A doctor was sent to look him over for broken bones and lacerations, then his right hand was unchained so he could eat the small portion of food and water that were brought to him.He was so jittery, his stomach in knots, that he didn’t want the food. But old ways were coming back to him. He ate voraciously, forcing the food down, eyeing the soldiers. No one spoke. They waited for him to finish the meal, then manacled his hands again before him. Finally, they locked him in, a few men posted outside the room’s only door.With a disgusted sigh, he lay back on the thick mattress, still barely able to comprehend how he had come to this. Why wasn’t he dead? Not even his finest insolence had managed to get him killed. He’d thought for certain his lewd remark to Napoleon’s sister would do the trick.He cast his forearm over his brow and tried to still his mind, but countless times, lying there, he relived the moment he had fired the first shot at Napoleon, trying to understand what had gone wrong.
