Günther Jagelman and the von Hoffmann family lawyer Seidlitz greeted Général Fourés and his aide-de-camp, Christophe Bergerard. Aunt Margaretha refused to come out of her bedroom (she would spend the next few weeks there). As they stood awkwardly in the entrance hall, soldiers brought the général’s things inside from the carriage and piled them on the parquet floor.

‘Welcome, Général,’ Seidlitz said.

‘Thank you, Monsieur.’

‘I must apologise, Général, for Frau von Hoffmann’s absence. She is suffering from the grippe and has taken to her bed.’

‘I trust our presence will not make her suffer for too long.’

Seidlitz smiled. ‘Yes . . . or rather, no, not at all, Général!’

Fourés looked around, impressed by the wealth and obvious standing of his hosts. Among the portraits and landscapes on the walls, he noticed a Van Dyck and, nearby, a Terborch as well. He walked over to take a closer look (it was The Paternal Admonition, magnificent). He admired the painting and wondered how long it would take the Emperor’s plunderer, Vivant Denon, to come help himself and add the treasure to his Musée Napoléon. The man could smell a Vermeer at two hundred yards. (He’d already begun the removal of the quadriga over the Brandenburg Gate, as per Bonaparte’s wishes.) Fourés contemplated whether he shouldn’t tell these von Hoffmanns to hide their rare paintings, quickly now, but then decided to mind his own business.

‘Our chambers?’ his aide-de-camp Bergerard said.

Old Günther extended his arm. ‘This way, please.’

Elisabeth von Hoffmann met them in the hallway, where the lawyer Seidlitz introduced her.

‘Mademoiselle,’ the général said. He took her hand, bowed his head and kissed it. ‘I hope we will not intrude upon your lives too much.’

‘How can you not?’ Elisabeth said.

‘Then we must compensate you, Mademoiselle.’

Elisabeth said nothing, gave Fourés a shallow, mocking curtsey and continued down the hall.

By God, the général thought. A beauty!

As Elisabeth walked off, she was thinking that Général Fourés had paid much attention to the styling of his thinning chestnut hair. It was combed upwards and swept into soft curling waves, all of it together swirled to an impressive height, ensuring he was marginally taller than her. Licked points fringed his forehead and delicate wisps hooked his ears, just like on a Roman bust.

So he was vain (it’s not a sin, she thought). But she’d liked the sound of his voice, she supposed (did she really?). His teeth were clean and the shape of his mouth wasn’t cruel. She thought his brown eyes softened the otherwise haughty arch of his brows. He was older, that was true, and when he kissed her hand she’d caught a glimpse of the pink shininess of his scalp—but, then, nobody was perfect.

BERLIN’S A DOG!