He was also in Berlin that day, in the crowd at the Brandenburg Gate, though his name was still Marie-Henri Beyle and nobody had ever heard of him. Twenty-three and plump, with a wispy jawline beard and fancy hair, fired by grand artistic ambitions all currently on hold as he endured the duties of an adjutant military commissary (family connections). Under his coat were two loaded pistols. Wary of the crush of people, he’d held his elbows pressed in, hands up at his chest, and walked in a strange, stiff manner all day. He mentioned the pistols when he wrote his sister later that night, but of course said nothing about posing in front of the mirror in his room, arm extended and taking aim side-on, head high and saying to his reflection, ‘Sir, you have injured my good name. Prepare thyself . . .’ and other versions of the same, though he was unable, in the end, to settle upon a final wording.

In the same letter to his sister, Henri Beyle wrote of the Emperor: For the entrance, Napoleon wore the dress uniform of a général de division. It is perhaps the only time I ever saw him. He was riding about twenty paces in front of the soldiers; the silent crowd stood only about two paces from his horse. Anybody could have fired a gun at him, from any one of the windows.

Further on, he added: I don’t know what gave them the idea to put a city in the middle of all this sand.

Like the posing with the pistols in his room, young Henri didn’t mention seeing Johannes and Beatrice through the window either.

After leaving the crowd on Unter den Linden and heading back to his billet, he’d heard the unmistakable sounds of human passion. The future Stendhal stopped before the window, shocked, and listened intently to the soft, rhythmic groans of pleasure. He checked the street, up and down, then pressed his face to the window glass and cupped his hands around his eyes.

He watched and watched, until he heard footsteps at the corner. He continued watching even as they approached and grew louder, holding his breath, unwilling to relinquish the sight. Finally, at the last moment, he swore and dashed away, delighted and thrilled, a memory of Berlin he’d never forget.

More of him later.

FIRST SIGHT

Elisabeth von Hoffmann came around the corner and noticed a man running away down the lane. He looked funny, unnatural, elbows clamped tight at his sides, like little wings pinned to his coat.