CHAPTER 30: THE FIRST CONSUL

An anthill. This was the single word Harry used to describe Paris at the end of 1802. Not even London, despite being far more populous, could match the bustling activity of this city and the continuous stream of carriages stretching endlessly across all the avenues, streets, and squares of the French capital. The Champs-Élysées, which he was currently traversing, was no exception. Despite the recent road expansion efforts aimed at easing access, it was evident that all these endeavors were futile given the sheer difficulty of reaching the Place de la Concorde. It took minutes just to move forward, and even longer to navigate through the carts of peasants and merchants, the carriages of the Parisian bourgeoisie, and the numerous other transport vehicles catering to the crowds admiring the most beautiful city in the world. Because there was one thing everyone agreed upon: Paris had no equal when it came to the aura it carried beyond its borders.

Yet, it wasn't at the forefront of the latest transportation or health advancements. Simply venturing into its suburbs revealed that the image of a clean and secure city dissipated as soon as one moved away from its center. Dirt prevailed almost everywhere, and in certain places, it was still common to see cesspits leaking fecal matter, contaminating well water, groundwater, and even the Seine, which divided the city in two. As for epidemics, Paris had a lot to reconsider, especially its outdated sewage system. Its administration was far from perfect, and rumors of plots, corruption, and even assassinations occasionally punctuated the latest news from the city.

As the epicenter of the revolution, Paris retained its image of instability and violence that had characterized it a few years earlier in the eyes of other European countries. It was a city that had overturned the established order with a simple uprising, eliminating what had been the supreme authority for centuries along with some of its supporters. Suffice it to say, there was little chance of a king or emperor setting foot on the ground that had witnessed the last French monarch's bloodshed.

The only point of consensus lay in the city's infrastructure: rarely could one find such a concentration of beautiful buildings, theaters, salons, palaces, hotels, and Gothic churches anywhere else. The wealth here effectively concealed the misery just a few kilometers away, overshadowing the ugliness of the surrounding suburbs and allowing one to overlook the fact that elsewhere, an unhappy population barely managed to afford more than two rooms in their dwellings and still slept with their livestock to keep warm.

If one were to paint an image of this city, Harry would think of Paris as a facade masking a country in recovery, a society ignorant of the difficulties faced beyond its periphery, and a world somewhat out of touch with that of a vast majority of its citizens.

"And one only needs to step outside to realize that," he thought rightly.

Far from reducing inequalities, the past ten years had only exacerbated them while significantly diminishing the privileges once granted to a nobility that had mostly departed for more tranquil lands where their wealth wasn't criticized or contested. His mother had been fortunate enough to return, displaying sincere intentions to go back to the country where she had flourished. But beyond the borders, a large portion of the emigrants harbored thoughts of vengeance, longing for a return to a monarchy and the reinstatement of ancient privileges abolished thirteen years ago. The common people, however, seemed uninterested, and observing the Parisians leisurely strolling through the numerous streets and avenues they had traversed, it seemed that the republic had deeply rooted itself in the minds of the French, not to be easily dislodged. Nothing had truly changed, except for the new faces of power and the disruptive new ideas in society. Apart from that, one couldn't claim there had been real progress.

At present, the country's political affairs seemed to be the least of the concerns for the numerous passersby walking, trotting, or even galloping with a stroke of luck around them. No, the new spectacle captivating their attention wasn't the arrival of a renowned scientist drawing crowds as Benjamin Franklin once did, or that of a pseudo-doctor charlatan like Franz Mesmer. It was the 4th Hussar Regiment, of which Harry was a part, attempting to make its way through the dense mass of carriages on the road.

Though accustomed to military processions and other demonstrations by the city's regiments for years, Harry noticed that their presence surprised more than a few Parisians. Perhaps the reason for the constant slowdown on the road lay precisely in their presence. To see around forty soldiers marching in perfect order on the Champs-Élysées was impressive in itself, but their red tunics made them easily distinguishable from the classic blue and white uniforms of most French regiments. The fact that they also occupied a part of the road might explain the unpleasant comments regarding their nonchalant occupation of space meant for traffic. The square formation the soldiers formed around Pajol was indeed quite large upon reflection, and the spaces between each soldier could have easily accommodated another rider. But if grandeur and excess were the aims, this formation perfectly fulfilled them. Nevertheless, the grumblings ceased there, and none dared openly voice what they thought of this control over the avenue's traffic.

Their path led them to the Place de la Concorde, formerly Place Louis XV, which, since the king's statue was toppled, had little real purpose other than serving as a convergence point between Faubourg Saint-Honoré on one side and the Tuileries Quay on the other, as well as the Concorde Bridge offering direct access to the Palais Bourbon. Opposite stood the Tuileries Garden, leading toward the distant immense structure of the Tuileries Palace, aligning perfectly with the Champs-Élysées. Entering through the gardens would have shortened their city crossing significantly, but these were only open for the official entrances of the country's high dignitaries, Bonaparte foremost among them. Strolls were also occasionally organized in these gardens, but currently closed, the only way to reach the palace entrance was to follow the Seine's bank eastward, traversing the quays until the Louvre.

The traffic was even more challenging here due to the market stalls strategically set up in this part of the city. Amidst the curious onlookers crowding around vegetable and meat vendors, fabrics, and other common items in Parisian households, the heavily laden carts of goods, and the carriages destined for the city's operas, theaters, salons, and receptions, pedestrians out for a casual stroll, some of Pajol's men began to regret the calmness and freedom of movement they enjoyed in Metz and its surroundings. Life in such a large city appeared particularly unpleasant and overwhelming to them.

Harry, like the others, focused on the road but took the opportunity to admire the beautiful buildings they passed, even from a distance. The Madeleine Church, the Hôtel de la Marine and the Crillon behind him, the Tuileries Garden on his left, and the Concorde Bridge ahead... So much to see that a single pair of eyes couldn't fully appreciate it. Harry had never truly had the chance to visit this city that intrigued him so much, but he hoped that someday, thanks to new responsibilities and through his mother's work materializing, he would get to know this unique place better.

"Bourbon," his superior suddenly called out without turning around. "Come closer."

Harry didn't hesitate, quickening his pace to reach his side, avoiding, however, the chance to meet his gaze for fear of upsetting him.

"I hope you haven't forgotten our last discussion," he said in a stern tone, as if to affirm that any failure to adhere to his directives would lead to dire consequences.

"You can be sure that I haven't forgotten your wise advice, sir," replied Harry, recalling them in passing.

"Good, because it would greatly displease me to be made a fool of in front of Mr. Bonaparte. I am the representative of our regiment to the consul, so I must maintain an impeccable appearance when I present myself to him. I don't want the image of our academy and our comrades to be tarnished by any inadvertent mistake on your part."

Harry simply nodded in confirmation of his understanding. However, he didn't appreciate being singled out once again among all the soldiers present, and the insinuation that any trouble would automatically stem from him. Even though he was much younger than these men, did his director really think he wouldn't be able to conduct himself as well as they in front of Bonaparte? The thought alone simmered inside him, but he refrained from showing any of it to his superior.

Observing that Pajol seemed to have concluded their conversation, he promptly returned to his original place within the secure entourage surrounding his director. Along the way, he noticed that some men, undoubtedly having overheard their conversation, didn't refrain from sending him a few mocking smiles—not malicious, but enough to confirm to Harry his status of inferiority in their eyes.

The journey from Metz had been relatively calm, occasionally dampened by rain and occasionally disturbed by the local populace, who, mistaking them for a regiment preparing for battle, lamented the never-ending wars. Although introduced to all the men by Pajol himself—a small company of thirty men, nevertheless—Harry hadn't really had the pleasure or opportunity to bond with them. They all seemed to already know each other, get along, or, conversely, quarrel about subjects he knew nothing of. While a few curious ones had shown slight interest by asking him about the academy and recalling their own class memories, none had truly formed a friendship with him. Besides Pajol, Harry had spoken very little to other men during the journey.

None seemed particularly unkind, except perhaps for a braggart who recounted exploits only he remembered until his superior intervened. But Harry didn't feel entirely comfortable yet among these men, some of whom had a good ten years or more of service in cavalry or infantry. Shyness might have played a part, but more than that, a sense of respect toward them deterred him from mingling with them, at least not yet. Proving himself alongside them gave him the illusion of a form of acceptance in his eyes. Perhaps the absence of his closest friends from the academy contributed to this protective bubble around him. Even if he had Juliette and Nicolas by his side, his conscience reminded him that his friends wouldn't always be there to fight alongside him. Sooner or later, he had to learn to do without familiar faces if he wanted to acquaint himself with this environment.

"Maintain your positions," reminded Pajol as they began a new stage of their route, leaving the Place de la Concorde to follow the Tuileries Quay. "I don't want to see any civilians slipping into our formation. Anyone who disobeys my instructions will deal with me."

Everyone obeyed, taking the usual precaution to draw closer to the rider in front of them, forming a square so tight that not even the smallest animal could slip between the horses' legs. While doing their best to follow the given instructions, some occasionally allowed themselves to turn their heads to the right, towards the hundreds of small boats moored along the bank and the activity in the southern part of the city.

For a long time composed of abbeys and universities, giving this area a much younger and more dynamic appearance than the north bank of the Seine, this region had, a few decades earlier, experienced the strong influence of Enlightenment ideals and philosophy, making it quite attractive. Social salons and cafes had flourished everywhere, attracting populations from other provinces enticed by the promise of wealth and a far better future than in rural areas. They flocked to the new developing neighborhoods, contributing to the demographic expansion characterizing Paris now. In this zone lay some of France's best schools, and if Harry had never considered becoming a wizard, let alone a soldier, there would have been a great chance he'd end up studying in one of these schools, probably at the Sorbonne. Would his life have been better? Frankly, he didn't know, but one thing was certain: there was probably much less chance of encountering spells in the corridors and lecture halls of these schools than at Hogwarts, his academy, or even Beauxbatons.

Their final stop on their journey led them to the Cour du Carrousel, located between the Tuileries Palace and the Louvre, which was currently undergoing transformation. Indeed, it was hard to imagine that between these two palaces, a district like the hundreds existing in Paris could be found there, almost out of context considering the historical and official appearance of this part of the city. Composed of numerous alleys, dead ends, and winding lanes, the Old Louvre district was undergoing demolition, at least for the few houses already abandoned, where workers were busy tearing down the last remnants of walls and roofs. To their right, the Louvre, currently serving as a museum and residence for the Academy of Fine Arts and artists, was entirely hidden by the high houses obstructing the view, while on the left, a long wrought iron gate adorned with two large doors provided access to their initial destination. In contrast to its now cold and sad appearance, it gleamed with power and majesty, even more beautiful up close than when Harry was on the Champs-Elysées: a residence truly worthy of the First Consul of France.

The wide enclosed space behind the gate was divided into three small courtyards - for princes, stables, and the royal court - each delineated by a building bearing the same name. The Tuileries Palace itself was monumental, stretching from the Pavillon de Flore to that of Marsan, connected to the Louvre by a long wing along the Tuileries quay. At its center stood the Pavillon de l'Horloge, easily recognizable by its immense dome, the clock fixed on its facade, and notably known for the suspended staircase leading to the private apartments on the upper floors. The two wings extending to the other pavilions comprised dozens of rooms and salons, serving today both the First Consul's needs and those of the government. An immense theater could be seen at one end, while the Hall of the Hundred Swiss, where Bonaparte usually received his officers, was located in the Pavillon de l'Horloge, occupying a large part of it. A tricolor flag proudly waved above, while the palace's exterior walls were adorned with columns of pink marble, arcades, pediments, and statues along the entire length of the building. The windows stretched across the surface in perfect order. In short, this palace was worthy of the magnificence of a king, or at least of the most powerful man in France, but the reconstruction of one of the wings and ongoing works elsewhere somewhat dimmed the brilliance of this residence.

Venturing into the palace courtyard, Harry and the others marveled at the evident splendor of this place. Most had rarely set foot in Paris, let alone in such a prestigious location. However, their excursion's pace hadn't slowed, and they trotted steadily, both riders and mounts beginning the final stretch of their very long journey.

Noticing their arrival, a man, likely a valet or a footman, anticipated their progress in the courtyard, hurrying toward them. Pajol's men parted into two distinct rows on either side, allowing him and the small close guard, including Harry, to head toward the palace's entrance. Once dismounted, Pajol and the others covered the short distance to the steps on foot, holding their horses' reins, waiting for someone to take care of them during this meeting.

"Monsieur le Lieutenant-Colonel Pajol, I presume?" the valet inquired pompously. "Your presence is required by his eminence at the earliest convenience," he added when Pajol confirmed his words with a nod.

"Let us endeavor not to keep him waiting, then. We have much to discuss," he replied, as several grooms took charge of their horses, leading them to the stables adjacent to the courtyard.

"Monsieur Bonaparte awaits you in his office," the man then informed him. "Do you know the way, or shall I also serve as your guide?" he asked courteously.

"That won't be necessary, but I thank you for your offer," Pajol replied, inclining his head in gratitude.

Walking briskly, he passed the two men to head toward the entrance doors, followed by his escort, who preferred to stay close rather than get lost in what seemed like a labyrinthine palace. They immediately entered a large room devoid of furniture but featuring an enormous staircase winding along the wall, ascending to the palace's upper floors. Three entrances were visible on each side, two leading to the palace wings, while the third, straight ahead, likely provided access to the gardens, currently unseen. However, Pajol took a different direction, not waiting for any of the guards or servants milling about the room to direct him, and instead, he took the stairs, beginning his ascent. Harry and the others followed suit, though the son of Marie-Louise was tempted to linger and admire the frescoes, paintings, and artworks displayed here and there, particularly the magnificent dome above. Yet, carried along by the cohort of men in Pajol's service, he regretfully had to follow them up the marble stairs of the palace.

Between the whiteness of the materials and the chalk-colored tiled flooring at the entrance, the place was nonetheless very bright, almost welcoming. Only a discerning eye could spot, amid the few cracks, evidence of a less glorious yet not so distant past. Dozens of holes, sometimes poorly patched, still bore the traces of the bloody riot that had taken place within these walls almost ten years earlier. While the stone and marble had long been cleaned, knowing that dozens of men had lost their lives here, their blood spilled on the ground, gave Harry a sense of unease. He might have been the only one feeling it, as the others possibly remained unaware of what had occurred. Yet, nearly 700 Swiss guards had lost their lives within this staircase and various rooms of the palace, due to a frenzied crowd intent on massacring the royal family sheltered inside. Choosing this palace as a residence for the consul seemed an astonishing, even provocative choice to him, considering those who had given their blood and lives for what it stood for.

"But this same man is now at the helm of this country, so it's better to keep a low profile," he thought, to ease his conscience.

Arriving at the first landing, Harry noticed a man casually leaning on a cane, seemingly intending to go the other way. Tall, blond, with his head covered by a less common grayish wig than before, and dressed in a dark suit adorned with a thick white tie wrapped around his neck like a scarf, the man had a pallid complexion that could have made most young girls in Paris turn green with envy. His long and slender nose, dark gaze accentuated by thick eyebrows, and eyes as black as beads gave him the air of a sage who had lived much and carried a jaded look upon the world he observed. His appearance was otherwise meticulously groomed, and only the peculiar orthopedic shoe he wore slightly marred his overall appearance.

Upon his appearance, Pajol stopped abruptly, seemingly unable to react to this mysterious man for a few seconds. Then, much to Harry's surprise, he stepped aside, eventually inclining his head slightly to allow the other to pass.

"Monsieur le Ministre," he said, keeping his head low.

The man didn't respond, though he nodded slightly in acknowledgment before starting to descend the stairs. Harry then noticed the man limping, likely explaining the existence of the famous shoe. But he didn't dare offer assistance for fear of causing offense. Strangely, the man seemed unperturbed by his gait and even allowed himself the luxury of addressing a tiny smile to Harry and the others, perhaps reassuring them about his mobility.

"You should hurry," he nonetheless uttered in a deep voice when facing Pajol. "Monsieur le Consul does not like to be kept waiting."

With those words, he continued down the stairs, leaving behind a silence filled with both confusion and curiosity. Nevertheless, Pajol didn't wait for the mysterious man to reach the bottom before resuming his path, pulling along his retinue and leaving Harry quite intrigued by this minister whose identity he remained unaware of.

Their passage through the palace led them through several rooms already occupied by some busy servants and other individuals whose roles were yet to be discerned, unless their sole purpose was to be seen by the consul and approach him. Their small group, though conspicuous, didn't prompt any questions during their passage, as if these people were long accustomed to seeing men in uniform circulate in these places, even when they were not ordinary soldiers. However, some dared to overcome their anxiety and attempted to inquire why so many men were bothering Bonaparte. Yet, Pajol only had to present the written summons from the consul himself to send them away, wherever that might be. He seemed to be the only one who knew where to go because, conversely, Harry felt as though he was walking for long minutes without a clear purpose, with the unpleasant feeling of merely going around in circles within the palace. Finally, just as he was about to quietly question one of his companions, they all emerged into yet another room, equally rich and luxurious in appearance as all the other rooms they had traversed before.

The room, like everywhere else, was resplendent with beauty and opulence, a testament to a past grandeur now being reinstated according to the new government's evolving order. All traces of the old regime had vanished, replaced by a new style leaning toward Roman and Egyptian antiquity. Even the feet of the armchairs seemed carved to display sculptures of ancient gods. The place could easily belong to that precise period if it weren't for the furniture's touch of modernity, indicative of the current style. The large bay windows in the room brought forth the sunlight, reflecting on the gilded elements in every corner and on the crystal chandeliers hanging above their heads, or on the silver plates arranged on the numerous shelves throughout the room.

A man, dressed in a dark coat and white breeches matching his tights, approached them, evidently intrigued by this group of soldiers now advancing toward the only room separating them from their final objective: the First Consul's study.

"May I be of assistance, gentlemen?" he politely asked, positioning himself in front of Pajol, presuming correctly that he must be the highest-ranking officer among them.

"I am here for a private meeting at the First Consul's request," Pajol simply replied.

"And whom shall I announce?" the man politely inquired, carefully not letting them pass freely.

"Tell the consul that Lieutenant-Colonel Pajol, commander of the 4th Hussar Regiment and director of the Metz Academy, is here for the scheduled meeting at his request and according to his wishes," Pajol answered firmly, not allowing any further discussion.

The man didn't insist, and after yet another bow, he headed toward the open door on the other side of the room where Napoléon Bonaparte was likely situated. Some men like Harry thought it opportune to slightly crane their heads in the doorway, hoping to catch a glimpse of this curious figure. But a cold look from their superior immediately prompted them to adopt a more suitable posture for the occasion. A conversation did take place in the other room, but the distance and low tone made it impossible to discern a single word. Only footsteps were audible, but it seemed mostly the valet moving around, as moments later, it was his group that approached their own.

"The Consul is willing to see you, Monsieur," the man informed them, inclining his head slightly.

Pajol thanked him with the same gesture, then, after taking a step forward, turned back to face his subordinates, who had remained perfectly still behind him.

"Wait for me here," he ordered them briefly, glancing at them. "Not a word, not even the hint of a murmur. This conversation with Monsieur Bonaparte must be the calmest possible and should not be disturbed under any pretext. Anyone deviating from my instructions will understand why one should never dare such foolishness."

His warning caused a shiver to run through all of his subordinates. Each merely inclined their head, now careful to breathe as faintly as possible to avoid the possibility of arousing Pajol's wrath. Harry, feeling once again particularly singled out by his superior's order, nonetheless mimicked the others and chose to stand straight as a post in the middle of the room, simply keeping his gaze fixed on the silhouette of the lieutenant-colonel, who disappeared a few seconds later when Napoleon's secretary closed the door behind him.

"Sotto Voce," suddenly exclaimed one of the soldiers, pointing his wand at the door to everyone's surprise. The effect was immediate, the door seemed to glow for a brief moment before returning to its normal state, as if nothing had happened. All heads turned toward the hothead who dared to perform this act, but he seemed entirely unfazed by becoming the center of attention for all the occupants. Leaning casually on one of the armchairs, he now examined the room with a curious eye, taking in the gilded decorations on the walls and furniture.

"This is a real palace here," he commented, glancing at the finely crafted ebony table adorned with Chinese porcelain. "Oh, come on, don't look at me like that! At least they won't hear the slightest sound from us!" he added, noticing his comrades continued to stare at him.

"You're showing a lot of insolence," retorted one of them, an older man with brown hair, whom Pajol had shown considerable sympathy towards since their departure from Metz. "Who do you think you are to use magic within these walls and not act as our superior ordered us to?"

"And how did he tell us to act?" the other replied, smiling mockingly. "Not a sound, not a whisper... Isn't this spell precisely meant to hear nothing?"

"You very well know what I meant, Montebello. The very principle of a soldier is to always obey their superior, and in this instance, it translated into standing here quietly, waiting for the lieutenant-colonel to finish his discussion with the consul and then to serve as his escort when he leaves this place."

Far from being disconcerted, the aforementioned Montebello continued to smile almost provocatively at the one who rebuked him. Unaware of their dispute, Harry noted, however, that they seemed well acquainted judging by the familiarity with which they spoke to each other. Furthermore, he rightly thought that if Montebello paid no attention to the reprimands of the other, the reason might lie in the difference in rank that separated them: the provocateur was a captain while the other was merely a lieutenant.

"And what? What are you going to do, Vanhoeven? File a report? But I haven't done anything wrong!"

A slight chuckle escaped his mouth afterward, and Harry saw Vanhoeven's fists briefly clench and unclench, an unfortunate admission of powerlessness in front of a superior to whom he owed obedience. Montebello then seemed unsympathetic in his eyes, but to be honest, this feeling wasn't new to him: already during their journey from France to Paris, Harry had found this man very full of himself, mocking toward those who didn't seem to appear favorably in his eyes and, truth be told, contemptible in his attitude. Only Pajol seemed to have some authority over him, but that surely stemmed from their hierarchical difference; otherwise, he was convinced the result would be the same.

Finally, Harry opted for the same attitude as the others in the face of the verbal dispute between the other two: indifference or at least the omission of the ongoing events to avoid drawing attention to himself.

"That's exactly what I thought," he heard nonetheless behind his back as he analyzed a painting hanging on the wall from the corner of his eye. "No one here can contest my actions since you don't have the authority to do so. I could sit on this couch, and no one would lift a finger to make the slightest remark."

"You can't deny that we've at least warned you when you find yourself inadvertently in front of the lieutenant-colonel," argued Vanhoeven in the same cold and authoritative tone.

"I don't need someone to tell me what to do to get myself out of the difficulties I might encounter," the other replied.

"Difficulties that you create yourself, by the way."

The last remark hit its mark, and while Harry couldn't see it, he could feel that Montebello's playful mood had dropped several notches in just a few seconds. Satisfied, Vanhoeven seemed not to expect a response from him as he himself finally opted for the same option as the others: silently scrutinizing the room while waiting for his superior's meeting with the First Consul to end.

Despite this, some attempted to imitate Montebello by discussing together in hushed voices, their tones barely louder than a whisper echoing nonetheless in this silent room where there wasn't much captivating distraction for a troop of soldiers craving combat. Soon, small groups formed everywhere to comment together on some topic or ponder over a detail of the décor that seemed remarkable to them.

"You must not be very intimidated by your surroundings, are you?" suddenly came a voice that almost made Harry startle.

Turning his head slowly, Harry noticed Vanhoeven's presence behind him, whose piercing gray eyes analyzed him. The man, however, didn't seem very hostile towards him, and his initially reproachful question was, in truth, mere curiosity.

"I beg your pardon?" Harry stammered nonetheless to avoid any misinterpretation.

"It crossed my mind that being surrounded by all this wealth and wandering through a palace must not be unfamiliar to you," the man continued politely. "Perhaps I was mistaken..."

"Oh no, you are completely mistaken," Harry assured him politely. "I was simply surprised by your question. As for my feelings about this place, I hadn't really thought of making comparisons with the life I lead in our family castle..."

The man faintly smiled but didn't resume the conversation, opting instead, like Harry, to contemplate the painting in front of them. Strangely, neither seemed uncomfortable with the other's presence, and amid the buzz of conversations around them, both preferred to remain silent, adhering to Pajol's instructions. That is until Vanhoeven spoke again:

"I don't know if the lieutenant-colonel has informed you, but you'll likely be integrated into my squadron when you start maneuvers alongside trained and combat-ready soldiers," he said almost casually.

"Really?" replied Harry, sounding surprised.

"Yes, although I hope like everyone else that we won't have to fight against the Austrians or Russians again for a few years. It will help you familiarize yourself with older and more experienced men and the combat tactics devised by our superiors. Pajol speaks highly of you, so I hope you will live up to the compliments he showers on you."

Seeing Harry's intrigued expression, Vanhoeven added a little more to address his silent question:

"You know how men can be, especially when it comes to high-ranking officers. It's a competition for who holds the highest rank and therefore deserves everyone's attention and respect. The little altercation you witnessed earlier with Montebello is a perfect example of what I mean. Lieutenant-colonel Pajol is certainly a prominent member of our regiment, and all the hussars hold him in high esteem, but during business dinners and officer meetings, he's just a soldier among many, at least in the eyes of men higher up in the army hierarchy. I've had the chance to attend such events, and it doesn't please me to narrate anecdotes that are not particularly prestigious for our superior, but there's one thing Pajol likes to boast about and show superiority over others: his students, especially you. Our colonel emphasizes the prestige of our regiment on the training of its members and the knowledge imparted to distinguish them from other units, unlike some who hand rifles to undisciplined men and order them to serve as cannon fodder for enemy bullets and shells. As for you, well, I've heard enough praise from him regarding your extraordinary capabilities to hope that you will bring us victory in the battles we might undertake. I'm eagerly anticipating seeing you in action, my young friend, and I hope not to be disappointed."

Harry would have liked to reassure him on that point, but as soon as he opened his mouth, the doors of the consul's office suddenly opened behind him. Even though he was doing nothing to upset Pajol, he instantly resumed his initial position, trying to appear as upright as possible. This precaution turned out to be useful because, to his surprise, Pajol wasn't alone but accompanied by the consul himself. At this appearance, a competition ensued among all the soldiers to determine who could adopt the most respectful posture possible, and in this game, everyone could be a winner. For some, it wasn't the first time they had seen Napoleon Bonaparte up close, but others like Harry couldn't help but feel anxious at the prospect of finally meeting the man who officially governed the country. His surprise was palpable when he laid eyes on the silhouette of this man: Contrary to the clichés spread across France, the First Consul wasn't as small as rumored, at least not the size of a gnome. With short hair neatly combed to one side, revealing a perfectly straight parting, a small tuft of black hair covering his forehead, electrifying black eyes that immediately commanded fear and respect, and a small, slightly upturned nose accompanied by a mocking mouth, his appearance depicted an authoritarian man, unfriendly and not to be trifled with. Slightly stocky and of an ordinary physique, he certainly didn't have the stature of a leader or a powerful figure, but his mere presence demanded everyone to lower their profile in front of him, which Harry willingly accepted.

In his green corporal's attire complemented by perfectly fitting white leggings, for some reason that escaped Harry, the consul had slid his right hand under his vest at the row of buttons that fastened it. But he didn't have time to dwell on it further as a commotion erupted around him when a man, probably an intendant or a secretary, shouted upon his appearance, "Gentlemen, the First Consul!"

All the men in the room immediately stood at attention, arms by their sides and chins raised, giving them a slightly haughty air. The consul seemed pleased with their posture as a slight smile played on his lips while he admired the regiment before him. Pajol remained perfectly composed, though Harry thought he detected a hint of suspicion in his gaze as it lingered on Montebello. Did he know about the spell?

"Sire," he said, turning to Napoleon, "allow me to present to you the finest elements of the 4th Hussar Regiment. Most of these men have participated in some of your brilliant campaigns, especially in Italy, where the sacrifice of their comrades helped build your legend beyond the Alps."

"A salutary sacrifice that will not be forgotten," declared the First Consul in a dry voice as he scrutinized each man one by one. "We can determine an officer's worth by the bravery of his subordinates, and your regiment doesn't deviate from this rule."

Napoleon then began a sort of inspection tour, questioning each man in his path at length, even asking them to cite their main feats of arms or inquire about any anecdotes concerning specific moments in the campaigns in Italy or Holland, as friends would over a drink. For instance, the consul seemed amused to hear about Montebello, recounting to him that a battle in which one of his best elements, Jean Lannes, had participated had taken place a few years earlier in a town of the same name.

"I hope you don't give as much trouble in obeying your superior as that city did in falling under poor Lannes' yoke," he amusingly remarked.

"Rest assured of my unconditional respect for Mr. Pajol, just as you can be assured of the feelings I have toward you," assured Montebello in an unctuous voice that was particularly unpleasant to hear, dripping with hypocrisy.

Another recounted having participated in the arrest of Pope Pius VI and his extradition to France four years earlier alongside the consul, recalling with a smile the words spoken by Napoleon when the old pope begged him to let him die at the Holy See and not in France: "To die, one can do that anywhere!" The consul's almost nostalgic smile disgusted Harry, but the visible attachment of the First Consul to these men, whom he hardly knew, surprised and impressed him. The rumors about this man's evident interest in the military body seemed well-founded, and seeing him among these soldiers, like a shepherd among his flock, the paternalistic vision that Napoleon held toward his troops was all the more visible as it reflected even in his attire. Continuously dressing like a general ready to return to the battlefield certainly contributed to this image.

Harry found himself face to face with the man who wielded an iron grip over the country. For a reason he couldn't fathom, he held his breath, doing his utmost to maintain a dignified and respectful demeanor before him:

"That's quite a young recruit you have there, Mr. Pajol," commented the consul with almost amused tones as he inspected Harry. "Are your ranks so lacking in volunteers that you've resorted to being escorted by a teenager?"

"I can assure Your Eminence that our ranks are flourishing," Pajol replied calmly. "However, this young man is a student from the academy directly linked to our regiment. Due to his prodigious results and exemplary behavior, it occurred to me to reward him by offering him the opportunity to accompany me to this meeting and to give him the chance to meet you."

"Well..." muttered Bonaparte without losing interest in Harry. "Discipline and obedience: two virtues I can only approve of in a man, for they are the traits that distinguish the best elements of the armed forces. Your judgment has always been sound, Pajol, so if you say this young man is a valuable unit in your ranks, I'm inclined to believe you. What is your name, young man?"

"Gabriel, Your Eminence. Gabriel Louis-Victor Alexandre de Bourbon," Harry introduced himself with the firmest voice he could muster.

The First Consul immediately raised an eyebrow at the mention of his name. Despite being unaware of occlumency, Harry was surprised to see that apart from this gesture of surprise, his counterpart had remained perfectly composed.

"A Bourbon?" repeated Napoleon, turning to Pajol. "Aren't they all expelled from the territory following a certain decree by the Directory in 1797?"

"Indeed," affirmed Pajol immediately. "But Gabriel and his mother returned clandestinely from their exile afterward. Madame de Lamballe immediately endeavored to act in good faith with the authorities, arguing that her son couldn't be held responsible for the actions of his family due to his young age during the events of the French Revolution. As you can see, his docility towards you and the new political line of this country prompted her to offer the services of her only son to your armies. Gabriel's excellent work since his integration into our unit stands as the best example of this repentant spirit and enthusiasm for the cause you defend today."

Pajol couldn't have been a better advocate at that moment, and Harry was grateful for the praise he was receiving from the most illustrious figure in the country. If Harry ardently defended the so-called cause of the consul today, then Pajol would be an excellent promoter in his eyes.

"Lamballe..." mused Bonaparte. "If what is said about your mother is true, then I can only rejoice in seeing her son serve the interests of our country. The Parisians hold fond memories of your mother since the help she provided to them during the terrible famine of 1788. Such great kindness of heart deserves praise."

"I could not extol the qualities of my dear mother enough before you, Sire," assured Harry, and then both men briefly assessed each other with respect emanating from both, although Bonaparte most likely felt it for Marie-Louise.

Then the consul continued his small inspection and conversations with each member of Pajol's escort. Pajol, in turn, also lingered on Harry, their eyes briefly meeting. Harry had no idea what his mentor might be thinking, but a small voice in his head suggested that this meeting might not be as insignificant as it seemed: Had Pajol foreseen this evident interest from the consul? Hard to say, but it was clear that this detail hadn't escaped him.

"Gentlemen," Napoléon began again once his work was done, "I must confess I am greatly pleased to see you here! It fills me with joy to see so many valiant and promising men who have more of a sense of duty towards me than that of base flattery, as the courtiers who abound in this palace do. But come! How about joining me for my meal? There's nothing better to appease the hunger and fatigue of long marches than the delicious dishes prepared by the Tuileries' chefs!"

"We wouldn't want to impose our presence, and we still have many men waiting for our return in the courtyard of your palace," Pajol attempted, lowering his gaze slightly.

"Nonsense!" interrupted the consul, raising his hand. "On the contrary, you would honor me by sitting at my table, and bring these men so they can join us!"

"In that case..." finally agreed the lieutenant-colonel before turning to his men. "Gentlemen!"

As one, they drew their sabers and pointed them above Bonaparte while exclaiming in unison:

"Long live His Eminence the First Consul, and long live the republic!"

Satisfied with such dedication, Napoleon then turned to the man who seemed to serve as his secretary and spoke in a low voice, audible to all:

"Méneval," he added, meeting his gaze, "go tell the kitchen to prepare more meals, and let the food be frugal yet fitting for the host and his guests!"

"Immediately, Your Eminence," he obeyed promptly, heading towards the exit.

"And you!" added Napoleon, addressing a valet who had the brilliant idea of passing near the open entrance. "Lead us to the reception room!"

"Y-yes, Your Eminence!" the other responded, bowing deeply before preceding the consul into the hallway.

The rest of the troop, still incredulous at the idea of dining face-to-face with Napoleon Bonaparte himself, followed despite it all, eagerly anticipating a meal of excellent quality. Harry closed the rear, not because he didn't want to dine in their company, but because this meeting with the First Consul was weighing on him more than he had imagined: Did it have another purpose than a simple introduction, as Pajol had supposed? Perhaps it had another hidden objective? Or maybe he was just asking himself too many questions about it? Not even he knew, but maybe a good meal and a brief analysis of the consul's behavior in their presence at the table might provide some insights. The future, in any case, would bring him answers, perhaps sooner than he thought.

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