The Last Great Dance on Earth [antikvár]

March 2,1800—Tuileries Palace, Paris. "Josephine . . . Come see the moon." I woke with a start. A man was nudging my shoulder, his face illuminated by candlelight. "Bonaparte, Wsyou," I said, clasping his hand. I'd been dreaming of home, of my beautiful Martinico, dreaming of the sea. But I was not on a tropical island. I was in the dank, opulent palace, in the bed of Marie Antoinette and King Louis XVI—the bed of the dead. I pressed Bonaparte's fingers against my cheek. "What time is it?" "Almost three. Come outside with me." "Now?" I asked, but threw back the covers. "It's a little chilly," he said, draping a cape over my shoulders. A fiill moon hung over the river, bathing the gardens in a radiant light. "It reminds me of something you once wrote to me," I said, taking Bonaparte's hand. "That we are born, we live and we die—in the midst of the marvelous." "I don't remember writing that," he said, heading toward the steps that lead down to the flower beds. The fertile scent of spring was heavy in the air. Bonaparte brushed ofl^ a stone bench for us to sit on. I leaned my head on his shoulder, overcome with a feeling of longing. It is the season of renewal, yet I remain barren—in spite of love, in spite of prayers. "I think best in the open air," Bonaparte said. "My thoughts are more • 3 •