Home in Paris once more after the long Prussian and Polish campaigns (he loved the long campaigns), Bonaparte was soon enough restless and unsettled in his domestic day-to-day and the banal affairs of state. Divorcing Josephine was on his mind too, of course, and his libido (given greater concessions) was as keen as ever to roam. Naturally, like his maréchals and générals and hundreds of weary campaign officers, he succumbed easily and willingly to the gossipy, scented, velvet world of Parisian boudoirs. And just as naturally, and like all despotically inclined rulers, he indulged fantastic ideas as they occurred to him (with no regard to repercussions) and set about bedding the willing young ladies who presented themselves, nowadays, with little ceremony or subtlety. To conquer! To enact the will! For this was the way Bonaparte saw each successive moment that made up his life: an accumulation of moments and each an opportunity for victory, loss or surrender. ‘It is a simple thing,’ he often said to Talleyrand, ‘to act! You philosophes have never understood!’

As soon as Général Junot was gone, the Emperor had in mind to seduce the man’s wife again. An earlier encounter had been somewhat embarrassing (he’d drunk too much champagne) and he was determined to redeem himself.

In a stroke of luck for Junot’s beautiful wife, who doubted she had the strength to resist Bonaparte, or, failing that, to pretend that he was irresistible (rejecting the little man was fraught with all sorts of unpleasantness), a ball held at Fontainebleau provided a formidable distraction in the fresh, bosomy form of Dominique-Adèle de Papillard, Comtesse d’Anjou, a pretty young thing who loved to flirt and be seduced in turn. Sparks flew when the Emperor noticed the comtesse and soon enough he was there beside her, gracing her with his full attention. A relieved Madame Junot (her husband would have called the comtesse a successful military diversion) was able to enjoy the ball and eventually leave with her own lover, the much younger, more brilliantly capable and far better endowed Major Louis-Armand Chaptelle.

Talleyrand saw what was happening (in fact had always known that it would happen) and leaned over to whisper in Bonaparte’s ear.

‘I have been told she has an itch, sire,’ he said in a low voice, smiling across at the breezy, laughing Comtesse d’Anjou, who sat on the other side of Bonaparte now, her hand already resting on his arm. ‘An itch where she should not.’

Bonaparte turned to his bishop.

‘In this instance, sire, it might be best to consider a tactical retreat.’ And not act the fool.

‘Very good, Talleyrand,’ Bonaparte said. He nodded solemnly, disappointed, and left the ball soon after.

The following day, he bestowed upon his bishop the new title of His Serene Highness, Prince de Bénévent and Vice-Grand Elector et cetera, et cetera. Seemed the philosophes knew a thing or two as well.