The old folks filed away from Gregoire slowly, creeping off to investigate a small marble statue of Psyche being ravished by Cupid. The chandelier hung precariously over them, and Gregoire wondered how many shots from his 19th-century pistol would send it crashing down on their aged heads.

But would Bonaparte commit such a gauche act? Gregoire thought not. Even in exile, surrounded by mad old women, he still had his dignity. He held his head high, hoping that the extra height of his admiral's hat would exceed that of the straw bonnets behind him. He would win this psychological battle. He would win it good.

Then, quite suddenly, all of the old women began to sing the Marseillaise. "Allons enfants..." croaked one old cow, but soon another joined in, and by the chorus they were all doing it. Gregoire was outraged. He unsheathed his sword and decapitated the plaster Psyche, leaping onto the couch, and screamed. "Josephine!" he exclaimed at last, "How could you do this to me?!"