‘Oh, God.’ Josephine’s voice caught in a choke before she continued, ‘She’s hurt. Out of my way!’ She hauled herself into the carriage and pushed Eugène to one side as her hands traced the flow of blood up to the torn flesh of the girl’s wrist. A jet of blood arced into the carriage and splashed on Josephine’s cheek.

‘Get some pressure on the wound!’ Napoleon snapped as he squeezed in beside his wife. ‘Eugène. Find a doctor. At once.’

‘Where?’

‘Just do it!’

Eugène stumbled away and Napoleon hurriedly unwound the fine scarf from round his neck and began to tie it round the injury, as tightly as he could. Hortense gasped at the pain and Josephine glanced furiously at her husband.

‘I have to stop the flow of blood,’ he explained gently. ‘It’s her only chance.’

But even as he spoke the blood continued to well up through the material.

‘Mama, I’m cold.’ Hortense’s eyes fluttered. ‘So cold.’

Her body began trembling violently and Josephine grasped her chin. ‘Oh, God, please, no. Not Hortense. Please God.’ She shook her daughter. ‘Hortense . . .’

The girl moaned faintly in her throat and her whole body was shaking.

Josephine glanced up. ‘She needs help.’

‘Eugène is finding someone.’

‘Mother . . .’ Hortense’s voice was little more than a murmur. ‘I’m cold. Hold me.’

Josephine drew her daughter in close to her, nuzzling her soft hair as she stroked Hortense’s cheek. ‘My baby . . . My baby.’The first tears glistened in Josephine’s eyes, and rolled down her cheeks, smearing her make-up. Napoleon tied off the dressing and held the girl’s cold hand. Josephine was rocking her daughter gently in her arms, as if the girl was an infant. She continued to whisper endearments and comforting noises until Eugène returned.

‘I’ve cleared a path for your carriage, and sent word for a doctor to go to the palace at once.’

‘Good boy.’ Napoleon patted his stepson on the arm.‘Now we must get your mother and sister away from here.’ Napoleon eased Josephine away from her daughter, who had passed out. Slipping his hands under the girl’s shoulders, Napoleon turned to Eugène. ‘Here. Give me a hand.’

The study was lit by the fire alone, and Napoleon sat in a chair staring into the flames as the wood hissed and crackled. He was still smeared with smoke and black smudges, and his formal coat was unbuttoned and hung open. He held a large glass of brandy in his hands. As he gazed into the wavering orange glare at the heart of the fire he saw the explosion, and its terrible aftermath, playing out in his mind, almost as if it was happening again.