Read Online Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe by Sandra Gulland - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sandra Gulland
Tags: Fiction, Historical
Ads: Link
Directors were considering introducing new taxes: a patents tax, a stamp duty, land tax. There was talk of a tax on doors and windows, which led to a heated debate.
Dinner Menu
F OR THE TABLE OF C ITOYEN D IRECTOR AND G ENERAL B ARRAS D éCADI , 30 F LORéAL
12 PEOPLE
1 soup
1 appetizer
6 main dishes
2 roast dishes
6 side-dishes
1 salad
24 dessert dishes
four
Monk small onion soup
Appetizer
Sturgeon broiled on a spit
Main dishes
Confidence man sautéed turbot fillets
Eel tartare
Cucumbers stuffed with marrow
Chicken-breast in a puff pastry shell with Béchamel sauce
John Dory fish in a caper sauce
Partridge fillets in rings
Roast dishes
Local gudgeon
Carp in a court-bouillion
fide-dishes
Snow eggs
White beetroot sautéed with ham
Madeira wine jelly
Orange blossom cream fritters
Marie Antoinette lentils in a cream of concentrated veal broth
Artichoke hearts in a shallot vinaigrette
falad
Shredded celery in a herb-mustard mayonnaise
Twenty-four desserts
“The peasants will be forced to live in the dark,” Thérèse objected.
“The English do it,” Ouvrard observed. “They’ve done it for years.”
“And look at the state of their peasantry.”
“The English are taxed for living,” Tallien said. “For breathing.”
“But they don’t have a deficit,” Deputy Dolivier said.
“And they don’t have every Royalist country in Europe waging war on them for daring to embrace democratic ideals. The fact is,” Barras said, assuming his Director’s tone, “it costs us a great deal to keep our men in arms. Over half our revenues go to the Ministry of War. A standing army of five hundred thousand requires … How much would you guess a day, simply in sacks of wheat? Over six hundred,” he said, not waiting for us to guess.
“Six hundred and fifty,” Ouvrard corrected. “Seven hundred head of cattle, seventy thousand sacks of oats—a day. The horses alone require two million bales a day.”
“Spoken as an army supplier,” I said.
“Yes, and proud of it,” Ouvrard said earnestly. “Although I’m afraid that the title would not be considered worthy in most gatherings.”
“Everyone’s quick to accuse army suppliers of corruption,” Barras said, “but the fact is that the French Republic would have collapsed long ago without them.” He made a signal with his hand; the twelve valets moved in unison, filling our glasses with Madeira, taking away the dishes. Then he pulled a deck of cards from out of the side table, threw a sack of coins on the table. “Shall we have a quick game before dessert? How about five hundred to start?” He leaned toward me. “I’ll advance you,” he whispered, tossing out a second sack. “That’s for Madame Bonaparte, lads, but be careful.” He winked at his guests, “She plays to win.”
(I did: fifteen hundred.)
May 21—back home in Paris.
Indisposed again—fever, terrible pain. It was a mistake to go to Grosbois.
I hardly have the strength to hold this quill! I’ve been examined by three doctors—Thérèse’s, Barras’s and my own Dr. Cuce. They stood about my bed scratching their heads. Last night the pain was so violent, I feared I would not see the dawn.
May 24.
The flowers came on suddenly and frightfully. And with such pain! I feared I was going to die. I felt light, as if I could float. I felt myself flying. Lisette covered me with a bed sheet. “I’m sorry about the mess,” I said, closing my eyes.
Later.
“Madame Bonaparte, you are healing, the morbid condition of the uterus has improved, but I regret to inform you that you are not …”
Not with child, alas. “Was I before, Dr. Cuce?”
He scratched his chin. “A mole, perhaps?”
A mole?
[Undated]
From Madame Campan’s book:
A Mole is a Mass generated in the Uterus, which may be mistaken for an Infant in the Womb. Physicians affirm that all Moles are real Conceptions which cannot happen unless there has been some Intercourse between the two Sexes. Nor do they believe that a
Dinner Menu
F OR THE TABLE OF C ITOYEN D IRECTOR AND G ENERAL B ARRAS D éCADI , 30 F LORéAL
12 PEOPLE
1 soup
1 appetizer
6 main dishes
2 roast dishes
6 side-dishes
1 salad
24 dessert dishes
four
Monk small onion soup
Appetizer
Sturgeon broiled on a spit
Main dishes
Confidence man sautéed turbot fillets
Eel tartare
Cucumbers stuffed with marrow
Chicken-breast in a puff pastry shell with Béchamel sauce
John Dory fish in a caper sauce
Partridge fillets in rings
Roast dishes
Local gudgeon
Carp in a court-bouillion
fide-dishes
Snow eggs
White beetroot sautéed with ham
Madeira wine jelly
Orange blossom cream fritters
Marie Antoinette lentils in a cream of concentrated veal broth
Artichoke hearts in a shallot vinaigrette
falad
Shredded celery in a herb-mustard mayonnaise
Twenty-four desserts
“The peasants will be forced to live in the dark,” Thérèse objected.
“The English do it,” Ouvrard observed. “They’ve done it for years.”
“And look at the state of their peasantry.”
“The English are taxed for living,” Tallien said. “For breathing.”
“But they don’t have a deficit,” Deputy Dolivier said.
“And they don’t have every Royalist country in Europe waging war on them for daring to embrace democratic ideals. The fact is,” Barras said, assuming his Director’s tone, “it costs us a great deal to keep our men in arms. Over half our revenues go to the Ministry of War. A standing army of five hundred thousand requires … How much would you guess a day, simply in sacks of wheat? Over six hundred,” he said, not waiting for us to guess.
“Six hundred and fifty,” Ouvrard corrected. “Seven hundred head of cattle, seventy thousand sacks of oats—a day. The horses alone require two million bales a day.”
“Spoken as an army supplier,” I said.
“Yes, and proud of it,” Ouvrard said earnestly. “Although I’m afraid that the title would not be considered worthy in most gatherings.”
“Everyone’s quick to accuse army suppliers of corruption,” Barras said, “but the fact is that the French Republic would have collapsed long ago without them.” He made a signal with his hand; the twelve valets moved in unison, filling our glasses with Madeira, taking away the dishes. Then he pulled a deck of cards from out of the side table, threw a sack of coins on the table. “Shall we have a quick game before dessert? How about five hundred to start?” He leaned toward me. “I’ll advance you,” he whispered, tossing out a second sack. “That’s for Madame Bonaparte, lads, but be careful.” He winked at his guests, “She plays to win.”
(I did: fifteen hundred.)
May 21—back home in Paris.
Indisposed again—fever, terrible pain. It was a mistake to go to Grosbois.
I hardly have the strength to hold this quill! I’ve been examined by three doctors—Thérèse’s, Barras’s and my own Dr. Cuce. They stood about my bed scratching their heads. Last night the pain was so violent, I feared I would not see the dawn.
May 24.
The flowers came on suddenly and frightfully. And with such pain! I feared I was going to die. I felt light, as if I could float. I felt myself flying. Lisette covered me with a bed sheet. “I’m sorry about the mess,” I said, closing my eyes.
Later.
“Madame Bonaparte, you are healing, the morbid condition of the uterus has improved, but I regret to inform you that you are not …”
Not with child, alas. “Was I before, Dr. Cuce?”
He scratched his chin. “A mole, perhaps?”
A mole?
[Undated]
From Madame Campan’s book:
A Mole is a Mass generated in the Uterus, which may be mistaken for an Infant in the Womb. Physicians affirm that all Moles are real Conceptions which cannot happen unless there has been some Intercourse between the two Sexes. Nor do they believe that a
Similar Books
