Kasimir Wieczorkowski’s hair was long and the colour of wheat and he constantly flicked it out of his eyes with a quick movement of his head. He had long slender fingers, a fine straight nose and blue-grey eyes that were, if one were truthful, probably a little too close together. He was thin, his clothes hung loose on his frame, and his paleness must have been from all the cheese he ate.

Elisabeth von Hoffmann told her friends about Kasimir, though her version was far more flattering.

She entered his room one night (barefoot, her toes like ice) and closed the door carefully behind her. There was a brief metallic clack of the lock as she turned the key, and then she heard Kasimir sit up in bed. Elisabeth went over quickly, heart beating, breathless and yet relieved. She’d reached the peak of her courage and would now relinquish the event to the artist. He’d know what to do next.

In the dark, the bed creaked, the mattress bounced, blankets ruffled. She slipped in and lay down, the soft pillows billowing up around her ears (she felt his warmth in them, smelled his hair). Her excitement was intense, her skin alive. She closed her eyes and waited for the touch of his elegant hands.

But instead there was the sound of limbs sliding between the sheets, and again the intense creaking and bouncing of the bed. Breathing. Whispering? Then nothing.

Elisabeth said, ‘Kasimir?’

In a weak, croaky voice, the artist, who must have been standing beside the bed now, said, ‘Please go away.’

Elisabeth’s eyes adapted to the dark. There was a silhouette standing beside the bed, framed by the curtained window. Kasimir, obviously: but no. There were two silhouettes.

Again, the artist, in a whisper now, but firmly: ‘Please. You must go.’

The other silhouette cleared its throat.

Elisabeth went back to her room. The next day, the artist Kasimir Wieczorkowski ignored her completely. As did the family lawyer, Seidlitz.

THE INTERPRETATION OF DREAMS

In late December, Grande Armée in tow, Bonaparte sped from Berlin in his carriage, first to Posen, then to Warsaw, en route to Russia. Along the way, he met an eighteen-year-old Polish countess named Marie Walewska.

It was a coincidental first meeting, on a snowy New Year’s Eve. Bonaparte’s carriage was welcomed on the outskirts of Warsaw by a crowd of Polish nationalists, among whom was the fetching young countess in her red-amber fox fur hat. Fair and beautiful (and married to an old count), she was granted permission to approach the carriage, where she handed the Emperor a bouquet of flowers and so caught his wandering eye. Some historians argue this story was a romantic fabrication and that it was in fact Talleyrand who’d plucked her from his ‘pockets full of girls’ (Bonaparte’s own words) and delivered the young countess to Napoleon’s attentions, but no matter; the result remains the same.