"Charmed to enlighten you—with your Imperial Highness's permission," whispered the Baron, his knee crowding mine as he drew nearer on his wheel.
"Explain away."
"Not until I have your Imperial Highness's express command and your promise not to get angry if I should offend."
Anna, always an enfant terrible and invariably in the way, was waiting for us in the shadow of a tree and now rode by the Baron's side. She had evidently heard part of our conversation.
"Permission and pardon granted beforehand," she cried. "Go ahead."
The Baron looked at me, and not to be outdone by the parcel of impudence in short petticoats, I said carelessly: "Oh, tell. I command."
The Baron began to stroke his moustache and then related a story of Napoleon and our ancestress Marie Louise, the Austrian Archduchess, not found in school books.
On the day before her entry into Paris, he said, and when they were destined to meet for the first time, Napoleon waylaid his bride-to-be at Courcelles and without ceremony entered her carriage. They rushed past villages, through towns en fête and at last, at nine o'clock in the evening, reached the palace of Compiègne. There the Emperor cut short the addresses of welcome, presentations and compliments, and taking Marie Louise by the hand conducted her to his private apartments. Next morning they had breakfast in bed. The marriage ceremony took place a few days later.
"That's love," said the Baron, shooting significant glances at me.
"Henry Quatre did the same to Marie de Medici—an Italian like you, Imperial Highness."