Berthier shifted uncomfortably. ‘It is known to most of Paris, sir. Has been for several months.’

‘Months . . .’ Napoleon lowered his head. All hope was fading, and in its place a tide of rage and, worse, shame engulfed him. If Paris society knew of this infidelity, had known of it for months, then he would be a laughing stock.They would look at him with the same cruel, amused contempt that was reserved for all cuckolded husbands. They would be laughing at him behind his back. He felt his cheeks burn as he realised that the grand reputation he had been trying to build for himself, and for Josephine, was worthless if she was so openly entertaining a lover while her husband was away at war.Then he raged at himself for not seeing it before. For being blinded by his love for her, his unquestioning belief in her devotion to him. He was worse than any lovesick boy and the knowledge burned into him like a heated iron and he slumped down on a cushion.

Berthier glanced round at the other officers and nodded towards the entrance to the banquet hall. Silently, the men began to drift away, slowly emptying the chamber until at last only Berthier and Junot remained with him. Junot, who had served with Napoleon through so many dangers and adventures, felt compelled to offer some comfort to his friend. He reached his hand tentatively towards Napoleon’s shoulder and then hesitated, horrified by the enormity of what he was on the verge of doing. No general could show weakness. Before Junot could commit such an unpardonable transgression of the written and unwritten codes that exist between a commander and his subordinate officers, Napoleon glanced up, eyes red and glistening as he struggled to fight back the grief that threatened to overwhelm him.

‘Get out. Both of you.’

Junot withdrew his hand. ‘Sir, I just wanted—’

‘Get out!’ Napoleon screamed at him.‘You heard me! Get out and leave me alone! Now!’

Junot recoiled nervously and made his way over to the great doors at the entrance to the chamber. For a moment Berthier tried to think of some words of consolation, but what can one man say when faced with another’s betrayed love? It was too painful, too personal, for tokens of comfort. So he turned to follow Junot, and closed the door softly behind him, leaving Napoleon sitting on his cushion, nursing his head on his arms. For a long time he stared at the floor tile between his boots and then his vision blurred as the first tears, which he had failed to fight off, welled up in his eyes. He pressed the palms of his hands against his face and at last gave in to his grief and rage.