Just imagine it: the First Consul of France falling in love with an English schoolteacher? What else could that be but a dream?
Or look at it another way: a short, poor boy fell in love with a beautiful, wealthy aristocratic lady, and she loved him back. What else could that be but a daydream?
She had treated it as nothing more than an intoxicating spring dream she could not wake from. She did not believe Napoleon would lose his mind over her and make the same choice Antony had. So Cuvier's sentimental, poetic question was unrealistic. Yet that was what made the question so ridiculous—what reality was there to speak of in a dream?
It was all a dream. And if it was a dream, why should she care so much?
Quite a few of those in power during the French Revolution had thought the same way. When Robespierre held absolute power, he did whatever he pleased. Then, in the blink of an eye, he fell from power and met such a miserable end. That was why the people of the Directory seized the time to indulge themselves. Once they lost power, they would never again be able to enjoy such a luxurious life.
After admiring the flower-lined corridors and sculptures in the Rose Garden, Georgiana bypassed the botanical academy and headed for the mound in the southwest corner. Atop it stood a hedge maze. Though it was not as complicated as the maze in the Triwizard Tournament, it could still make intruders lose their way.
February 17, 1802, was a crescent-moon night. The moonlight was faint, though the snow on the ground reflected a little of it. But anyone who followed the white path, avoiding the dark thickets on either side, would walk straight into a trap.
Fear