'Come, Marianne! We must drink to this happy birth!'

Arcadius had already loosed the cork from a bottle of champagne and was filling glasses, handing one to each of the two women. His sparkling gaze went from one to the other as he raised the clear crystal glass with the pale golden liquid foaming within: 'The King of Rome!… And to you, too, Marianne. To the day when we shall drink to a son of yours! He will not be a king, but he will be handsome… strong and brave like his father.'

'Do you really think so?' Marianne asked. Her eyes moistened even at the thought of so much happiness.

'I do more than think it,' Arcadius said seriously. 'I am certain of it.'

Draining his glass, he sent it spinning over his shoulder in the Russian fashion to shatter against the marble chimney breast.

'As certain as I am that I have broken that glass.'

Intrigued and not a little amused, the two women followed his example. Then Marianne said:

'Assemble the servants, Arcadius, and have them drink champagne also. I want to leave them happy, because I shall come back to this house happy, or else not at all. And now I am going to dress.'

And she left the room to make ready for the long journey ahead of her. Outside, above the joyous clamour of the cheering Parisians, the cannons were still thundering.

It was the twenty-first of March, 1811.