Read Online Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe by Sandra Gulland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sandra Gulland
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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May 28.
I started a letter to Bonaparte, to tell him, but couldn’t.
Headquarters at Milan, 20 Prairial
Every day death leaps around me: is life worth so much fuss? Farewell, Josephine. Stay in Paris, do not write; at least respect my solitude. A thousand knives stab my heart; do not plunge them in deeper. —B.P.
23 Prairial
Josephine, where will you be when you get this letter? If in Paris, my misery is certain! I have nothing left but to die. —B.P.
Late afternoon, around 4:00.
Thérèse saw the distress in my eyes. “What is it?”
I confessed to her my fears. I told her how disturbing Bonaparte’s letters were. “I don’t know what to think. He says things that frighten me. It’s as if he’s in a fever. I’ll get a letter telling me to be careful, to take care of my health, not to come to Italy—and then a few days later I get a letter saying that he’s going to kill himself because I haven’t arrived!”
“Do you think he might be a little …?” She made a twirling motion at her temple.
Tears spilled down my cheeks. “No, of course not.” Although, in fact, that was my deepest fear. “It’s just that he becomes so upset, I fear he might …”
“Step in front of a cannon?”
I nodded, staring down at my hands. They were the hands of an older woman—not my hands, surely. “He wants me with him.” “So go.”
“Thérèse! A battlefield is no place for a woman. And what about Hortense and Eugène?”
“Your Aunt Désirée will look after them.” “But my health—” “Is improving.”
I sat back. “You really think I should?” I felt as if I’d been condemned.
She took my hand. “Remember how it was during the Terror, how we were fighting for something bigger than we were?”
I nodded impatiently. What did that have to do with it?
“It’s not over yet,” she said. “I know, we like to think it is. We dance, we play cards, we go to the theatre. I admit it! I’m the first one at a fête and the last one to leave. And why not? We’re the survivors. Death tapped us on the shoulder and we escaped. Life is short, so why not enjoy it? But we’re fooling ourselves. The Republic is faltering. Everything our loved ones died for is at stake. Our beloved Republic is falling and yet we dance on, trying to ignore it.”
“But Thérèse, what does this have to do with whether or not I should go to Italy? Saving the Republic has nothing to do with me,” I said, a feeling of anger rising up in me.
“Would you concede that it might have something to do with your husband?”
Yes, I did believe it possible, that much depended on Bonaparte— why, I could not say. In my most secret heart, I believed he could save us—and worse, that we needed to be saved.
Noon, 27 Prairial
My life is a perpetual nightmare. A deathly premonition stops me from breathing. I no longer live. I have lost more than life, more than happiness, more than repose. I am almost without hope. If your illness is dangerous, I warn you, I will leave immediately for Paris. —B.P.
* Josephine had bad teeth and was in the habit of smiling with her lips closed or behind a fan.
* Julie Careau and the great actor François Talma had lived in Josephine’s house when previously married.
** Under the purple: royal life.
* With the Revolution, the government had seized Church property, as well as the estates of émigrés and arrested aristocrats. From time to time, in order to raise money, the Republic put these properties up for sale—usually at a very good price.
In which I finally depart
June 19, 1796, early, not yet noon.
Barras was resistant at first. “It’s victory nerves, that’s all,” he insisted.
“Paul, this is serious. It’s more than nerves.” I dared not tell him the full extent of my fears, that Bonaparte might be mad.
“Look, it’s simply unreasonable
May 28.
I started a letter to Bonaparte, to tell him, but couldn’t.
Headquarters at Milan, 20 Prairial
Every day death leaps around me: is life worth so much fuss? Farewell, Josephine. Stay in Paris, do not write; at least respect my solitude. A thousand knives stab my heart; do not plunge them in deeper. —B.P.
23 Prairial
Josephine, where will you be when you get this letter? If in Paris, my misery is certain! I have nothing left but to die. —B.P.
Late afternoon, around 4:00.
Thérèse saw the distress in my eyes. “What is it?”
I confessed to her my fears. I told her how disturbing Bonaparte’s letters were. “I don’t know what to think. He says things that frighten me. It’s as if he’s in a fever. I’ll get a letter telling me to be careful, to take care of my health, not to come to Italy—and then a few days later I get a letter saying that he’s going to kill himself because I haven’t arrived!”
“Do you think he might be a little …?” She made a twirling motion at her temple.
Tears spilled down my cheeks. “No, of course not.” Although, in fact, that was my deepest fear. “It’s just that he becomes so upset, I fear he might …”
“Step in front of a cannon?”
I nodded, staring down at my hands. They were the hands of an older woman—not my hands, surely. “He wants me with him.” “So go.”
“Thérèse! A battlefield is no place for a woman. And what about Hortense and Eugène?”
“Your Aunt Désirée will look after them.” “But my health—” “Is improving.”
I sat back. “You really think I should?” I felt as if I’d been condemned.
She took my hand. “Remember how it was during the Terror, how we were fighting for something bigger than we were?”
I nodded impatiently. What did that have to do with it?
“It’s not over yet,” she said. “I know, we like to think it is. We dance, we play cards, we go to the theatre. I admit it! I’m the first one at a fête and the last one to leave. And why not? We’re the survivors. Death tapped us on the shoulder and we escaped. Life is short, so why not enjoy it? But we’re fooling ourselves. The Republic is faltering. Everything our loved ones died for is at stake. Our beloved Republic is falling and yet we dance on, trying to ignore it.”
“But Thérèse, what does this have to do with whether or not I should go to Italy? Saving the Republic has nothing to do with me,” I said, a feeling of anger rising up in me.
“Would you concede that it might have something to do with your husband?”
Yes, I did believe it possible, that much depended on Bonaparte— why, I could not say. In my most secret heart, I believed he could save us—and worse, that we needed to be saved.
Noon, 27 Prairial
My life is a perpetual nightmare. A deathly premonition stops me from breathing. I no longer live. I have lost more than life, more than happiness, more than repose. I am almost without hope. If your illness is dangerous, I warn you, I will leave immediately for Paris. —B.P.
* Josephine had bad teeth and was in the habit of smiling with her lips closed or behind a fan.
* Julie Careau and the great actor François Talma had lived in Josephine’s house when previously married.
** Under the purple: royal life.
* With the Revolution, the government had seized Church property, as well as the estates of émigrés and arrested aristocrats. From time to time, in order to raise money, the Republic put these properties up for sale—usually at a very good price.
In which I finally depart
June 19, 1796, early, not yet noon.
Barras was resistant at first. “It’s victory nerves, that’s all,” he insisted.
“Paul, this is serious. It’s more than nerves.” I dared not tell him the full extent of my fears, that Bonaparte might be mad.
“Look, it’s simply unreasonable
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