"Oui, mon gйnйral." Junot smirked.

"I have a letter of my own to write now," his general hinted, shooing his aide to a desk in the other room. He took the chair where Junot had sat, drew out a sheet of paper and dipped a fresh quill in the inkwell. With a fond sigh, he drew from his waistcoat pocket a miniature portrait of his bride. They'd had only two days in Paris, in that splendid little house of hers at 6 Rue Chanterine, aswim in a pleasant grove of lime trees. Married on the ninth, into a coach on the eleventh, and in Nice by the twenty-seventh. How he ached for her, every waking moment! His incomparable Josephine! Though her real name was Rose Beauharnais, he'd always awarded his loves with made-up names. Earlier, there'd been Eugenie, in Marseilles -he'd called her his Desiree! He sighed. The curse of a man who'd once wished to be a great writer, one who'd create fantasies, epic tales of love so grand, of glory and martial conquest-grander than anything reality offered? He scoffed at that.

He tested the quill's nib by forming a string of vowels, then his name on a scrap. Too Corsican, Josephine had teased him during their courtship. "Your name smacks too much of Paoli and rebels, my dear, and that's not safe these days," that font of all marital joy had cautioned him. "Even though mon cher Paul is one of the Directors, and admires you, he cannot deflect all criticism of you, no matter how successful you've been 'til now. And Corsica… what happened there, n'est-ce pas? Before the British took it from us? Please them, mon cher! Be more 'Franchioullard,' " she'd coyly insisted.

He gritted his teeth, thinking of Paul Barras, a good friend… one he owed so much. Had he ever, the handsome swine…? Had she… had they, before …? And with him away… no! It was impossible to contemplate!

And Corsica! He'd failed, there, on his native soil. Unable to subdue the few misguided fools who still followed that old rebel Paoli into another rebellion, this time against France. Before the "Bloodies," the British, had landed. And all the Royalists who'd fled there…! Not for much longer would they swagger over his ancestors' very gardens, he swore. Not if he could do anything about it, this fine summer of 1796!