PROLOGUE
WARSAW, JANUARY, 1807.
"Make way! Make way for Countess Marie Walewska!" Piotr the coachman shook his whip at the mob pressing against the coach. "It is impossible to move forward," he complained to his mistress. "See for yourself, panie. All of Poland is in the streets of Warsaw today."
The Countess’ pretty pink mouth drooped as she turned to her companion. "What shall we do, Elizabeth? I so wanted to be right up front next to the line of march, to see the Emperor Napoleon lead our own Polish army into Warsaw." Her voice throbbed with an eighteen year old’s girlish disappointment. "I was up all last night. I could hardly wait for morning to come, and now we shan’t see the Emperor at all. Oh, that is too bad!"
Faint strains of march music could now be heard. Marie’s blue eyes were huge in her face. "Elizabeth, they are coming!"
The cheering had started. The atmosphere was charged, intoxicating, and rather than remain confined in the coach, Marie burned to be in the street with everyone else. But her husband, Count Anastase, had expressly forbidden her to so much as step outside, and the coachman would surely tell him if she did so. The knowledge that Anastase would send her back to the country if she disobeyed him sobered Marie.
People were massed so densely in front of the coach that Marie could see little more than the tops of the helmets as the troops marched by.
"Vivat! Vivat!"
Those shouts were surely for the Emperor. He was coming! Marie made fists of her hands. "What is happening? I can see nothing, nothing."
She was still holding the bouquet of flowers that Piotr was to hand to the Emperor. Was it too late? Had the Emperor already passed by? Marie pushed open the door of the coach and shouted "Piotr, Piotr!", only to find herself drowned out by the tumult around her.
Frustrated, she descended from the coach in search of Piotr, but once outside the coach, Marie was caught up by the tremendous excitement of the crowd. Her pulses beat wildly. She felt herself moving forward as if on the back of a torrent.
People made way for the young and pretty panie. She reached the street just as a fanfare of trumpets sounded. "Vive l’empereur!" shouted the throngs with delirious joy.
Marie raised herself onto her toes. It had begun to snow, and through the scattered flakes, as through a mist, she glimpsed a lone horseman. Unlike the high officials aglitter in gold decorations who had preceded him along the line of march, he was dressed in a plain wool coat and wore on his head a simple black bicorne. Marie gazed at the figure in thrilled recognition. His was the very likeness of the portrait in her mother’s house. C’est lui! C’est Napoleon!
Her heart knocked frantically against her ribs. She gazed at the bouquet in her hand. Now. Now. Could she do it? Would she dare?
Marie broke from behind the low barricade that kept the tumultuous masses in check and ran toward Napoleon. He must have noticed her even before she reached him, for he reined in his horse.
"Sire, welcome to Poland." Did she actually speak those words, or only imagine them? And did she imagine too that he leaned down and brushed the snowflakes out of her hair?
