He turned and led them inside the academy. The floor had been laid with marble and, while polished, it bore the marks of the passage of tens of thousands of cadets over the centuries. The hall was painted blue, picked out with gold leaf on the architrave. At regular intervals the walls were hung with large portraits of distinguished-looking men in uniform and, looking on these paintings, Napoleon felt a twinge of jealousy amid the burning ambition that filled his heart. One day a painting of Napoleon might adorn the wall of the Royal Military School of Paris, and all men who saw it would think twice about laughing down their sleeves at Corsica.
At the far end of the entrance hall the cadet led them up a wide staircase on to a gallery. Several rooms opened off it, and as the small party strode by, Napoleon saw that they were social rooms, each containing fine furnishings. In one he saw a tall, slender cadet who looked to be his own age reclining on a couch. The cadet, who had mousy brown hair, was reading a newspaper. A figure emerged from the last door along the gallery and, glancing up, Napoleon saw a slender woman of advanced years smiling at them as she gracefully stood aside and waved them forward.
The artillery officers instantly halted and bowed in the fashion that they had been taught by the Military School's dancing tutor. The lady inclined her head in acknowledgement, before turning to the cadet.
'Mr Fitzroy, be so good as to show these men inside. The formal introductions can be made when the director returns from the stables. I've organised some refreshments while they wait.'
'Yes, Madame.'
Madame de Pignerolle turned back to the artillery officers. 'Now, I regret I must attend to my wardrobe, gentlemen. Mr Fitzroy will look after you.'
Napoleon bowed again. 'Very well, Madame.'
As she glided away along the gallery, Fitzroy stood to one side to let his guests enter the room. Napoleon's boots fell softly on a thick blue carpet with an ornate fleur-de-lis pattern in white. A hatstand stood to one side and he slipped his cocked hat on to one of the smoothly worn pegs.The room was large, with a high ceiling, and long windows that overlooked yet another vast courtyard. Around the sides of the room were arranged small clusters of upholstered chairs and ornate drinks tables. Beyond the hatstand was a long table covered with a buffet. Behind the table two footmen stood stiffly, waiting to serve the guests.
'Gentlemen,' Fitzroy waved a hand towards the buffet, 'please help yourselves while I fetch the cadets who will make up the rest of our party.' He bowed, and left the room.
As the cadet's footsteps tapped back along the gallery, Napoleon and the other officers feasted their eyes on the buffet. The food at the Military School was by far the best cuisine the young Corsican had ever tasted, but the display spread across the table here put it to shame. There were large platters of finely cut meats; chilled slices of salmon; plates of cheese, and of cured sausage sliced as finely as sheets of paper; small, shaped loaves of bread, and cold pies with representations of sabres, muskets and cannon on the glazed pastry crusts. At the far end of the table stood several decanters of various wines and spirits.
'No desserts?' Napoleon commented drily, as he shot a quick wink at Des Mazis. He moved round and stood in front of the nearest footman. 'Well?'
'Sir, Madame de Pignerolle has arranged for a formal dinner to be served later on.' The tone was correct enough, but there was just a hint of disdain for an officer who had the bad grace to consider complaining about the service provided by his host.
'I see.' Napoleon raised his chin and looked down his nose at the footman. 'Well, in that case we'll have to wait for a proper meal. Meanwhile you may serve me a selection of meats for now.'
'Yes, sir.' The footman deftly picked up a pair of silver tongs and, taking up a heavily patterned plate, he began to cover it with a selection of the meats. Napoleon took the plate, picked up a fork and walked slowly towards the long windows on the far side of the room. Behind him the other artillery officers waited for their helpings. Through the glass Napoleon looked down on the second courtyard where scores of young cadets were being taken through fencing drills. They wore padded white tunics and were armed with slender rapiers. In long lines they stood poised before their instructors and then mirrored his movements; advancing, withdrawing, lunging forward, advancing and then dashing to make a fleche attack. Napoleon watched it all with a degree of bemusement as he worked his way through some delicious slices of smoked sausage. He had never excelled with the sword, a deficiency that had been noted in his reports at the Military School. Napoleon felt no need to try to master the art. Not in this day and age. He sensed a presence at his shoulder and Alexander joined him by the window.
Napoleon nodded down at the courtyard. 'Who do they think they're fooling?'
'Pardon?'
'Fencing lessons… What use is a rapier on the battlefield? All that expensive training will stand for nothing when they come up against a musket.'
'Napoleon, mastering the sword is nothing to do with the battlefield. It is simply a requirement of being an officer and a gentleman,' Alexander said wearily. 'We've talked about this.'
'I still believe that if a man is trained for war, then he should be trained for war. This… this armed ballet is simply an affectation. It is out of date and serves no purpose.'
'Serves no purpose?' Alexander raised his eyebrows. 'Why, of course it does. It is one of the arts that marks us out from the common rabble.'
'Us?' Napoleon's dark eyes fixed on his. 'Does that include me?'
'Of course,' Alexander replied quickly, but not convincingly. 'You're an officer.'
'But not quite one of the gentry. Not the son of a count, like you and the others.'
Alexander stared at him for a moment, fighting back his irritation. 'When do you propose to desist with that line of thought, Napoleon? You cannot bear a grudge against the world you live in for ever. You have to change. Don't be so… sensitive.'
'Why should I change? Why can't the world change and let men of talent flourish? Regardless of their origins. I tell you, Alexander, the old order is strangling those with ability, while it hands out all the rewards to the witless sons of inbred aristocrats.' Napoleon stopped himself and forced a smile. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean-'
'Inbred aristocrats like me?' Alexander stood back a pace and lowered his plate on to a drinks table. 'Is that it?'
'Of course not, Alexander,' Napoleon laughed. 'Do you really think I would befriend an idiot?'
'No,' Alexander replied quietly. 'That would be beneath you.'
The two men stared at each other in strained silence, before Napoleon's lips curled into a faint smile. 'Now who's being sensitive?'
'Gentlemen!'
They turned and saw Fitzroy striding soundlessly across the carpet towards them. Behind him followed a dozen more cadets, including the languid youth with the newspaper that Napoleon had seen earlier. Fitzroy sensed the tension between the two artillery officers and a look of concern flickered on to his face.
'Gentlemen, I trust there's no problem. The food…?'
'The food is excellent,' Des Mazis smiled.
'Then?'
'We were watching your colleagues fencing and merely had a difference of opinion, that's all. Now, if we may be acquainted with your companions?'
'But of course.'
The artillery officers and the cadets faced each other and bowed as Fitzroy introduced each man. Napoleon's lips tightened as his surname was mispronounced. If he was to live the rest of his life amongst Frenchmen then he might have to change that; perhaps alter the spelling to render it easier for others to get their tongues round. The moment of preoccupation meant that he did not catch the names of his hosts and he cursed himself for the lapse of attention.
Once the introductions were over the cadets hurried over to the buffet and began to have their plates filled by the two footmen. Only the cadet with the newspaper remained, and he looked at Napoleon with a curious expression, then extended his spare hand.