Two hours later, Napoleon arrived in Paris on a stagecoach. With a note tightly clasped in his hand, he peered out of the window, confirming that he had indeed arrived at the designated location Antoine had provided.
The Café de Chartres stood before him, bustling with activity and emanating a lively and convivial atmosphere. Napoleon remained inside the carriage, his eyes fixed on the restaurant, taking in the sights and sounds from a distance. He watched as diners entered and exited and caught glimpses of animated conversations.Updated from novelb(i)n.c(o)m
He pocketed the note and disembarked from the carriage, making his way toward the entrance of the Café de Chartres.
With a determined expression etched on his face, he pushed open the doors of the Café de Chartres. The interior was a whirlwind of activity. Diners sat at well-dressed tables, their faces alive with laughter and engaged in lively discussions. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on the walls, creating an intimate ambiance within the bustling establishment.
Napoleon navigated his way through the crowded space, his eyes scanning the faces of the patrons, searching for the man who had caused distress to Ciela. His gaze flitted from one table to another until he finally spotted three French soldiers engaged in conversation at a nearby table. A spark of recognition ignited within him as he approached cautiously, careful not to draw attention to himself.
The soldiers, clad in their uniforms, sat relaxed and animated, sharing stories and laughter. Their camaraderie was evident. It came to a halt as one of them caught sight of Napoleon's distinct black General uniform. His eyes widened in recognition, and a hushed whisper escaped his lips. Instantly, the other soldiers followed his gaze and realized the significance of the figure standing before them. In a swift and synchronized motion, they rose from their seats, their spines straightening, and their hands instinctively moving to their foreheads in a crisp salute.
"General," the soldier who first noticed Napoleon exclaimed.
Napoleon eyed the French soldiers and asked. "Now, may I ask who is Charles Hippolyte among you?"
The soldiers exchanged glances, their brows furrowing in momentary confusion. One of them, a young and earnest soldier, stepped forward, his eyes meeting Napoleon's with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension.
"General, I am Lieutenant Charles Hippolyte," he replied, his voice steady but tinged with a hint of nervousness. "How may I be of service?"
"So you are the one huh?" Napoleon scanned his appearance up and down. This man was the one who harassed Ciela in the exhibition.
"Yes...General," Hippolyte confirmed with a nod. "Why?"
"Nothing," Napoleon shook his head and chuckled. "No need to be tense, I just heard a news from the exhibition a few days ago about you causing a ruckus."
Napoleon redirected the barrel of his pistol toward Hippolyte, pressing it firmly against his head.
"YOU FUCKING BASTARD, HOW DARE YOU TOUCH MY WIFE?" Napoleon's voice boomed through the café, filled with a fiery rage that sent shivers down Hippolyte's spine. "YOU EVEN DARED TRY TO TAKE HER AWAY FROM ME? DO YOU WANT TO ME TO END YOUR LIFE HUH?! WHAT IF I FUCKING PULL THE TRIGGER RIGHT NOW AND—"
"Wait wait!" Hippolyte raised his hand, his voice muffled as his face still lie flat on the table.
Napoleon lifted his hand, momentarily halting his tirade of anger. His grip on the pistol remained firm.
Struggling to catch his breath, his forehead bleeding from the force of the impact, Hippolyte gathered his thoughts, desperate to find the right words that might save his life. He knew he had to tread carefully, choosing his next words wisely.
"General Bonaparte, I beg you to hear me out," Hippolyte pleaded, his voice strained. "What happened at the exhibition... it was a misunderstanding, I swear. I never intended any harm towards Madame Bonaparte..."
After saying that, Napoleon threw a punch directly at Hippolyte's face.
"You still have the guts to lie, huh?" Napoleon's voice seethed with fury as his fist connected with Hippolyte's jaw. The force of the punch sent the lieutenant sprawling backward, crashing against the chair and collapsing to the floor in a dazed heap.
The café erupted into chaos as startled patrons scrambled to distance themselves from the violent confrontation.
Napoleon towered over Hippolyte and aimed his pistol at his head, and pulled the trigger.
But—instead of the musket ball hitting his face, it was the floor several millimeters to his right.
"The next one will be your head if I ever see you near my wife. Stop writing letters and sending flowers to my wife because if you do, oh boy, I promise you, it will be the last thing you ever do," Napoleon hissed, his voice dripping with menace.
"I swear! I swear! I will stop...just spare my life." Hippolyte stammered.
Napoleon holstered his pistol and turned to the frightened guest.
"I apologize for the disturbance, gentlemen and ladies," Napoleon addressed. "Please continue with your meals and enjoy your evening."
The café patrons, still reeling from the sudden outburst, cautiously returned to their tables and meals, though a sense of unease lingered in the air. Napoleon cast a final cold glance at Hippolyte, then turned on his heel and walked toward the exit, leaving the lieutenant shivering in fear on the floor.