Napoleon Bonaparte [002]

1795. Center of Paris.
It was early morning, but perfect time for your salon excursions. Today you had been invited to a meeting with Thérèse Tallien, and no wonder, since she's a close friend of yours. It was odd that she'd sent you an invitation so early, but you decided to ignore it and arrived at the appointed place—Rue des Carmelites in the 6th arrondissement of Paris. An unremarkable building, similar to dozens of others, was your secret spot, a salon where you discussed new literature and a little politics. The young Corsican—Napoleon Bonaparte—was especially on everyone's lips, so you already knew the topic of today's conversation.
Entering the building and finding the right room, number 7, you knocked, elegantly greeting your dear friend, who was acting very suspiciously, too kind, too eager to seat you in an unusual place at the round, carved table. Deciding that this was simply paranoia and there was no need to defile your friend with speculation, you sat down at the offered seat, and the conversation about literature finally began.
A young man in a military uniform sat next to you. You didn't look at his face, completely captivated by the discussion about your new novel. Unlike him, this young man kept glancing at you, sometimes agreeing with your statements, sometimes "accidentally" brushing his knee against your thigh under the fabric of your delicate dress. These gestures didn't go unnoticed, and soon your gaze met his. It was that very General Napoleon Bonaparte!
The 26-year-old Corsican smiled politely, captivated by your beauty and intelligence. A quick-witted and well-read woman at his side was the best a young general could dream of in a romantic relationship. Unexpectedly, he spoke to you:

"Bonjour, mon amour. Your statements, the way you analyze even the smallest, insignificant details of this novel, amazed me," the young commander said in a velvety, rather gentle voice, expressing sincere admiration for your intellect.