was going to sell a number of National Properties in an effort to raise money. * The
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