The Emperor mentioned my uncle’s kindness with keepsakes, and the gift of the damaged round-shot at the surrender when the key alone would have sufficed, and said he wished General O’Reilly to have a remembrance of their encounters. He explained that he had taken the round-shot to the finest goldsmith who remained in the city, the man in the dark coat, and had commissioned him to melt it down and make a gift of it. With that, the Emperor drew the covering cloth aside to reveal two human figures on the tray, each of painted iron. They were stood facing one another, as if in a conversation or a parley. Each man was about three inches tall, and it was clear one was Napoléon and the other my great-uncle, detailed to the very buttons of their waistcoats and the decorations on their chests.

The Emperor picked the figures up in one hand, and my uncle took them from him in two, his right hand placed on top of his left, as if the men needed careful catching. He seemed unsure of what to say beyond the reflex expression of gratitude. As is befitting of the acceptance of a gift, however unexpected, he studied the two small men in his hands, then thanked the Emperor again, and thanked the goldsmith for his fine work.

Next, from the same door, Napoléon had two chickens brought in in wicker cages. These were given to me, not in the manner of a presentation, but so that Kapellmeister Haydn might have two eggs a day for as long as he needs them. As I thanked the Emperor on my master’s behalf, and thanked him myself for his consideration of my master’s plight, I managed a clumsy bow, a cage in each hand, chickens clucking at their peculiar circumstances.

With that, our audience with the Emperor was done, and we retired, taking our leave with our birds and our ornaments.

I hooked a cage onto each side of my horse’s saddle, and my uncle kept his two wee men concealed in his closed hand as we rode from the palace. When we were almost equidistant between the palace and the city gates, he called a halt, and swivelled around to convince himself that Schönbrunn had done with us for the day. Back there, French soldiers were marshalling, soon to parade, but there were no generals or emperors in sight.

‘You do your duty to your master well,’ he said to me. ‘There might yet be a solider in you, though not in this war. Tell me you won’t fight in this one, while I’m your guardian.’

‘Sure, I have chickens to care for now,’ I told him. ‘I can’t be going away soldiering.’