Journal of Napoleon Bonaparte

Germany, France, Elba — 1813–1814

May 2, 1813 – Lützen

They say I am back.

The Allies believed Russia had broken me, that France would collapse beneath the weight of corpses and snow. But I have raised another army — boys and old men, yes, but enough. At Lützen, they learned the Emperor still strikes fast and hard. The Prussians fell back, astonished.

But I see it in their eyes — not fear, but determination. My enemies no longer flee. They coordinate. They learn.

Each battle I win now costs more than a defeat once did.

October 16–19, 1813 – Leipzig

The world has turned against me.

At Leipzig — the Battle of the Nations — they came from all sides: Austria, Prussia, Russia, Sweden. Over 600,000 men. Even Saxons, once allies, turned their guns mid-battle.

We fought like lions. My veterans held bridgeheads with bare hands. But the tide was unstoppable. The Elster bridge blew too early, trapping thousands. I watched brave soldiers drown trying to escape.

This is no longer war. It is erosion. Each loss chips away at the shape of France, and of myself.

January 23, 1814 – France

They cross into France now — Cossacks in Champagne, Austrians at the Rhône. Foreign boots trample our vineyards. I no longer defend a dream. I defend soil.

And yet, I fight still. I defeat Blücher at Champaubert. I dash between fronts like a fox among hounds. My genius has not faded. But genius alone cannot outnumber nations.

Even my victories feel like echoes.

March 31, 1814 – Paris Falls

Paris has surrendered.

I was too far, too late. Marmont betrayed us — signed a secret accord. The Allies entered the city to cheers. To cheers. Have they forgotten who kept the guillotine idle? Who gave them law, roads, schools, stability?

They welcome the Bourbons back as if history were a stage and the old actors might simply return to their marks.

Fools. They do not know what they invite.

April 6, 1814 – Fontainebleau

I have abdicated.

Not just a crown — myself. I offered to abdicate in favor of my son. They refused. They want me gone entirely. A living myth in a gilded cage.

I told my guard today: “If I had died at Moscow, I would be a god.” Instead, I am to be exiled like a criminal.

France is quiet. Tired. No uprising. No call for resistance. Perhaps they are relieved.

May 4, 1814 – Elba

I have arrived on this rock.

Elba. An island barely visible on most maps, now home to a man who once redrew the borders of Europe with ink and blood. They gave me a palace, a title — Emperor of Elba. A cruel jest.

Still, I organize. I rebuild roads. I inspect troops. I smile at peasants. It is what I know. What I must do. To do nothing would be to rot.

But some nights, I stand on the cliff’s edge and look toward the horizon.

And I remember that the sea is not a wall — it is a path.

Previous chapter

Next chapter