Tuileries Palace, November 1785
It began as a simple experiment — or at least, that was how Louis-Joseph justified it to himself.
Officially, it was one of his "useful conferences" with Madame Élisabeth: small gatherings meant to expose the Dauphin to bright young officers and men of science. In truth, it was a private curiosity he could no longer contain.
He had read about this young Corsican lieutenant — Napoleone Buonaparte, barely sixteen when admitted to the École Militaire, now stationed at the regiment of La Fère. The boy's instructors whispered of a restless mind, brilliant yet abrasive. He wrote essays questioning established doctrine, advocating "mobile warfare" instead of rigid defense. To most, he was eccentric. To Louis-Joseph — a man who had lived through centuries yet wore a child's body — he was a prophecy walking toward him.
The invitation went out discreetly through the War Ministry. A polite summons to Paris, signed by a clerk of the Maison du Roi, requesting the lieutenant's presence for a "discussion on fortifications."
Bonaparte arrived that cold November morning in a worn blue uniform and scuffed boots, his hat pressed against his chest as he crossed the echoing corridors of the Tuileries.
When he was ushered into the salon, he found the Dauphin seated at a small table, surrounded by maps and sketches. Madame Élisabeth was there too, smiling kindly but already preparing to excuse herself. The child-prince rose, offered a courteous nod, and gestured to a chair.
"Lieutenant Bonaparte," he began, his tone light yet precise, "I have read your paper on fortifications. Your view of defense in movement intrigued me. It resembles neither Vauban's designs nor the lectures of our engineers. I wished to understand your reasoning — from the author himself."
Napoleon blinked, momentarily disarmed. He had expected a polite formality, not genuine curiosity — and certainly not from the heir to France.
"Your Highness honors me too greatly," he replied, his Corsican accent rough but his diction careful. "Vauban was a genius. Yet, the art of war evolves with the men who fight it. Fortresses can no longer be cages where armies rot. They must become springboards."
Louis-Joseph leaned forward, feigning youthful fascination. "So… mobility is the key?"
"The key, and the future," Bonaparte said, his voice growing in confidence. "Victory belongs to those who move faster — who think faster. A campaign is not a wall to be built; it is a flame to be directed."
The Dauphin smiled faintly. In another life, he had read those very words — decades later, written in dispatches from Italy, from Egypt, from Austerlitz. To hear them now, spoken by a young lieutenant barely twenty, sent a chill through him. History was repeating its first whispers.
What followed was not a conversation but a duel — the kind fought with intellect and tone, rather than blades.
Louis-Joseph steered the discussion toward strategy. "And if one wished to conquer Italy," he asked, with studied innocence, "would one avoid the fortresses and strike at the heart directly?"
Napoleon's eyes lit like embers. "Exactly, Monseigneur. One must march where the enemy least expects, feed from his own land, strike fast and decide the war before it begins. The people, when treated justly, will follow the conqueror. Glory binds men better than fear."
The word glory lingered in the air like incense. The Dauphin caught it — and behind it, the first shadow.
He knew this tone. He had seen it before, in the eyes of modern warlords, in the arrogance of men who mistook success for destiny. Here, in this narrow-faced youth, was that same fever: the hunger for immortality through conquest.
Still, he continued the play. "Glory," the Dauphin repeated softly. "A dangerous wine, is it not? Too much, and one forgets who pours it."
Napoleon smiled faintly, mistaking the warning for admiration. "Perhaps, but without it, Your Highness, armies are merely armed peasants. Glory gives them a soul."
The Dauphin nodded slowly. And it gives you a crown, he thought.
Louis-Joseph's excitement warred with his dread. In his mind, he saw flashes — not visions, but memories from another life: the coronation in Notre-Dame, the thunder of cannon at Austerlitz, the retreat from Moscow, the crowning of an emperor whose ambition would burn half of Europe.
And now that man sat before him, unaware of the script already written in his soul.
The Dauphin's fingers traced the edge of a map laid across the table — a map of Corsica.
"Tell me," he asked casually, "do you miss your island?"
Napoleon hesitated. "Every day, Monseigneur. She is my mother. France adopted me, but Corsica gave me fire. If she were free, I would serve her above all."
There it was — the fracture line between patriotism and self-deification. The boy spoke not as a servant of France, but as one destined to command it.
The Dauphin smiled gently. "Then perhaps you shall serve both — when the time comes."
Napoleon inclined his head, but his eyes said something else: When the time comes, I shall decide whom I serve.
The conversation turned philosophical. They spoke of duty, of power, of what it meant to serve a nation. The Dauphin guided it with surgical precision, peeling away the layers of the lieutenant's mind. And what he saw beneath was dazzling — and terrifying.
"The King," Louis-Joseph said softly, "is the father of France. The armies are his arms. They act only as extensions of his will."
Napoleon's voice grew colder. "With respect, Monseigneur, a nation is more than a family. Sometimes the father grows weak. Then, it falls to the son to save the house — even against his father's will."
Silence fell between them.
The fire crackled; outside, the wind rattled the shutters. Madame Élisabeth looked up from her embroidery, sensing something shift in the room.
The Dauphin's eyes narrowed. He was no longer speaking to a young officer. He was looking at a storm barely contained within a human frame.
At last, he said quietly, "And who decides when that time comes, Lieutenant?"
Napoleon met his gaze. "Destiny, Monseigneur. She speaks only to those who dare to listen."
It was then that Louis-Joseph understood. The empire this boy would one day build — the empires he himself would have to counter — were already being forged, word by word, in this very salon.
And they would be beautiful, terrible, and unstoppable.
After the meeting, the Dauphin walked alone through the palace gardens. The winter light had faded; frost clung to the marble balustrades. Every step echoed like a decision.
He admired Bonaparte. He even felt, briefly, the old fascination of his past life — that spark of wonder for the man who had once redrawn Europe. But he was no longer a spectator. He was a player, and he knew too much.
To control Napoleon would be impossible. To destroy him, premature. The only path was containment — to turn his fire against enemies far from France and to ensure his ambitions never reached the throne.
By the time he returned to his chambers, the plan had already formed.