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other side of the room is a table of imposing old men, lawyers or judges perhaps, chewing their food lustily. Perhaps it’s their monthly lunch. They are having a wonderful time. To Australian eyes it’s noteworthy: a group of powerful men choosing to dine in an atmosphere as feminine as a beauty parlor.
    In Sydney, Rachel and I agree, there is no way a group of men lunching together would ever consent to eat in a room as pretty as this. They would feel emasculated by their surroundings. ‘Even gay men,’ I suggest to Rachel, ‘tend to prefer leather and stainless steel.’
    At another table, absorbed in their own drama, are an American man and a much younger woman. He is suited, she is casually dressed, and her long legs are curling nervously around the legs of her chair. He keeps talking, staringat her intently. She looks distractedly away, flicking her long hair. I think: how curious, he finds this restaurant romantic and hopes its charms will seduce her (as he intends to); she merely finds it old-fashioned and is bored witless.
    Rachel and I feel right at home. Glowing with champagne and fine food, caressingly administered to by our waiter, we are the last to leave, outstaying even the lawyers. The oldest is so infirm he has to be carried out by his colleagues, still waving his post-prandial cigar. Five hours after our arrival Rachel and I finally stumble out into the pale pink afternoon, blinking with woozy pleasure. ‘Now that,’ she says, ‘was a lunch.’

    Next morning, as I peer out the downstairs window onto a drizzly sidewalk, Rachel’s voice rings out like a commandment behind me: ‘So where are we off to today?’
    â€˜Well, I was thinking of looking for the place where Napoleon and Josephine got married, and checking to see whether Josephine’s cottage is still there …’
    â€˜Right. When do we start?’
    â€˜ … and really I am not sure whether I have the right addresses, because that part of Paris changed so much under the redesign of Baron Haussmann, and even the street numbers could have changed and it’s all a bit of guesswork but oh well if you really want to come …’
    So off we go, taking the Métro from Filles du Calvaire to Opéra and winding our way down to rue d’Antin. On this cool wet day, the boulevards – once the legendary thoroughfares of carefree
boulevardiers
and
flâneurs
– are charmless, big, loud and impersonal. I can see that Rachel is already wondering what she’s doing here as she struggles with her umbrella.
    Rue d’ Antin offers no compensation; it’s as drab and grey as the day. We count our way along the street to find number 3, which was once the local town hall but is now a rather plain-looking bank branch. It doesn’t matter to me. I feel childishly triumphant when I see a plaque; it’s as welcome as a personal greeting. Lucinda, it trumpets, you’ve come to the right place.
    Translated the plaque says:
    1796–1996
Commemoration of the marriage of
Napoleon Bonaparte
and
Josephine de Beauharnais
9 March 1996, Napoleon Foundation
    This gold print on white marble bestows posthumous dignity on what was, in fact, a very odd occasion. The bride was thirty-three years old and wasn’t at all certain about this strange match she had reluctantly agreed to make. She had plenty of time to think about her decision: the groom was three hours late. When the twenty-seven-year-old hero Bonaparte bustled in, he shook the dozing registrar awake and the couple were united in a two-minute ceremony, following which they climbed into a carriage and rode to Josephine’s rented cottage in rue Chantereine. There, on their wedding night, Napoleon gave Josephine a gold locket on a chain inscribed
To Destiny
and Josephine’s jealous pug, Fortuné, nipped the bridegroom on the leg. Just two days later Napoleon went to command the French forces in Italy.
    I’m