Journal of Napoleon Bonaparte

Paris, 1802–1804

August 2, 1802 – Paris

They have named me First Consul for Life.

Not by decree, but by vote — a plebiscite, they call it. The numbers are overwhelming, almost comical. But what matters is not the ballots. It is the will behind them. The people no longer wish to remember how to choose. They wish only to be led.

France no longer searches for liberty. She looks for stability — and finds it in me.

I have not taken power. They placed it, trembling, into my hands.

May 18, 1804 – The Senate Chamber

It is done.

The Senate has declared me Emperor of the French.

They used the old Roman formula: “In the interest of public safety, and to preserve the achievements of the Revolution…” How curious. From the Revolution’s ashes, a crown rises — not golden and inherited, but forged from reason, fear, and admiration.

I feel no guilt. I did not betray the Republic. I merely revealed what it always needed: a single will, unshakable, surrounded by institutions that obey.

Let them whisper “dictator” behind closed doors. I will answer only to history.

December 2, 1804 – Notre-Dame Cathedral

The bells rang out as if heaven itself approved.

I entered the cathedral with deliberate steps, draped not in purple, but in the blue of my army — the color of labor and fire. Pope Pius VII waited, solemn, cautious. But when the moment came, I did not kneel. I did not bow.

I took the crown from his hands and placed it upon my own head.

It was not arrogance. It was clarity. I am not the anointed of God. I am the architect of my own destiny.

Then I crowned Josephine. Her hands trembled. Mine did not.

The crowd was silent for a breath — and then erupted in cheers. Applause shook the stones of Notre-Dame. But I heard something deeper beneath it all: not joy, not loyalty, but inevitability.

December 3, 1804 – Tuileries Palace

I stood alone tonight in my study, the imperial regalia folded nearby like stage costumes. The crown rested on velvet — so light to lift, so heavy to wear.

Outside, Paris slept, safe beneath the shadow of my will.

I thought of Brienne, of the boy mocked for his accent, reading Caesar under candlelight. I thought of Toulon, of Lodi, of the bridge at Arcole. Every step led here.

I did not steal the throne of France.

I became it.

Previous chapter

Next chapter