"Baa~~~"
Accompanied by the tinkling of shepherds' bells, a flock of sheep ambled past Georgiana's carriage.
Though separated by only a wall, Rouen inside and outside the city were completely different worlds.
Seventeenth-century operas had still largely centered on pastoral songs, depicting scenery just like this.
She remembered only how delicious French cheese was and had forgotten that, before dairy cattle began to be bred, cheese had been made from sheep's milk. There was a pasture in the valley below the monastery, with a workshop there that processed cheese as well.
French peasants were generally like this: leisurely, without any sense of urgency. Their everyday pleasure was having a couple of drinks, usually with cheese as a snack.
Napoleon did not drink with cheese, at least not that she had seen. After pouring the wine, he would not swirl the glass several times. He would simply bring it beneath his nose and smell it; once he apparently decided there was nothing wrong with it, he drank it straight down.
It was such a simple gesture, yet he made it seem entirely different. Of course, that trick might have worked only on her. He had tried it at other people's salons, but the other women had not fallen for it at all.
Many people compared love to a chemical reaction. Pure sodium was fine in oil, but in water it burned violently. In any case, before she was completely "oxidized and reduced," it was hard for her mind to remain clear.
What she was doing now was rather like emptying her English husband's wallet to support her French lover. Even the iron and steel that could have brought profit had been designed into a trap. It would be strange indeed if the English considered someone like her one of their own.