But he picks himself up smartly, and starts after M. Isabey. Too
late,
M. Le Premier Consul, Mademoiselle Hortense is out after you. Quickly,
my dear Sir! Stir your short legs, she is swift and eager,
and as graceful
as her mother. She is there, that other, playing too,
but lightly, warily,
bearing herself with care, rather floating out upon the air than
running,
never far from goal. She is there, borne up above her
guests
as something indefinably fair, a rose above periwinkles. A
blown rose,
smooth as satin, reflexed, one loosened petal hanging back and down.
A rose that undulates languorously as the breeze takes it,
resting upon its leaves in a faintness of perfume.
There are rumours about the First Consul. Malmaison is
full of women,
and Paris is only two leagues distant. Madame Bonaparte
stands
on the wooden bridge at sunset, and watches a black swan
pushing the pink and silver water in front of him as he swims,
crinkling its smoothness into pleats of changing colour with his
breast.
Madame Bonaparte presses against the parapet of the bridge,
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