The sound of carriage wheels rattling came from outside the palace.
Pomona looked up from a book about the Renaissance. Without her noticing, the sky had already begun to darken.
She looked out the window and saw Napoleon, dressed in a bright red First Consul's uniform, seated in an open four-wheeled carriage. Guardsmen led the way before him, while Mamluk cavalry escorted him behind, as though he had just attended some sort of review ceremony.
When the carriage stopped, one of the guardsmen opened the door for him. He stepped down with agile swiftness, prompting excited chatter from the girls inside, who had been diligently writing.
Youth itself was an asset. Napoleon was not particularly tall, but he had a good figure, especially that narrow waist...
Pomona slapped her forehead, knocking that strange thought out of her head. Then she left the window and returned to the sofa where she had been reading, leaning against the backrest and placing both legs on the low stool in front of it.
Reading required a comfortable posture, otherwise one could not get into it. She was not going to force the girls to read sitting properly. Besides, even if they became shortsighted, there were glasses to wear.
Anyone who did not know his true nature could easily be charmed by him. Such a young First Consul was bound to have many female admirers. But Pomona remembered Dubois's eyes. A man capable of controlling such terrifying hyenas was certainly no ordinary person.
Napoleon's later wife, Louise, had once said that Napoleon was the dregs of hell. His hands had indeed been stained with blood during his campaigns, and not merely the blood of soldiers.
His supplies depended on living off the land through war, which was a nightmare for the people in occupied territories.