'This Schiller writes from the brain as well as the heart,' Napoleon agreed. 'I like that.'

'Yes, it's a rare quality when the two facets work side by side and don't contradict each other.'

'Still,' Napoleon reflected, 'it is one thing to write about such a future in abstract terms. The real trick is to make it happen. I wonder if this man has thought it through, this Citizen Schiller, if that is his real name.'

'It isn't.' Monsieur Cardin flashed a quick smile. 'Do you think a man who openly espoused the contents of that pamphlet would be free from persecution under our present system?'

'A pity. I should like to have discussed this further with him.'

'Why don't you?' Monsieur Cardin said quietly.

Napoleon looked at him, then glanced round the library.There were a handful of other customers reading or browsing through the stock, but none close enough to overhear. His turned his attention back to Monsieur Cardin. 'You know him?'

'I have met him, and I know where he will be speaking the day after tomorrow.'

Napoleon's eyes narrowed a fraction. 'Why are you telling me this?'

'You said that you would like to discuss the pamphlet with him.' Monsieur Cardin shrugged. 'He is visiting the capital for a few days. I thought you might be interested.'

Napoleon was at once suspicious.Was this some kind of test of his loyalty? In which case the best course would be to play the role expected of him. 'I am a King's officer. I could inform the authorities about this. Indeed, I could be a police informer, for all you know.'

Monsieur Cardin chuckled. 'Lieutenant Buona Parte, you're barely more than a boy. You're no spy. I've watched you come in here almost every day for the last three weeks. You read nothing but radical political texts and I have enjoyed the few words we have exchanged over that time. I think I am a good judge of character and I can tell that you are a kindred spirit politically. On that basis, no, I don't think you would inform on me. Besides, what is there to inform about? It's a small meeting, little more than a debating society where ideas are exchanged. I admit that the authorities might disapprove, but that's all. As long as these things are kept behind closed doors and pose no threat, they can be tolerated. So, are you interested in meeting Schiller?'

Napoleon picked up the pamphlet as he considered the offer. It would be foolhardy for so junior an officer, at the very start of his career, to be seen attending a radical meeting, no matter how few people it might attract. The army would take a dim view of it and any prospect of a glittering career would disappear for ever.

'No. I can't take the risk.' Napoleon rose up and straightened his uniform coat. 'I must go, Monsieur. I have an appointment I can't afford to miss.'

'I'm sure,' the other man smiled. 'But if you should change your mind, come back at eight in the evening, the day after tomorrow.'

Napoleon turned to leave the shop, conscious that he was being watched all the way to the door. Outside he drew a deep breath and quickly strode away from the library. At first he resolved never to return there, never to see nor speak to Jean Cardin again. It was not wise to be seen with the man. Then a chill of anxiety traced its way up his spine. Suppose the library was already under surveillance. Suppose that he had been seen going into the library on a regular basis over recent weeks. Maybe he was already on a list somewhere as a suspected radical. Maybe he was being watched even now.

As the thought occurred to Napoleon he had a terrible urge to stop right there in the street and nervously glance back to see if he was being followed. He fought the urge and instead walked further on, until he came to a bakery.The window was filled with baskets of bread and trays of pastries. He went inside and pretended to look over the wares as other shoppers queued to make their orders. His head was tilted down towards the tarts as he stared out into the street beneath his brow. A handful of people were coming from the same direction that he had been walking and he scrutinised them closely, discounting an old man with a young laughing woman on his arm and three young urchins chasing a hoop along the gutter.Then his eyes turned to a sallow-faced young man a few years older than himself in a nondescript brown coat and black tricorn hat pulled low over his forehead. The kind of man you would find in any street in Paris.

Without once looking at Napoleon, or even glancing in the window of the bakery, the man walked by. Napoleon sighed with relief. He was being foolish, hopelessly paranoid, he decided.What possible interest could the Paris police take in the political opinions of a lowly artillery officer? He bought a meat pie and left the bakery, wandering back to his hotel through the narrow streets.

He paused a short distance from the dingy entrance to the Pays Normande and surveyed the street.There were only a few people passing by and no sign of anyone following him or keeping an eye on the hotel. Napoleon felt some of the tension drain from his body as he emerged into the open and made his way into the hotel and up to the attic.

In the privacy and security of his small room his earlier anxiety seemed quite unreal and he laughed at himself.All the same, when he left the hotel that night to find a cheap evening meal, he could not resist looking up and down the street before he set off.

The next morning Napoleon rose at dawn. He had an appointment with a junior official in the Treasury at noon and had to ensure that the details of the dispute were firmly fixed in his mind. He pulled the satchel from under his bed and once again read through his father's copy of the contract that he had entered into with the French Government for the subsidy on the mulberry plantation. Napoleon made notes in a small book as he read through the paperwork. At length he was satisfied that he had mastered the details and could use them in support of the arguments he had prepared. Carefully sliding all the documents and his notebook back into the satchel, Napoleon fetched some cold water to wash himself and then dressed in his best uniform jacket. He combed out his lank shoulder-length hair and tied it into a neat tail with a small ribbon before easing his hat on to his head. Pleased with the reflection in the mirror, he picked up his satchel and set off for the Treasury offices on the Place Merignon.

A small arch opened into a dim courtyard. On the far side a few steps led up to the main entrance hall, which was packed with men waiting for their appointed time to meet with various clerks and senior officials. Napoleon gave his name to the clerk on the small desk to one side of the staircase and then took a seat to wait for his time. He was nearly an hour early, since he had no wish to lose his opportunity to present his family's claim if the preceding appointments were completed more quickly than expected. As he waited he studied the people around him: a cross section of French society – everyone from modest shopkeepers to affluent merchants. Well, almost everyone, he thought. There were no aristocrats. They must be far too grand to have to deal with Treasury officials.

The hubbub was pierced by snatches of conversation, which Napoleon could make out and while there were a few other people making claims for compensation, the majority of the talk was about the latest round of tax rises demanded by the government. The mood was close to simmering outrage, and the fuggy atmosphere of the waiting room reminded Napoleon of a sultry summer day when a storm is waiting to break. Every so often a clerk would appear at the gallery at the top of the staircase, a sea of faces would rise to look up at him in hope, and he'd call out their name.

The time for Napoleon's appointment came and went, and he could no longer bear to sit down on the hard wooden seat. Tucking his satchel securely under his arm, he squeezed through the crowd towards the entrance to the building and leaned against a pillar just inside the door where he could breathe fresh air, yet still hear his summons. Outside the sky was grey and a light drizzle had begun. Beyond the arch people hurried by, heads shrunk into their collars against the cold and damp.