Napoleoni took Georgiana to a tavern on Saint-Honoré Street.
It stood opposite the Tuileries Palace, but its regulars were all from the lowest classes. Perhaps because it was so crowded, the tavern still felt hot even without a fire.
Neither the patrons' clothing and manners, nor the tavern's cleanliness and waiters, could compare to the café they had just left. Napoleon deliberately followed behind a group of farmers who looked as though they were driving livestock into the city, then found an inconspicuous corner to sit in. To avoid drawing attention, he had the footmen sit at another table, while he, Georgiana, and Dicro shared one.
Even in ordinary clothes, Napoleon still carried himself with exceptional bearing and seemed utterly out of place in such a shabby tavern.
Yet he was calm now, no longer as uncomfortable as he had been at the café.
"You must be the worst spy in the world," Georgiana told him. "Several people were staring at you the moment we walked in."
"I thought they were looking at you." Napoleon smiled at Georgiana. "Your beauty shines just as brightly by day as by night."
"What do you want?" the waiter asked impatiently.
"One quart of beer," Duroc said. "And some fried fish."
"You're dressed so well, and that's all you're ordering?" the waiter said resentfully.
"Do you have sausages?" Napoleon asked with a smile as he lit his pipe.
The waiter stared at him through the smoke for a while, as if trying to figure out who he was.
"I'll have the same as that table." Georgiana pointed to a table not far away. "What are they eating?"
"Duck and potatoes," the waiter said.
"Do you sell sweet potatoes?" Georgiana asked again.
"That's pig feed," the waiter said stiffly.
Georgiana froze as though she had