Journal of Napoleon Bonaparte
Episode 8: The Crack in the Marble
Europe, 1808–1812
May 2, 1808 – Madrid
Spain burns.
I thought it would be simple: remove a decrepit Bourbon king, install my brother Joseph, and bring order where there was only superstition and decay. But the Spanish did not greet us as liberators. They rose — farmers, priests, children with knives in their belts. They fight like ghosts in alleyways, strike and vanish.
This is not war. This is rot from beneath.
My army wins battles, but loses ground. Every village captured breeds ten more insurgents. Blood soaks the soil and feeds hatred.
Spain is a corpse that refuses to stay buried.
July 22, 1809 – Wagram
Austria tried again. Austria failed again.
Wagram was brutal — not brilliance, not beauty, but pure attrition. The battlefield stank of sweat, smoke, and stubbornness. My men held, barely. Victory came like a cough, not a cry.
The Empire grows larger, but the victories grow thinner, more costly. I sense it: Europe no longer fears me as it once did. It resents me now — and resentment is more patient than terror.
April 2, 1810 – Paris
I married Marie-Louise of Austria.
The daughter of my enemy, now Empress of the French. The old dynasties grit their teeth and nod, pretending this alliance redeems me. Let them pretend. I need an heir. A dynasty. Something to survive me.
Josephine watched from afar, silent. Her tears haunt me, though I will never admit it aloud. I have traded passion for posterity. France must come before all.
Even love.
March 20, 1811 – Birth of the King of Rome
A son.
He came into the world as I envisioned a hundred campaigns — sudden, bright, full of consequence. I held him and saw not a child, but continuity. A bridge across death itself. I have conquered nations, rewritten laws, bent kings to their knees — but this? This is something the gods themselves envy.
They call him the King of Rome. One day, they will call him Emperor.
If fate allows it.
June 24, 1812 – The Niemen River
We march on Russia.
The Grande Armée — over 600,000 strong — crosses into the east like a tide, gleaming with banners, drums, and destiny. Never has such a force moved with such purpose.
Yet I feel a shadow at my back. The further we advance, the more the land resists us — not with armies, but with silence. Villages burn before we reach them. Wells are poisoned. Roads vanish into swamps.
I study the Russian soul, but it yields nothing. It is a void wrapped in frost and fury.
Still, I press on.
Because I must.
About the Creator
Alain SUPPINI
I’m Alain — a French critical care anesthesiologist who writes to keep memory alive. Between past and present, medicine and words, I search for what endures.
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